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N  e:  V;     YORK, 

27    Be  elcmai. 


THE  I 


COMPLETE  WORKS 


OF 


SHAKESPEARE, 

FROM  THE  ORIGINAL  TEXT: 

CAREFULLY    COLLATED    AND    COMPARED    WITH    THE    EDITIONS    OP 

HALLIWELL,   KNIGHT,   AND    COLLIER- 
WITH  HISTORICAL  AND  CRITICAL  INTRODUCTIONS,  AND  NOTES  TO  EACH  PLA^; 

AND 

A   LIFE   OF   THE    GREAT   DRAMATIST, 

Br     CHARLES     KNIGHT. 


Illustr'atfb 

WITH  KEW  AND   FINELY   EXECUTED   STEEL   ENGRAVINGS,  CHIEFLY   PORTRAITS 

IN   CHARACTER   OF   CELEBRATED   AMERICAN   ACTORS,   DRAWN 

FROM  LIFE    EXPRESSLY  FOR  THIS  EDITION. 


COINIEDIES. 


NEW   YORK: 
JOHNSON,     FRY    AND    COMPANY, 

27    BEEKMAN-STREET. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress, 
By    JOHNSON,    FRY,    AND    COMPANY, 
la  the  Clerk's  Ofl^  of  tho  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York 


A\ 
V.  f 


I>REFA.CE. 


Tide  edition  of  Shakespeare's  Complete  Works  now  brought  before  the  public,  lias 
peculiar  claims  upon  popular  appreciation.  It  unites  so  many  of  the  qualities  most  to 
be  desired  in  such  a  book,  whether  for  the  library  or  the  parlour  table,  that,  in  spite  of 
the  expense  which  they  have  been  at  in  producing  it,  the  publishers  cannot  but  believe 
that  they  have  supplied  a  want  long  felt  in  a  country  where  the  productions  of  him 
who  has  been  justly  said  to  jjossess  the  Greatest  Name  in  all  literature,  receive  even  a 
wider  and  more  intelligent  admiration  than  in  England  itself. 

It  was  the  aim  of  the  publishers  to  bring  an  edition  of  the  works  of  him  who  wrote  for 
all  time,  issued  in  this  elegant  style  and  illustrated  in  the  most  attractive  manner- 
within  the  reach  of  the  intelligent  masses  of  this  country ;  and  they  feel  that  in  the 
appearance  of  this  edition,  in  the  excellence  of  its  illustrations — each  one  of  which  is 
not  only  of  interest  as  the  portrait  of  some  distinguished  Shakespearian  actor,  but  as  an 
embodiment  of  one  of  the  scenes  of  the  great  dramatist — they  may  take  an  honourable 
pride,  as  being  far  in  advance  of  those  of  any  similar  publication  ever  issued  here. 

But  it  was  not  only  as  a  beautiful  book,  that  the  publishers  desired  that  this  edition 
of  Shakespeare's  works  should  commend  itself  to  public  favour.  Purity  of  text,  and 
such  annotations  as  would  explain  all  obsolete  words  and  allusions,  and  make  clear  all 
obscure  passages  in  that  text,  were  equally  sought  after  by  them.  Tlie  text  was 
therefore  carefully  collated  by  a  competent  Shakespearian  scholar,  with  the  editions  of 
the  three  most  distinguished  Shakespearian  editors  of  the  day — John  Payne  Colliek, 
Charles  Knight,  and  James  Okohaed  Halliwell  ;  and  the  notes  are  from  the  pen  of 
the  latter  gentleman  and  of  other  eminent  commentators, — care  being  taken  that  while 
they  were  amply  sufficient  to  the  elucidation  of  the  text,  they  were  neither  so  long  as  to 
diveit  the  reader's  attention,  nor  so  numerous  as  to  cumber  the  volumes.  The  same 
care  was  taken  with  the  historical  and  critical  introductions,  which  contain  the  united 


vi  PKKFAUE. 


judgments  of  the  most  distinguished  Shakespearian  critics  and  antiquaries  of  the  pasi 
and  present  times.  The  Life  is  a  condensation  of  Mr.  Charles  Knight's  famous  "  Shake- 
speare :  A  Biography,"  which,  with  all  its  interest,  was  overloaded  with  much  superfluous 
matter ;  and  the  result  is,  that  the  reader,  we  may  safely  say,  has  here  an  edition 
which  unites  elegance  of  form,  richness  and  interest  of  illustration,  pui'ity  of  text,  and 
valuable  editorial  matter,  in  a  greater  degree  than  any  other  that  has  ever  been  offered 
to  the  American  public. 


THE 


fife  iif  l^illiaiii  ll)iikri}{iiMirh 


BY  CHARLES  KNIGHT. 


On  he  22d  of  August,  1485,  there  was  a  battle  fought 
for  the  crown  of  England,  a  short  battle  ending  in  a 
decisive  victory.  The  battle-field  was  Bosworth.  Was 
there  in  that  victorious  army  of  the  Earl  of  Richmond 
an  Englishman  bearing  the  name  of  Chacksper,  or 
Shakespeyre,  or  Schakespere,  or  Schakespeire,  or  Schak- 
spere,  or  Shakcspere,  or  Shakspere,*^' — a  martial  name, 
however  spelt  ?  Of  the  warlike  achievements  of  this 
Shakspere  there  is  no  record :  his  name  or  his  deeds 
would  have  no  interest  for  us  unless  there  had  been 
born,  eighty  years  after  this  battle-day,  a  direct  de- 
scendant from  him— 

"  Whose  niuse  full  of  high  thoui;ht>  invention. 
Doth  like  himself  heroicallj/  sound ;"t  — 

a  Shakspere,  of  whom  it  was  also  said — 

*'  He  seems  to  shake  a  lance 
As  brandish 'd  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance."  $ 

A  public  document  bearing  the  date  of  1596  affirms  of 
John  Shakespeare,  of  Stratford-upon-Avon,  the  father 
of  William  Shakespeare,  that  his  "  parent  and  late  an- 
tecessors were,  for  their  valiant  and  faithful  services, 
advanced  and  rewarded  of  the  most  prudent  prince 
King  Henry  VII.  of  famous  memory;"  and  it  adds, 
' '  si  thence  which  time  they  have  continued  at  those 
parts  [Warwickshire]  in  good  reputation  and  credit." 
Another  document  of  a  similar  character,  bearing  the 
date  of  1599,  also  affirms  upon  "creditable  report,"  of 
"John  Shakspere,  now  of  Stratford-upon-Avon,  in  the 
county  of  Warwick,  gentleman,"  that  his  "parent  and 
great-grandfather,  late  antecessor,  for  his  faithful  and 
approved  service  to  the  late  most  prudent  prince  King 
Henry  VII.  of  fiimous  memory,  was  advanced  and  re- 
warded with  lands  and  tenements,  given  to  him  in 
those  parts  of  Warwickshire,  where  they  have  contin- 


•  A  list  of  the  brethren  and  sisters  of  the  Guild  of  Knowle,  near 
EcyiDgton,  in  'Warwicltshire,  exhibits  a  ^eat  number  of  the  name 
cf  Shalispere  in  that  frali!rnity,  from  about  1460  to  1527;  and  the 
cames  are  spa  with  the  diversity  ^ere  given,  Shakspere  being 
ttie  latest. 


t  Spenser 


X  Ben  JonsoD. 


ued  by  some  descents  in  good  reputation  and  credit." 
Such  are  the  recitals  of  two  several  grants  of  arms  to 
John  Shakspere,  confirming  a  previous  grant  made  to 
him  in  15G9. 

The  great-grandson  of  the  faithful  and  ai)proved  ser- 
vant of  Henry  VII.,  John  Shakespeare,  was  a  burgess 
of  the  corporation  of  Stratford,  and  was  in  all  prol)?- 
bility  born  about  1530.  TTie  family  had  continued  in 
those  parts,  "  by  some  descents  ;"  but  how  they  were 
occupied  in  the  business  of  life,  what  was  their  station 
in  society,  how  they  branched  out  into  other  lines  of 
Shakespeares,  we  have  no  record. 

In  1599  John  Shakespeare  a  second  time  went  to  the 
College  of  Arms,  and,  producing  his  own  "ancient  coat 
of  arms,"  said  that  he  had  "married  the  daughter  ami 
one  of  the  heirs  of  Eobert  Arden,  of  Wellingcote  :'■ 
and  then  the  heralds  saj' — "We  have  likewise  uiion 
one  other  escutcheon  impaled  the  same  with  the  ancient 
arms  of  the  said  Arden  of  Wellingcote."  They  add  that 
John  Shakespeare,  and  his  children,  issue,  and  posterity, 
may  bear  and  use  the  same  shield  of  arms,  single  or 
impaled. 

The  family  of  Arden  was  one  of  the  highest  antiquity 
in  Warwickshire.  Dugdale  traces  its  pedigree  uninter- 
ruptedly up  to  the  time  of  Edward  the  Confessor.  The 
pedigree  which  Dugdale  gives  of  the  Arden  family 
brings  us  no  nearer  in  the  direct  line  to  the  mother  of 
Shakespeare  than  to  Eobert  Arden,  her  great-grand- 
father :  he  was  the  third  son  of  Walter  Arden,  who 
married  Eleanor,  the  daughter  of  John  Hampden,  of 
Buckinghamshire ;  and  he  was  brother  to  Sir  John 
Arden,  Squire  for  the  body  to  Henry  VII.  Kobcrt's 
son,  also  called  Eobert,  was  groom  of  the  chamber  to 
Henry  VH.  He  married,  and  he  had  a  son,  also  Eolien, 
who  married  Agnes  Webbe.  Their  youngest  daughtt-i 
was  Mary,  the  mother  of  William  Shakespeare. 

High  as  was  her  descent,  weallhy  and  i)owerfnl  as 
were  the  numerous  branches  of  her  family,  Mary 
Arden,  we  doubt  not,  led  a  life  cf  usefulness  as  well 
as  innocence,  within  her  native  forest  hamlet.  She 
had  three  sisters,   and  they  all,  with  their  niothei 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


Agnes,  survived  their  father,  who  died  in  December, 
1556.  His  will  is  dated  the  24th  of  November  in  the 
same  year,  and  the  testator  styles  himself  "Robert 
Arden,  of  Wylmcote,  in  the  paryclie  of  Aston  Camit- 
low."  MaiT,  his  youngest  daughter,  from  superiority 
of  mind,  or  some  other  cause  of  lier  father's  confidence, 
occupies  the  most  prominent  position  in  tlic  will.  She 
has  an  undivided  estate  and  a  sum  of  money  ;  and, 
from  the  crop  being  also  bequeathed  to  her,  it  is  evi- 
dent that  she  was  considered  able  to  continue  the 
tillage.  The  estate  thus  bequeathed  to  her  consisted 
of  about  sixty  acres  of  arable  and  pasture,  and  a  house  ; 
and  was  called  Asbies. 

In  the  winter  of  155G  was  Mary  Arden  left  without 
the  guidance  of  a  father,  under  this  somewhat  naked 
roof-tree,  now  become  her  own.  Her  sister  Alice  was 
to  occupy  another  property  in  'Wilmecote  with  her 
mother,  provided  the  widow  would  so  consent ;  and 
she  did  consent.  And  so  she  lived  a  somewhat  lonely 
life,  till  a  young  yeoman  of  Stratford,  who  had  probably 
some  acquaintance  with  her  father,  came  to  sit  oftener 
and  oftener  upon  the  wooden  benches  in  the  old  hall — 
a  substantial  yeoman,  a  burgess  of  the  corporation  in 
1557  or  1558  ;  and  then  in  due  season  Mary  Arden  and 
John  Shakespeare  were  standing  before  the  altar  of  the 
parish  churcli  of  Aston  Cantlow,  and  the  house  and 
lands  of  Asbies  became  administered  by  one  who  took 
poEsession  "by  the  right  of  the  said  Mary,"  who 
thenceforward  abided  for  half  a  century  in  the  good 
town  of  Stratford. 

There  have  been  endless  theories,  old  and  new,  affir- 
mations, contradictions,  as  to  the  worldly  calling  of 
John  Shakespeare.  Tliere  are  ancient  registers  in 
Stratford,  minutes  of  the  Common  Hall,  proceedings 
of  the  Court-leet,  pleas  of  the  Court  of  Eecord,  writs, 
which  have  been  hunted  over  with  unwearied  dili- 
gence, and  yet  they  tell  us  notliing,  or  next  to  noth- 
ing, of  John  Shakespeare.  Wiien  lie  was  elected  an 
alderman  in  1505,  we  can  trace  out  the  occupations  of 
his  brotlicr  aldermen,  and  readily  come  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  the  municipal  authority  of  Stratford  was  vest- 
ed, as  we  may  naturally  suppose  it  to  have  been,  in 
the  hands  of  substantial  tradesmen,  brewers,  bakers, 
butclicrs,  grocers,  victuallers,  mercers,  woollen-drapers. 
Trying  into  tlie  secrets  of  time,  we  are  enabled  to  form 
some  notion  of  tlie  literary  acquirements  of  this  wor- 
shipful body.  On  rare,  very  rare  occasions,  the  alder- 
men and  burgesses  constituting  tlie  town  council  affixed 
their  signatures,  for  greater  solemnity,  to  some  order 
of  the  court ;  and  on  the  29th  of  September,  in  the  sev- 
enth of  Elizabeth,  upon  an  order  tliat  John  Wlieeler 
should  take  the  office  of  bailiff,  we  have  nineteen  names 
subscribed,  aldermen  and  burgesses.  There  is  some- 
thing in  this  document  which  suggests  a  motive  higher 


than  mere  curiosity  for  calling  up  these  dignitaries  froui 
their  happy  oblivion,  saying  to  each,  "Dost  thou  use 
to  write  thy  name  ?  or  hast  thou  a  mark  to  thyself  like 
an  honest  plain-dealing  man  ?"  Alas!  out  of  the  nine- 
teen seven  only  can  answer,  "I  thank  God  I  hav;!  been 
so  well  brought  up  that  I  can  write  my  name."  It  is 
a  matter  of  controversy  whether  Julin  Shakespeare  was 
one  of  the  more  clerkly  corporators.  We  think  he  was ; 
others  believe  he  was  not.  In  1556,  the  year  that  Rob- 
ert, the  father  of  Mary  Arden,  died,  John  Shakespeare 
was  admitted  at  the  court-leet  to  two  copyhold  estates 
in  Stratford.  Tlie  jurors  of  the  leet  present  that  George 
Turnor  had  alienated  to  John  Shakespeare  and  his  heirs 
one  tenement,  with  a  garden  and  croft,  and  other  prem- 
ises, in  Grenchyll-street,  held  of  the  lord  at  an  annual 
quit-rent ;  and  John  Shakespeare,  who  is  present  in 
court  and  does  fealty,  is  admitted  to  the  same.  Tlio 
same  jurors  present  that  Edward  West  has  alienated  to 
John  Shakespeare  one  tenement  and  a  garden  adjacent 
in  Henley-street,  who  is  in  the  same  way  admitted, 
upon  fealty  done  to  the  lord.  Here  then  is  John 
Shakespeare,  before  Ids  marriage,  the  purchaser  of  two 
copyholds  in  Stratford,  both  with  gardens,  and  one 
with  a  croft,  or  small  enclosed  field.  In  1570  John 
Shakespeare  is  holding,  as  tenant  under  William  Clop- 
ton,  a  meadow  of  fourteen  acres,  w'it^  its  appurtenance, 
called  Ingon,  at  the  annual  rent  of  eight  pounds  Tliis 
rent,  equivalent  to  at  least  forty  pounds  of  our  present 
money,  would  indicate  that  the  appurtenance  included 
a  house,  —and  a  very  good  house.  This  meadow  of 
Ingon  forms  part  of  a  large  property  known  by  that 
name  near  Clopton-house.  When  John  Shakespeare 
married,  the  estate  of  Asbies,  within  a  short  ride  of 
Stratford,  came  also  into  his  possession.  With  these 
facts  before  us,  scanty  as  they  are,  can  we  reasonably 
doubt  that  John  Shakespeare  was  living  upon  his  own 
land,  renting  the  land  of  others,  actively  engaged  in 
the  business  of  cultivation,  in  an  age  when  tillage  was 
becoming  rapidly  profitable. — so  much  so  that  men  of 
wealth  very  often  thought  it  better  to  take  the  profits 
direct  than  to  share  them  with  the  tenant  ? 

And  is  all  this,  it  may  be  said,  of  any  importance  in 
looking  at  the  life  of  AVilliara  Sliakcspcaie — a  man 
who  stands  above  all  other  individual  men,  above  all 
ranks  of  men  ;  in  comparison  with  whom,  in  Iiis  per- 
manent influence  upon  mankind,  generations  of  nobles, 
fighting  men,  statesmen,  princes,  are  but  dust?  It 
is  something,  we  think.  It  offers  a  better,  because 
a  more  natural,  explanation  of  the  circumstances 
connected  with  the  early  life  of  the  great  poet  than 
those  stories  whicli  would  make  liim  of  obscure  birth 
and  servile  employments.  Take  old  Aubrey's  story, 
the  shrewd  learned  gossip  and  antiquary,  who  sur- 
vived Shakespeare  some  eighty  years  : — "  Mr.  William 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SUAKESPEARE. 


Shakespeare  was  born  at  Stratford-upon-Avon,  in  the 
county  of  Warwick.     His  father  was  a  butcher,  and  I 

liavc  been  told  licretofore  by  some  of  tlio  neighbours 
Unit  wlien  lie  wnsa  boy  he  exercised  liis  father's  trade  ; 
I>iit  wlien  lie  killed  a  calf  he  would  do  it  in  a  high 
rityle,  and  make  a  speech.  Tliere  was  at  that  time  an- 
otlicr  butcher's  son  in  this  town  that  was  held  not  at 
all  inferior  to  him  for  a  natural  wit,  his  acquaintance 
and  coctanean,  but  died  young."  The  story,  however, 
has  a  variation.  There  was  at  Stratford,  in  the  year 
ir/JS,  a  ck.rk  of  the  parish  church,  eighty  years  old, — 
that  is,  he  was  three  years  old  when  William  Shake- 
speare died, — and  he,  pointing  to  the  monument  of  the 
poet,  witli  the  pithy  remark  that  he  was  the  "  best  of 
his  family,"  proclaimed  to  a  member  of  one  of  the 
Inns  of  Court  that  this  "Shakespeare  was  formerly  in 
this  town  bound  apprentice  to  a  butcher,  but  that  he 
ran  from  his  master  to  London."  His  father  was  a 
butcher,  says  Aubrey ;  he  was  apprenticed  to  a  butcher, 
says  the  parish  clerk. 

Akin  to  the  butcher's  trade  is  that  of  the  dealer  in 
wool.  It  is  upon  the  authority  of  Betterton,  the  actor, 
wlio,  in  the  beginning  of  the  last  century,  made  a 
journey  into  Warwickshire  to  collect  anecdotes  relating 
to  Shakespeare,  that  Kowe  tells  us  that  John  Shake- 
speare was  a  dealer  in  wool : — "  His  family,  as  appears 
by  the  register  and  public  writings  relating  to  that 
town,  were  of  good  figure  and  fashion  there,  and  are 
mentioned  as  gentlemen.  His  father,  who  was  a  con- 
siderable dealer  in  wool,  had  so  large  a  family,  ten 
children  in  all,  that,  though  he  was  his  eldest  son,  he 
could  give  him  no  better  education  than  his  own  em- 
ployment." Tradition  is  here,  we  think,  becoming  a 
little  more  assimilated  with  the  truth.  The  considera- 
ble dealer  in  wool  might  very  well  have  been  the 
landed  proprietor,  the  cultivator,  that  we  believe  John 
Shakespeare  to  have  been.  Nor  indeed  was  the  inci- 
dental business  even  of  a  butcher,  a  slayer  and  seller  of 
carcasses,  incompatible  with  the  occupation  of  a  land- 
holder. Harrison  (1590),  who  mingles  laments  at  the 
increasing  luxury  of  the  farmer  with  somewhat  contra- 
dictory denouncements  of  the  oppression  of  the  tenant 
by  the  landlord,  holds  that  the  landlord  is  monopo- 
lizing the  tenant's -profits  : — "  Most  sorrovrful  of  all  to 
understand,  ihat  men  of  great  port  and  countenance 
are  so  far  from  suffering  their  farmers  to  have  any  gain 
at  all,  that  lliey  themsdi'es  become  graziers,  butchers,  tanners, 
suEEPMASTEiis,  woodtneu,  and  Jenique  quid  non,  thereby  to 
cai'ich  themcelves,  and  bring  all  the  wealth  ftf  the 
country  into  their  own  hands,  leaving  the  commonalty 
weak,  or  as  an  idol  mth  broken  or  feeble  arms,  which 
may  in  time  of  peace  have  a  plausible  show,  but,  when 
necessity  shall  enforce,  have  an  heavy  and  bitter 
BCfiuel  "      Has  not  Harrison  solved  the  mystery  of 


the  butcher,  and  explained  the  tradition  of  the  wool- 
man  ? 

There  is  an  entry  in  the  Bailiffs  Court  of  Stratford, 
in  1555,  which  shows  us  one  John  Shakenpeare,  a  glover. 
It  docs  not  follow  that  if  this  record  be  of  the  father  of. 
William  Shakespeare,  a  young  man  in  1.555,  that  he  was 
always  a  glover.  If  he  were  a  glover  in  1555,  he  waa 
subsequently  a  holder  of  land- -a  land  proprietor.** 

The  Register  of  Baptisms  of  the  parish  of  Stratfurd- 
upon-Avon  shows  that  Williajn,  the  son  (;f  John  Shake- 
speare, was  baptized  on  the  '26th  April,  15G4.  And  when 
born  ?  The  want  of  such  information  is  a  defect  in  all 
parish-registers.  Bapti<iK.  bo  immediately  followed 
birth  in  those  times,  when  infancy  was  surrounded 
with  greater  dangers  than  in  our  own  days  of  improved 
medical  science,  that  we  may  believe  that  William 
Shakespeare  first  saw  the  light  only  a  day  or  two  pre- 
vious to  this  legal  record  of  his  existence.  There  is  no 
direct  evidence  that  he  was  born  on  the  23d  of  April, 
according  to  the  common  belief.  But  there  was  proba- 
bly a  tradition  to  that  effect ;  for  scmie  years  ago  the 
Rev.  Joseph  Greene,  a  master  of  the  grammar-school  at 
Stratford,  in  an  extract  which  he  made  from  the  Regis- 
ter of  Shakespeare's  baptism,  wrote  in  the  margin, 
"  Born  on  the  2.jd."  We  turn  back  to  the  first  year 
of  the  registry,  1558,  and  we  find  the  baptism  of  Joan, 
daughter  to  John  Shakespeare,  on  the  16th  of  Septem- 
ber. Again,  in  1562,  on  the  2d  of  December,  Margaret, 
daughter  to  John  Shakespeare,  is  baptized.  In  the 
entry  of  burials  in  1503  we  find,  under  date  of  April 
30.  that  Margaret  closed  a  short  life  in  five  months. 
We  look  forward,  and  in  15G6  find  the  birth  of  another 
son  registered  : — Gilbert,  son  of  John  Shakespeare,  was 
baptized  on  the  13th  of  October  of  that  year.  In  15G9 
there  is  a  registry  of  the  baptism  of  a  daughter,  Joan, 
daughter  of  John  Shakespeare,  on  the  15th  of  April. 
Thus,  the  registry  of  a  second  Joan  leaves  no  reasona- 
ble doubt  that  the  first  died,  and  that  a  favourite  name 
was  preserved  in  the  family.  In  1571  another  daugh- 
ter was  born,^ — Anne,  daughter  of  Master  Johij  Shake- 
speare, baptized  on  the  28th  of  September.  In  1574 
another  son  was  baptized, — Richard,  son  of  Master 
John  Shakespeare,  on  the  11th  of  March.  The  register 
of  sorrow  and  blighted  hope  shows  that  Anne  was 
buried  on  the  4th  of  April,  1579.  The  last  entry, 
wliich  determines  the  extent  of  John  Shakespeare's 
family,  is  that  of  Edmund,  son  of  Master  John  Shake- 
speare, baptized  on  the  3d  of  May,  1580.  Here,  then, 
we  find  that  two  sisters  of  William  were  removed  by 
death,  probably  before  his  birth.  In  two  years  and  a 
half  another  son,  Gilbert,  came  to  be  his  playmate ; 
and  when  he  was  five  years  old  that  most  precious  gift 

♦  Seo  pngc  idi. 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


to  a  loving  lioy  was  granted,  a  sister,  who  grew  up  with 
him.  Theu  came  anotlier  sister,  who  faded  untimely. 
When  he  was  ten  years  old  he  had  another  brother  to 
lead  by  the  hand  into  the  green  meadows.  When  he 
was  grown  into  youthful  strength,  a  boy  of  sixteen,  his 
youngest  brother  was  born.  William,  Gilbert,  Joan, 
Eichard,  Edmund,  constituted  the  whole  of  the  family 
amongst  whom  John  Shakespeare  was  to  share  his 
means  of  existence.  Rowe,  we  have  already  seen, 
mentions  the  large  family  of  John  Shakespeare,  ' '  ten 
children  in  all."  Malone  has  established  very  satis- 
factorily the  origin  of  this  error  into  which  Kowe  has 
fallen.  In  later  years  there  was  another  John  Shake- 
speare in  Stratford.  In  the  books  of  the  corporation 
the  name  of  John  Shakespeare,  shoemaker,  can  be 
traced  in  1586 ;  in  the  register  in  1584  we  find  him 
married  to  Marg.;ry  Roberts,  who  dies  in  1587  ;  he  is, 
without  doubt,  married  a  second  time,  for  in  1589, 
1590,  and  1591,  Ursula,  Humphrey,  and  Philip  are 
born.  It  is  unquestionable  that  these  are  not  the  chil- 
dren of  the  fiither  of  William  Shakespeare,  for  they  are 
entered  in  the  register  as  the  daugliter,  or  sons,  of  John 
Shakespeare,  without  the  style  which  our  John  Shake- 
speare always  bore  after  15G9 — "Jlngister."  There  can 
be  u^  doubt  that  the  mother  of  all  the  children  of 
Ufasier  John  Shakespeare  was  Mary  Ardcn  ;  for  in  pro- 
ceedings in  Chancery  in  1597  it  is  set  forth  that  John 
Shakespeare  and  his  wife  Mary,  in  the  20th  Elizabeth, 
1577,  mortgaged  her  inheritance  of  Asbies.  Nor  can 
there  be  a  doubt  that  the  children  boin  before  1569, 
when  he  is  styled  John  Shakespeare,  without  the  hon- 
ourable addition  of  Master,  were  also  hfr  children ;  for 
in  1599,  when  William  Shakespeare  is  an  ojiiilent  man, 
application  is  made  to  the  College  of  Arms,  that  John 
Shakespeare,  and  his  issue  and  posterity,  might  use  a 
"shield  of  arms,"  impaled  with  the  arms  of  Shake- 
speare and  Arden.  This  application  would  in  all  prob- 
ability have  been  at  the  instance  of  John  Shakespeare's 
eldest  son  and  heir.  The  history  of  the  family  up  to 
the  period  of  William  Shakespeare's  manhood  is  as 
clear  as  can  reasonably  be  expected. 

ITie  year  of  William  Shakespeare's  birth  was  a  fear- 
ful year  for  Stratford.  The  plague  raged  with  terrific 
violence  in  the  little  town.  It  was  the  same  epidemic 
which  ravaged  Europe  in  tliat  year  ;  which  in  the  pre- 
vious year  liad  desolated  London,  and  still  continued 
there.  The  red  cross  was  probably  not  on  the  door  of 
John  Shakespeare's  dwelling.  "  J'ortunately  for  man- 
kind," says  Malone,  "  it  did  not  reach  the  house  where 
the  infant  Shakespeare  lay  ;  for  not  one  of  that  name 
appears  on  the  dead  list." 

Tlie  parish  of  Stratford,  then,  was  unquestionably 
the  birth-place  o"  William  Shakespeare.  But  in  what 
pfirt  of  Stratford  dwelt  his  parents  in  the  year  1564  ? 


It  was  ten  years  after  this  that  his  father  became  the 
purchaser  of  two  freehold  houses  in  Henley-street — 
houses  which  still  exist.  Nine  years  before  William 
Shakespeare  was  bom,  his  father  had  also  purchaeed 
two  copyhold  tenements  In  Stratford — one  in  Greenhill- 
street,  one  in  Henley-street.  The  copyhold  house  in 
Henley-street,  purchased  in  1555,  was  unquestionaljly 
not  one  of  the  freehold  houses  in  the  same  street,  pur- 
chased in  1574  ;  yet,  from  Malone' s  loose  way  of  stating 
that  in  1555  the  lease  of  a  house  in  Henley-street  was 
assigned  to  John  Shakespeare,  it  has  been  conjectured 
that  he  purchased  in  1574  the  house  he  had  occupied 
for  many  years.  As  he  purchased  two  houses  in  1555 
in  different  parts  of  the  town,  it  is  not  likely  that  he 
occupied  both  ;  he  might  not  have  occupied  either 
Before  he  purchased  the  two  houses  in  Henley-street, 
in  1574,  he  occupied  fourteen  acres  of  meadow-land, 
with  appurtenances,  at  a  very  high  rent ;  the  property 
is  called  Ingon  meadow  in  the  "Close  Rolls."  Dug- 
dale  calls  the  plp.ce  where  it  was  situated  "Inge;" 
saying  that  it  was  a  member  of  the  manor  of  Old  Strat- 
ford, "and  signifyeth  in  our  old  English  a  meadow  oi 
low  ground,  the  name  well  agreeing  with  its  situation.' 
It  is  about  a  mile  and  a  quarter  from  the  to%vn  of  Strat- 
ford, on  the  road  to  Warwick.  William  Shakespeare, 
then,  might  have  been  born  at  either  of  his  father's 
copyhold  houses,  in  Greenhill-street,  or  in  Henley- 
street  ;  he  might  have  been  born  at  Ingon ;  or  his 
father  might  have  occupied  one  of  the  two  freehold 
houses  in  Henley-street  at  the  time  of  the  birth  of  his 
eldest  son.  Tradition  says  that  William  Shakespeare 
was  born  in  one  of  these  houses ;  tradition  points  out 
the  very  room  in  which  he  was  born.  Let  us  not  dis- 
turb the  belief.  To  look  upon  that  ancient  house — 
perhaps  now  one  of  the  oldest  in  Stratford — pilgrim.n 
have  come  from  every  region  where  the  name  of  Shake- 
speare is  known.  The  property  passed  into  a  younger 
branch  of  the  poet's  family ;  the  descendants  of  that 
branch  grew  poorer  and  poorer  ;  they  sold  off  its  or- 
chards and  gardens  ;  they  divided  and  subdivided  it 
into  smaller  tenements ;  it  became  partly  a  butcher's 
shop,  partly  a  little  inn.  The  external  appearance  was 
greatly  altered,  and  its  humble  front  rendered  still 
humbler.  The  windows  in  the  roof  were  removed  ; 
and  the  half  which  had  become  the  inn  received  a  new 
brick  casing.  The  central  portion  is  that  which  is  now 
shown  as  the  birth-place  of  the  illustrious  man — "  the 
myriad-minded." 

The  only  qualifications  necessary  for  the  admission 
of  a  boy  into  the  Free  Gramm.ar  School  of  Stratford 
were,  that  he  should  be  a  resident  in  the  town,  of  seven 
years  of  age,  and  able  to  read.  The  Grammar  School 
was  essentially  connected  with  the  Corporation  of  Strat- 
ford ;  and  it  is  impossible  to  imagine  that,  when  tlie 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


son  of  John  Shakespeare  became  qualified  by  age  for 
admission  to  a  school  where  the  best  education  of  the 
time  was  given,  literally  for  nothing,  his  father,  in  that 
year,  being  chief  alderman,  should  not  have  sent  him 
to  the  school.  We  assume,  without  any  hesitation,  that 
William  Shakespeare  did  receive,  in  every  just  sense  of 
the  word,  the  education  of  a  scholar  ;  and  as  such  edu- 
cation was  to  be  had  at  his  own  door,  wo  also  assiune 
that  he  was  brought  up  at  the  Free  Grammar  School  of 
his  own  town.  His  earlier  instruction  would  therefore 
be  a  preparation  for  this  school,  and  the  probability  is 
that  such  instruction  was  given  him  at  home. 

A  question  arises,  did  William  Shakespeare  receive 
Ills  elementary  instruction  in  Christianity  from  the 
books  sanctioned  by  the  Reformed  Church  ?  It  has 
been  maintained  that  his  father  belonged  to  the  Roman 
Catholic  persuasion.  This  belief  rests  upon  the  follow- 
ing foundation.  In  the  year  1770,  Tliomas  Hart,  who 
then  inhabited  one  of  the  tenements  iu  Henley-street 
v/hich  had  been  bequeathed  to  his  family  by  William 
Shakespeare's  grand-daughter,  employed  a  bricklayer 
to  new  tile  the  house ;  and  this  bricklayer,  by  name 
Moscly,  found  hidden  between  the  rafters  and  the 
tiling  a  manuscript  consisting  of  six  leaves  stitched 
together,  which  he  gave  to  Mr.  Peyton,  an  alderman 
of  Stratford,  who  sent  it  to  Mr.  Malone,  through  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Devonport,  vicar  of  Stratford.  This  paper, 
whicli  was  first  published  by  Malone  in  1790,  is  printed 
also  in  Reed's  Shakespeare  and  in  Dralce's  "  Shakespeare 
and  his  Times."  It  consists  of  fourteen  articles,  pur- 
porting to  be  a  confession  of  faith  of  ' '  John  Shakspear, 
an  unworthy  member  of  the  holy  Catholic  religion." 
We  liave  no  liesitation  whatever  in  believing  this  docu- 
ment to  be  altogether  a  fabrication.  Malone,  when  he 
first  published  the  paper  in  his  edition  of  Shakespeare, 
said — "I  have  taken  some  pains  to  ascertain  tlie  au- 
thenticity of  this  manuscript,  and,  after  a  very  careful 
inquiry,  am  perfectly  satisfied  that  it  is  genuine."  In 
1790,  however,  in  Iiis  work  on  the  Ireland  forgeries,  he 
asserts — "  I  have  since  obtained  documents  tliat  clearly 
prove  it  could  not  have  been  the  composition  of  any 
one  of  our  poet's  family."  We  not  only  do  not  believe 
that  it  was  "  the  composition  of  any  one  of  our  poet's 
family,"  but  we  do  not  believe  that  it  is  the  work  of  a 
Roman  Catholic  at  all.  That  John  Shakespeare  was 
what  we  popularly  call  a  Protestant  in  the  year  1568, 
when  his  son  William  was  four  years  old,  may  be 
nhown  by  the  clearest  of  proofs.  He  was  in  that  year 
the  chief  magistrate  of  Stratford  ;  he  could  not  have 
become  so  without  taking  the  Oath  of  Supremacy,  ac- 
cording to  the  statute  of  the  1st  of  Elizabeth,  1558-9. 
To  refuse  this  oath  was  made  punishable  with  forfeiture 
nnd  imprisonment,  with  the  pains  of  prsemnnire  and 
high  trcai^on.    ' '  The  conjecture,"  says  Chalmers  (speak- 


ing in  support  of  the  authenticity  of  tliis  confession  of 
faitli),  "  that  Shakespean^'s  family  were  Roman  Cath- 
olics is  strengthened  by  the  fact  that  his  father  do- 
clincd  to  attend  the  corporation  meetings,  and  was  ut 
last  removed  from  the  corporate  body."  He  was  re- 
moved from  the  corporate  body  in  1585,  with  a  distinci 
statement  of  the  reason  for  tliis  removal — his  non- 
attendance  when  summoned  to  the  halls.  Acc<jnling 
to  this  reasoning  of  Chalmers,  John  Shakespeare  did 
not  hesitate  to  take  the  Oath  of  Supremacy  when  ho 
wa«  chief  magistrate  in  1564,  but  retired  from  the  cor- 
poration in  1685,  where  he  might  have  remained  with- 
out ofl'ence  to  his  own  conscience  or  to  others,  being, 
in  the  language  of  that  day,  a  Popish  recusant,  to  be 
stigmatized  as  such,  persecuted,  and  subject  to  the 
most  odious  restrictions.  If  he  left  or  was  expelled 
the  corporation  for  liis  religious  opinions,  he  would,  of 
course,  not  attend  tiie  service  of  the  church,  for  which 
offence  he  would  be  liable,  in  1585,  to  a  fine  of  20/. 
per  month  ;  and  then,  to  crown  the  whole,  in  this  his 
last  confession,  spiritual  will,  and  testament,  he  calb 
upon  all  his  khisfolks  to  assist  and  succour  him  after 
his  death  "  with  the  holy  sacrifice  of  the  mass,"  with  a 
promise  that  be  "will  not  be  ungrateful  unto  them  for 
so  great  a  benefit,"  well  knowing  that  by  the  Act  of 
1581  the  saying  of  mass  was  punishable  by  a  year's 
imprisonment  and  a  fine  of  200  marks,  and  the  hear- 
ing of  it  by  a  similar  imprisonment  and  a  fine  of  100 
marks.  The  fabrication  appears  to  us  as  gross  as  can 
well  be  imagined. 

To  the  grammar-school,  then,  with  some  preparation, 
\ic  hold  that  William  Shakespeare  goes,  about  the  year 
1571.  His  father  is  at  this  time,  as  we  have  said,  chief 
alderman  of  his  town  ;  he  is  a  gentleman,  now,  of  re- 
pute and  authority  ;  he  is  Master  John  Shakespeare  ; 
and  assuredly  the  worthy  curate  of  the  neighbouring 
village  of  Luddington,  Thomas  Hunt,  who  was  also  the 
schoolmaster,  would  have  received  his  new  scholar  with 
some  kindness.  As  his  "shining  morning  face"  first 
passed  out  of  the  main  street  into  that  olil  court  through 
which  the  upper  room  of  learning  was  to  be  reached,  a 
new  life  would  be  opening  upon  liim.  The  humble 
minister  of  religion  who  was  his  first  instructor  has  left 
no  memorials  of  his  talents  or  his  acquirements;  and 
in  a  few  years  another  master  came  after  liim,  Thomas 
Jenkins,  also  unknown  to  fame.  All  praise  and  honour 
be  to  them  ;  for  it  is  impossible  to  imagine  that  the 
teachers  of  William  Shakespeare  were  e-.-il  instructors- 
giving  the  boy  husks  instead  of  wholesome  aliment. 
They  could  not  have  been  harsh  and  perverse  instruc 
tors,  for  such  spoil  the  gentlest  natures,  and  his  was, 
always  gentle  : — ' '  My  gentle  Shakespeare' '  is  he  called 
by  a  rough  but  noble  spirit — one  in  whom  was  all 
honesty  and  genial  friendship  under  a  rude  exterioi. 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


YlU  wujirous  abilities  could  not  be  spoiled  even  by 
ifuoraut  instructors. 

Tiie  first  who  attempted  to  wKto  "  Some  Account  of 
tlie  life  of  William  Shakespeare,"  Eowe,  says,  "His 
father,  who  wao  a  considerable  doaler  in  v/ool,  had  so 
large  a  family,  ten  children  in  all,  thut,  though  he  was 
his  eldest  son,  Le  could  give  him  no  better  education 
than  his  own  employment.  He  had  bred  him,  it  is 
true,  for  some  tin.e  at  a  free-school,  where,  it  is  prob- 
able, he  acquired  what  Latin  he  was  mnhter  of;  but 
the  narrowness  of  hij  circumstances,  and  the  want  of 
his  assistance  at  home,  forced  his  father  to  -withdraw 
him  from  thence,  and  unhappily  prevented  his  fu  :ther 
proficiency  in  that  language."  lliis  statement,  be  it 
remembered,  was  written  one  hundred  and  thirty  years 
after  the  event  which  it  professes  to  record — the  ea>ly 
removal  of  William  Sliakespeare  from  the  freo-schooJ 
to  which  he  had  been  sent  by  his  father.-  We  have  no 
hesitation  in  saying  that  the  statement  is  manifestly 
based  upon  two  assumptions,  both  of  which  are  incor- 
rect : — Tlie  first,  that  his  father  had  a  large  family  of 
ten  children,  and  was  so  narrowed  in  his  circumstances 
that  he  could  not  spare  even  the  time  of  his  eldest  son, 
he  being  taught  for  nothing ;  and,  secondly,  that  the 
son,  by  his  early  removal  from  the  school  where  he 
acquired  "  -n-hat  Latin  he  was  master  of,"  was  prevented 
attaining  a  "  proficiency  in  that  language,"  his  works 
manifesting  "an  ignorance  of  the  ancients."  It  may 
bo  convenient  that  we  should  in  this  place  endeavour 
to  dispose  of  both  these  assertions. 

The  family  of  John  Shakespeare  did  not  consist,  as 
we  have  already  shown,  of  ten  children.  In  the  year 
1578,  when  the  school  education  of  William  may  be 
reasonably  supposed  to  have  terminated,  and  before 
which  period  his  "assistance  at  home"  would  rather 
have  been  embai-rassing  than  useful  to  his  father,  the 
family  consisted  of  five  children  :  W^illiam,  aged  four- 
teen ;  Gilbert,  twelve  ;  Joan,  nine  ;  Anne,  seven  ;  and 
Richard,  four.  Anne  died  early  in  the  following  j-ear  ; 
and,  in  1580,  Edmund,  the  youngest  child,  was  born  ;- 
so  that  the  fivmily  never  exceeded  five  living  at  the 
same  time.  But  still  the  circumstances  of  John  Shakc- 
(peare,  even  with  five  children,  might  have  been  strait- 
ened. The  assertion  of  Rowe  excited  the  persevering 
diligence  of  Malone ;  and  he  has  collected  together  a 
series  of  documents  from  which  he  infers,  or  leaves  the 
reader  to  infer,  tliat  John  Shakespeare  and  his  family 
gradually  sunk  from  their  station  of  respectability  at 
Stratford  into  the  depths  of  poverty  and  ruin.  The 
sixth  section  of  Malone's  j>osthumous  "  Life"' is  de- 
voted to  a  consideration  of  this  subject.  It  thus  com- 
mences ;  "'ITic  manufacture  of  gloves,  which  was,  at 
this  period,  a  very  flourishing  one,  both  at  Stratford 
and  Vorcestor  (in  which  latter  ciiy  it  is  still  carried  on 


with  great  success),  however  generally  beneficial,  shoul-J 
seem,  from  whatever  cause,  to  have  afforded  our  poet's 
father  but  a  scanty  maintenance."  The  assumption 
that  John  Shakespeare  depended  for  his  "  maintenance' ' 
upon  "the  manufacture  of  gloves"  rests  entirely  and 
absolutely  vpon  one  solitary  entry  in  the  books  of  the 
Bailiffs  Court  at  Stratford.  We  have  seen  the  original 
entry  ;  and  though  we  are  not  learned  enough  in  pale- 
ography to  pronounce  whether  the  abridged  word  which 
commences  the  third  line  describes  the  occupation  of 
John  Shakespeare,  this  we  know,  that  it  does  not  con- 
sist of  the  letters  Glover,  as  Malone  prints  it,  he  at 
the  same  time  abridging  the  other  words  which  are  ab- 
breviations in  the  record.  No  other  entry  in  the  same 
book,  and  there  are  many,  recites  the  occupation  of 
John  Shakespeare  ;  but  the  subjects  in  dispute  which 
are  sometimes  mentioned  in  these  entries  look  very  un- 
like the  litigations  of  a  glover,  whether  he  be  plaintiff 
or  defendant.  For  example,  on  the  19th  of  November, 
1656,  the  year  after  the  action  against  Malone's  glover, 
John  Shakespeare  is  complainant  against  Henry  Field 
in  a  pita  for  unjustly  detaining  eighteen  quarters  of 
grain.  Thitj  is  scarcely  the  plea  of  a  glover.  But, 
glover  or  not,  he  was  a  landed  proprietor  and  an  occu- 
pier of  land ;  and  he  did  not,  therefore,  in  the  j-cai 
1578,  depend  upon  the  manufacture  of  gloves  for  "a 
scanty  maintenance."  However,  be  his  occupation 
what  it  may,  Malone  affirms  that  "when  our  author 
was  about  fourteen  years  old' '  the  "  distressed  situa- 
tion" of  his  father  was  evident:  it  rests  "upon  surer 
grounds  than  conjecture."  The  Corporation  books 
have  shown  that  on  particular  occasions,  such  as  the 
visitation  of  the  plague  in  15GI,  John  Shakespeare  con- 
tributed like  others  to  the  relief  of  the  poor  ;  but  now, 
in  January,  1577-8,  he  is  taxed  for  the  necessities  of 
the  borough  only  to  pay  half  what  other  aldermen 
pay  ;  and  in  November  of  the  same  year,  whilst  other 
aldermen  are  assessed  fourpence  weekly  towards  the 
relief  of  the  poor,  John  Shakespeare  ' '  shall  not  be 
taxed  to  pay  anything."  In  1579  the  sum  levied  upon 
him  for  providing  soldiers  at  the  charge  of  the  borough 
is  returned,  amongst  similar  sums  of  other  persons,  aa 
"unpaid  and  unaccounted  for."  Finally,  this  unques- 
tionable evidence  of  the  books  of  the  borougti  shows 
that  this  merciful  forbearance  of  hia  brother  townsmen 
was  unavailing  ;  for,  in  an  action  brought  against  him 
in  the  Bailiffs  Com-t  in  the  year  1580,  he  during  these 
seven  years  having  gone  on  from  bad  to  worse,  the 
return  by  the  Serjeants  at  mace  upon  a  warrant  of  dis- 
tress is,  that  John  Shakespeare  has  nothing  upon  ivhich 
distress  can  be  levied.  There  are  other  corroborative 
proofs  of  John  Shakespeare's  poverty  at  this  period 
brought  forward  liy  Malone.  In  this  precise  year,  157S, 
he  mortgages  his  wife's  inheritance  of  Asbies  to  lil 


LIFE  OF  WJLLIAM  SllAKiiSl'EAKE. 


mund  Lambert  for  forty  pounds  ;  and,  in  tho  same  year, 
the  will  of  Mr.  Roger  Sadler  of  Stratford,  to  wliieh  is 
subjoined  a  list  of  debts  due  to  him,  shows  that  John 
Shakespeare  was  indebted  to  him  five  [lounds,  for  which 
euui  Edmund  Livmbert  was  a  Eocurity, — "By  which," 
says  Malone,  "it  appears  that  John  Shakespeare  was 
then  considered  insolvent,  if  not  as  one  depending 
rather  on  the  credit  of  others  than  on  his  own."  It  is 
of  little  consequence  to  the  present  age  to  know  wheiher 
an  alderman  of  Stratford,  nearly  three  lumdrcd  years 
past,  became  unequal  to  maintain  his  social  position  ; 
but  to  enable  us  to  form  a  right  estimate  of  the  educa- 
tion of  William  Shakespeare,  and  of  the  circumstances 
in  which  he  was  placed  at  the  most  inlluential  period 
of  his  life,  it  may  not  be  unprofitable  to  consiiler  how 
far  these  revelations  of  the  private  affairs  of  his  father 
support  the  case  which  Malone  holds  he  has  so  triumph- 
antly proved.  The  documents  which  he  has  brought 
forward  certainly  do  not  constitute  the  wliole  case  ; 
and,  without  lending  ourselves  to  a  spirit  of  advocacy, 
we  believe  that  the  inferences  which  have  been  drawn 
from  them,  and  adopted  by  men  of  higher  mark  than 
their  original  promulgator,  are  altogether  gratuitous 
and  incongruous.  We  shall  detain  our  readers  a  very 
short  time,  whilst,  implicitly  adopting  all  these  dis- 
coveries (as  they  are  called), — without  attempting  to 
infer  that  some  of  the  circumstances  may  apply  to 
another  John  Shakespeare, — we  trace  what  we  think  a 
more  probable  course  of  the  fortunes  of  the  alderman 
of  Stratford,  until  the  period  when  his  illustrious  son 
had  himself  become  the  father  of  a  family. 

In  the  year  1508  John  Shakespeare  was  high  bailiff 
of  Stratford.  In  1571  he  was  chief  alderman.  The 
duties  of  the  first  oflice  demanded  a  constant  residence 
in  Stratford.  Beyond  occasional  attendance,  the  duties 
of  the  second  office  would  he  few.  In  1570  he  is  the 
occupier  of  a  small  estate  at  Ingon,  in  the  parish  of 
Stratford,  two  miles  from  the  town,  at  a  rent  which 
unquestionably  shows  that  a  house  of  importance  was 
attached  to  "the  meadow."  In  1574  he  purchased 
two  freehold  houses  in  Henley-street,  with  gardens  and 
orchards  ;  and  he  probably  occupied  one  or  both  of 
these.  In  1578  he  mortgaged  the  estate  of  Asbies  to 
Edmund  Lambert,  who  also  appears  to  have  been 
security  for  him  for  the  sum  of  five  pounds.  At  the 
time,  then,  when  Malone  holds  that  John  Shakespeare 
Is  insolvent,  because  another  is  his  security  for  five 
pounds,  and  that  other  the  mortgagee  of  his  estate,  he 
is  also  excused  public  payments  because  he  is  poor. 
But  he  is  the  possessor  of  two  freehold  houses  in  Hen- 
ley-street, bought  in  1574.  Malone,  a  lawyer  by  pro- 
fos.-iiou,  supposes  that  the  money  for  which  Asbies  was 
mortgaged  went  to  pay  the  purchase  of  the  Stratford 
freeholds ;  according  to  which  theory,  these  freeholds 


had  been  unpaid  fur  during  four  years,  and  the  "  good 
and  lawful  money"  was  not  "in  hand"  when  the 
vendor  parted  with  the  premises.  We  hold,  and  we 
tliink  more  reasonably,  that  in  1578,  when  he  mort- 
gaged Asbies,  John  Shakespeare  became  the  purchaser, 
or  at  any  rate  the  occupier,  of  lands  in  the  parish  of 
Stratfor.i,  but  not  in  the  borough  ;  and  that,  in  either 
case,  the  money  for  which  Asbies  wbr  mortgaged  was 
the  capit;il  employed  in  this  undertaking.  The  lands 
Ti^hich  were  purchased  by  William  Shakespeare  of  the 
Combe  family,  in  1601,  are  described  m  the  deed  as 
"  Ij-ing  or  being  within  the  parish,  fields,  or  town  of 
Old  Stretford."  But  the  will  of  William  Shakespeare, 
he  having  become  the  heir-at-law  of  his  father,  devises 
all  his  lands  and  tenements  "  within  the  towns,  ham- 
lets, villages,  fields,  and  grounds  of  Stratford-upon- 
Avon,  Old  Stratford,  Bishopton,  and  Welcombe."  Old 
Stratford  is  a  local  denomination,  essentially  different 
from  Bishopton  or  Welcombe  ;  and,  therefore,  whilst 
the  lands  purchased  by  the  son  in  ICOl  Blight  be  those 
recited  in  the  will  as  lying  in  Old  Stratford,  he  might 
have  derived  from  his  father  the  lands  of  Bisliopton  and 
Welcombe,  of  the  purchase  of  which  by  himself  wo 
have  no  record.  So,  iu  the  same  way,  the  tenements 
referred  to  by  the  will  as  being  in  Stratford-upon-Avon, 
comprised  not  only  the  great  house  purchased  by  him, 
but  the  freeholds  in  Henley-street,  which  he  inherited 
from  his  father.  Indeed  it  is  expressly  stated  in  a 
document  of  1590,  a  memorandum  upon  the  grant  of 
arms  in  the  Heralds'  College  to  John  Shakespeare,  "he 
hath  lands  and  tenements,  of  good  wealth  and  sub- 
stance, 5001."  The  lands  of  Bishopton  and  Welcombe 
are  in  the  parish  of  Stratford,  but  not  in  the  borough. 
Bishopton  was  a  hamlet,  having  an  ancient  chapel  of 
ease.  We  hold,  then,  that  in  the  year  1758  John 
Shakespeare  ceased,  though  perhaps  not  wholly  so,  to 
reside  within  the  borough  of  Stratford.  Other  alder- 
men are  rated  to  pay  towards  the  furniture  of  pikemen, 
billmen,  and  archers,  six  shillings  and  eight-pence  ; 
whilst  John  Shakespeaie  is  to  pay  three  shillings  and 
four-pence.  Why  less  than  other  aldermen  ?  The  next 
entry  but  one,  which  relates  to  a  brother  alderman, 
answers  the  question  : — 

"  Bobert  Bratt,  nothing  is  rum  place." 
Again,  ten  months  after, — "  It  is  ordained  that  every 
alderman  shall  pay  weekly,  towards  the  relief  of  the 
poor,  four-pence,  save  John  Shakespeare  and  Robert 
Bratt,  who  shall  not  be  taxed  to  pay  anything."  Here 
John  Shakespeare  is  associated  with  Robert  Bratt,  who, 
according  to  the  previous  entry,  was  to  pay  nothing  in 
this  place  ;  that  is,  in  the  borough  of  Stratford,  to  which 
the  orders  of  the  council  alone  apply.  The  return,  in 
1579,  of  Mr.  Shakespeare  as  leaving  unpaid  the  sum  of 
three  shillings  and  three-pence,  was  the  return  upon  a 


XIV 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESrEARE. 


levy  for  the  borough,  in  which,  although  the  possessor 
of  property,  Ue  might  have  ceased  to  reside.  Seven 
years  after  this  comes  the  celebrated  return  to  the  war- 
rant of  distress,  that  John  Shakespeare  has  nothing  to 
itistrain  upon.  The  jurisdiction  of  the  Bailiff's  Court 
of  Stratford  is  wholly  confined  to  the  borough  ;  and 
out  of  the  borough  tlie  oiEcers  could  not  go.  We  have 
traced  the  course  of  this  action  in  the  bailifl-s  books  of 
Stratford,  beyond  the  entries  which  Malone  gives  us. 
It  continued  before  the  court  for  nearly  five  months  ; 
proceeding  after  proceeding  being  taken  upon  it,  with 
a  pertinacity  on  the  part  of  the  defendant  which  appears 
far  more  like  the  dogged  resLstance  of  a  wealthy  man 
to  a  demand  which  he  thought  unjust,  than  that  of  a 
man  in  the  depths  of  poverty,  seeking  to  evade  a  pay- 
ment which  must  be  ultimately  enforced  by  the  seizure 
of  his  goods,  or  by  a  prison.  The  distringas,  which  the 
oilicers  of  the  borough  of  Stratford  could  uot  execute, 
was  followed  by  a  capias ;  and  then,  no  doubt,  the  debt 
was  paid,  and  the  heavier  fees  of  the  lawyers  discharged. 
Further,  in  the  very  year  of  this  action,  John  Shake- 
speare ceases  to  be  a  member  of  the  corporation  ;  and 
the  circumstances  attending  his  withdrawal  or  removal 
from  that  body  are  strongly  confirmatory  of  the  view 
ive  have  taken.  "I  find,"  says  Malone,  "on  inspect- 
ing the  records,  that  our  poet' s  father  had  not  attended 
at  any  hall  for  the  seven  preceding  years."  This  is 
perfectly  correct.  At  these  halls,  except  on  the  very 
rarest  occasions,  the  members  attending  do  not  sign 
their  names ;  but  after  the  entry  of  the  preliminary 
fonn  by  the  town-clerk, — such  as  ' '  Stratford  Burgus, 
nd  aulam  ibid.  tent.  vi.  die  Septembris  anno  regni  ilfiae 
Klizabetha;  vicesimo  octavo,"- — the  town-clerk  enters 
the  names  of  all  the  aldermen  and  burgesses,  and  there 
is  a  dot  or  other  mark  placed  against  the  names  of 
those  who  are  in  attendance.  The  last  entry  in  which 
the  name  of  John  Shakespeare  is  so  distinguished  as 
attending  occurs  in  1579.  But  at  the  hall  held  on  the 
Cth  of  September,  in  the  28th  of  Elizabeth,  is  this 
entry: — "At  this  hall  William  Smythe  and  Kichard 
Courtc  are  chosen  to  be  aldermen  in  the  place  of  John 
Whelerand  John  Shaxsjiere  ;  for  that  Mr.  Wheler  doth 
desyer  to  be  put  out  of  the  companye,  and  Mr.  Shax- 
spere  dotli  not  come  to  the  halls  when  they  be  warned, 
nor  hath  not  done  of  long  tyme."  Is  it  not  more 
credible  that,  from  the  year  1579  till  the  year  1586, 
when  he  was  removed  from  the  corporation,  in  all 
piobability  by  his  own  consent,  John  Shakespeare  was 
tiot  dwelling  in  the  borough  of  Stratford, — that  he  bad 
te.'ised  to  take  an  interest  in  its  affairs,  although  he 
W6»  unwillmg  to  forego  its  dignities  ; — than  tliat  during 
tliise  seven  years  ho  was  struggling  witli  hopeless 
poverty  ;  that  Ue  allowed  his  brotlier  aldermen  and 
btirgeBRoa  to  sit  in  judgment  on  his  means  of  paying 


the  assessments  of  the  borough  ;  that  they  consented 
to  reduce  and  altogether  to  discharge  his  assessment, 
although  be  was  the  undoubted  possessor  of  property 
within  the  borough  ;  that  he  proclaimed  his  poverty 
in  the  most  abject  manner,  and  proclaimed  it  untruly 
whilst  he  held  any  property  at  all,  and  his  lands  were 
mortgaged  for  a  very  inadequate  sum,  when  the  first 
object  of  an  embarrassed  man  would  have  been  to  have 
upheld  his  credit  by  making  an  effort  to  meet  every 
public  demand  ?  What  is  the  most  extraordinary  thing 
of  all  is,  that  he  should  have  recovered  this  long  humi- 
liation so  suddenly  that,  in  1596,  he  goes  to  the  College 
of  Arms  for  additions  to  his  annorial  bearings,  and 
states  that  he  is  worth  five  hundred  pounds  in  lands 
and  tenements.  During  this  period  he  was  unques- 
tionably a  resident  in  the  parish  of  Stratford ;  for  the 
register  of  that  parish  contains  the  entry  of  the  burial 
of  a  daughter  in  1579,  and  the  baptism  of  a  son  in  1580. 
His  grandchildren,  also,  are  baptized  in  that  parish  in 
1 583  and  1585.  But  his  assessments  in  ' '  that  place' ' — 
the  borough — are  reduced  in  1578,  and  wholly  foregone 
in  1579.  He  has  ceased  to  be  amenable  to  the  borough 
assessments.  The  lands  of  Welcombe  and  Bishopton, 
we  may  fairly  assiune,  were  his  home.  He  has  not 
been  dependent  upon  the  trade  of  Stratford,  whether 
in  gloves  or  wool.  He  is  a  cultivator,  and  his  profits 
are  not  very  variable.  His  sou  purchases  a  large  quan- 
tity of  land  in  the  same  district  a  few  years  afterwards  ; 
and  that  son  himself  becomes  a  cultivator,  even  whilst 
he  is  the  most  successful  dramatist  of  his  time.  That 
son  has  also  his  actions  in  the  Bailiff's  Court,  as  his 
father  had,  for  corn  sold  and  delivered,  of  which  more 
hereafter.  That  son  cleaves  to  his  native  place  with  a 
love  which  no  fame  won,  no  pleasure  enjoyed,  in  the 
great  capital, — the  society  of  the  great,  the  praises  of 
the  learned, — can  extinguish.  Neither  does  that  son 
take  any  part  in  the  affairs  of  the  borough.  He  pur- 
chases the  best  house  in  Stratford  in  1597,  but  the 
records  of  Stratford  show  that  he  had  no  desire  for 
local  honours.  The  father,  instead  of  sinking  into 
poverty,  appears  to  us  to  have  separated  himself  from 
the  concerns  of  the  borough,  and  from  the  socfety  of 
the  honest  men  who  administered  them.  He  probably 
had  not  more  happiness  in  his  struggle  to  maintain  the 
rank  of  gentleman  ;  but  that  he  did  malce  that  struggle 
is,  we  think,  consistent  with  all  the  ciicunistances 
upon  record.  That  the  children  of  William  Shake- 
speare should  have  been  brought  up  at  Stratford, — 
that  Stratford  should  have  been  his  home,  although 
London  was  his  place  of  necessary  sojourn, — is,  wc 
think,  quite  incompatible  with  the  belief  that,  at  the 
exact  period  when  the  poet  was  gaining  rapid  wealth 
as  a  sharer  in  the  Blackfriar's  Theatre,  the  father  waa 
so  reduced  to  the  extremity  of  indigence  that  he  had 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


nothing  to  distraiu  upon  in  liis  dwelling  in  the  place 
where  he  had  dwelt  for  years,  in  competence  and 
honour. 

Seeing,  then,  that  at  any  rate  in  the  year  1574,  when 
John  Shakespeare  purchased  two  freehold  houses  in 
Stratford,  it  was  scarcely  necessary  for  him  to  withdraw 
his  son  William  from  school,  as  Rowe  has  it,  on  account 
of  the  narrowness  of  his  circumstances  (the  education 
at  that  school  costing  the  father  nothing),  it  is  not  dif- 
ficult to  believe  that  the  son  remained  there  till  the 
period  when  boys  were  usually  withdrawn  from  gram- 
mar-schooU  In  those  days  the  education  of  the  uni- 
versity commenced  much  earlier  than  at  present.  Boys 
intended  for  the  learned  professions,  and  more  especially 
for  the  church,  commonly  went  to  Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge at  eleven  or  twelve  years  of  age.  If  they  were 
not  intended  for  those  professions,  they  probably  re- 
mained at  the  grammar-school  till  they  were  thirteen 
or  fourteen  ;  and  then  they  were  fitted  for  being  ap- 
prenticed to  tradesmen,  or  articled  to  attorneys,  a  nu- 
merous and  thriving  body  in  those  days  of  cheap  liti- 
gation. Many  also  wont  early  to  the  Inns  of  Court, 
which  were  the  universities  of  the  law,  and  where  there 
was  real  study  and  discipline  in  direct  connection  with 
the  several  Societies.  To  assume  that  William  Shake- 
speare did  not  stay  long  enough  at  the  grammar-school 
of  Stratford  to  obtain  a  very  fair  ' '  proficiency  in  Latin, ' ' 
with  some  knowledge  of  Greek,  is  to  assume  an  absurd- 
ity upon  the  fiice  of  the  circumstances  ;  and  it  could 
never  have  been  assumed  at  all,  had  not  Eowe,  setting 
out  upon  a  <alse  theory,  that,  because  in  the  works  of 
Shakespeare  ' '  we  scarce  find  any  traces  of  any  thing 
tliit  looks  like  an  imitation  of  the  ancients,"  held  that 
therefore  "  his  not  copying  at  least  something  from  them 
may  be  an  argument  of  his  never  having  read  them." 
Opposed  to  this  is  the  statement  of  Aubrey,  much 
nearer  to  the  times  of  Shakespeare  :  "he  understood 
Latin  pretty  well."  Rowe  had  been  led  into  his  illogi- 
cal inference  by  the  "small  Latin  and  less  Greek"  of 
Jonson  ;  the  "old  mother-wit"  of  Denham  ;  the  "his 
learning  was  very  little"  of  Fuller  ;  the  "  native  wood- 
notes  wild"  of  Milton, — phrases,  every  one  of  which  is 
to  be  taken  with  cofisiderable  qualification,  whether  we 
regard  the  peculiar  characters  of  the  utterers,  or  the 
circumstances  connected  with  the  words  themselves. 
ITie  question  rests  not  upon  the  interpretation  of  the 
dictum  of  this  authority  or  that,  but  upon  the  indispu- 
table fact  that  the  very  earliest  writings  of  Shakespeare 
are  imbued  with  a  spirit  of  classical  antiquity,  and  that 
the  allusive  nature  of  the  learning  that  manifests  itself 
in  thcra,  whilst  it  offers  the  best  proof  of  his  familiarity 
with  the  ancient  writers,  is  a  circumstance  which  has 
misled  those  who  never  attempted  to  dispute  the  exist- 
ence of  thi!  learning  which  was  displayed  in  the  direct 


pedantry  of  his  cimtemporarics.  "If,"  said  Hales  of 
Eton,  "  he  luid  not  read  the  classics,  he  had  likewise  not 
stolen  from  them."  Marlowe,  Greene,  Peele,  and  all 
the  early  dramatists,  overload  their  plays  with  quota- 
tion and  mythological  allusion.  According  to  Hales 
they  steal,  and  therefore  they  have  read.  .  He  who  uses 
his  knowledge  skilfully  is  assmued  not  to  have  read. 

It  is  not  our  intention  here  to  enter  upon  a  general 
examination  of  the  various  opinions  that  have  been 
held  .IS  to  the  learning  of  Shakespeare,  and  the  tenden- 
cy of  those  opinions  to  show  that  he  was  without  learn- 
ing. We  only  desire  to  point  out,  by  a  very  few  obser- 
vations, that  the  learning  manifested  in  his  early  pro- 
ductions does  not  bear  out  the  assertion  of  Rowe  that 
his  proficiency  in  the  Latin  language  was  interrupted 
by  his  early  removal  from  the  free-school  of  Stratford. 
His  youthfid  poem,  '  Venus  and  Adonis,'  the  first  heir 
of  his  invention,  is  upon  a  classical  subject.  The  '  Rape 
of  Lucrece'  is  founded  upon  a  legend  of  the  beginnings 
of  Roman  history.  Would  he  have  ventured  upon 
these  subjects  had  be  been  mifamiliar  with  the  ancient 
writers,  from  the  attentive  study  of  which  he  coidd 
alone  obtain  the  knowledge  which  would  enable  him 
to  treat  them  with  propriety  ?  His  was  an  age  of  sound 
scholarship.  He  dedicates  both  jioems  to  a  scholar, 
and  a  patron  of  scholars.  Does  any  one  of  his  contem- 
poraries object  that  these  classical  subjects  were  treated 
by  a  young  man  ignorant  of  the  classics  ?  Will  the 
most  critical  examination  of  these  poems  detect  any 
thing  that  betrays  this  ignorance  ?  Is  there  not  the 
most  perfect  keeping  in  both  these  poems, — an  original 
conception  of  the  mode  of  treating  these  subjects,  ad- 
visedly adopted  with  the  full  knowledge  of  what  might 
be  imitated,  but  preferring  the  vigorous  painting  of 
nature  to  any  imitation ?  'Love's  Labour's  Lo.st,'  un- 
doubtedly one  of  the  earliest  comedies,  shows — upon 
the  principle  laid  down  by  Coleridge,  that  ' '  a  young 
author's  first  work  almost  always  bespeaks  his  recent 
pursuits" — that  the  habits  of  William  Shakespeare 
"had  been  scholastic,  and  those  of  a  student."  The 
'  Comedy  of  Errors'  is  full  of  those  imitations  of  the 
ancients  in  particular  passages  which  critics  have  in  all 
cases  been  too  apt  to  take  as  the  chief  evidences  of 
learning.  The  critics  of  Shakespeare  are  puzzled  by 
these  imitations  ;  and  when  they  see  with  what  skill  ho 
adopts,  or  amends,  or  rejects,  the  incidents  of  the 
'  Menaschmi'  of  Plautus,  they  have  no  resource  but  to 
contend  that  his  knowledge  of  Plautus  was  derived 
from  a  wretched  translation,  publisiied  in  all  probabil- 
ity eight  or  ten  years  after  '  The  Comedy  of  Errors' 
was  written.  The  three  Parts  of  '  Henry  VI.'  are  the 
earliest  of  the  historical  plays.  Those  who  dispute  the 
genuineness  of  the  First  part  affirm  that  it  contains 
more  allusions  to  mj-thology  and  classical  authors  than 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


Shakespeare  ever  uses ;  but,  vith  a  most  singular  in- 
consistency, in  the  passages  of  the  Second  and  Third 
Parts  which  they  have  chosen  to  pronounce  as  the  ad- 
ditions of  Shaliespeare  to  the  original  plays  of  another 
writer  or  writers,  there  are  to  be  found  as  many  allu- 
sions to  mythology  and  classical  writers  as  in  the  part 
which  they  deny  to  be  his.  We  have  observed  upon 
these  passages  that  they  furnish  the  proof  that,  as  a 
young  writer,  he  possessed  a  competent  knowledge  of 
the  ancient  authors,  and  was  not  unwilling  to  display 
it;  "but  that,  with  that  wonderful  judgment  which 
was  as  remarkable  as  the  prodigious  range  of  his  imagi- 
native powers,  he  soon  learnt  to  avoid  the  pedantry  to 
which  inferior  men  so  pertinaciously  clung  in  the  pride 
of  their  scholarship."  Eanging  over  the  whole  dra- 
matic works  of  Shakespeare,  whenever  we  find  a  classi- 
cal image  or  allusion,  such  as  in  '  Hamlet,' — 

'*  A  station  like  the  herald  Mercury, 
New  lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill,'*— 

the  management  of  the  idea  is  always  elegant  and 
graceful ;  and  the  passage  may  sustain  a  contrast  with 
the  most  refined  imitations  of  his  contemporaries,  or  of 
Us  own  imitator,  Milton.  In  his  Roman  plays  he  ap- 
pears co-existent  with  his  wonderful  characters,  and  to 
have  read  all  the  obscure  pages  of  Roman  history  with 
a  clearer  eye  than  philosopher  or  historian.  When  he 
employs  Latinisms  in  the  construction  of  his  sentences, 
and  even  in  the  creation  of  new  words,  he  does  so  with 
singular  facility  and  unerring  correctness.  And  then, 
we  are  to  be  told,  he  managed  all  this  by  studying  bad 
translations,  and  by  copying  extracts  from  grammars 
and  dictionaries  ;  as  if  it  was  reserved  for  such  miracles 
.  of  talent  and  industry  as  the  Farmers  and  the  Stcvenses 
to  read  Ovid  and  Virgil  in  their  original  tongues, 
whilst  the  dull  Shakespeare,  whether  schoolboy  or  adult, 
was  to  be  contented  through  life  with  the  miserable 
translations  of  Arthur  Golding  and  Thomas  Pliaer." 
We  believe  that  his  familiarity  at  least  with  the  best 
Roman  writers  was  begun  early,  and  continued  late  ; 
and  that  he,  of  all  boys  of  Stratford,  would  be  the  least 
likely  to  discredit  the  teaching  of  Thomas  Hunt  and 
Thomas  Jenkins,  the  masters  of  the  grammar-school 
from  1672  till  1580. 

There  were  other  agencies  than  the  grammar-school 
at  work  in  the  direction  of  Shakespeare's  inquiring  boy- 
hood. There  are  local  associations  connected  with  Strat- 
ford which  could  not  be  without  their  influence  in  the 
formation  of  his  mind.  Within  the  range  of  such  a 
boy's  curiosity  were  the  fine  old  historic  towns  of  War- 
wick and  Coventiy,  the  sumptuous  palace  of  Kenil- 
worth,  the  grand  monastic  remains  of  Evesham.  His 
own  Avon  abounded  with  spots  of  singular  beauty,  quiet 

•  Bee  a  series  nf  l(.arneil  and  spirited  papera  by  the  Inte  Pr.  Ma- 
pnn  on  FnrtnprV  'Essay,'  printed  in  Frazer's  Magazine,  1889. 


hamlets,  solitaiy  woods.  Nor  was  Stratford  shut  out 
from  the  general  world,  as  many  country  towns  are.  It 
was  a  gi-eat  highway  ;  and  dealers  with  every  variety 
of  merchandise  resorted  to  its  fairs.  The  eyes  of  Shake 
speare  must  always  have  been  open  for  oliservation. 
When  he  was  twelve  years  old  EHzaljeth  made'her  cel- 
ebrated progress  to  Lord  Leicester's  castle  of  Kenil- 
worth.  Was  William  Shakespeare  at  Kenil  worth  in 
that  summer  of  1575,  when  the  great  Dudley  entertained 
the  queen  with  a  splendor  which  annalists  have  de- 
lighted to  record,  and  upon  which  one  of  our  own  days 
has  bestowed  a  fame  more  imperishable  than  that  of 
any  annals  ?  Percy,  speaking  of  the  old  Coventry  Hock- 
play,  says,  "  Whatever  this  old  play  or  storial  show 
was  at  the  time  it  was  exhibited  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  it 
had  probably  our  young  Shakespeare  for  a  spectator, 
who  was  then  in  his  twelfth  year,  and  doubtless  attend- 
ed with  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  surrounding  country 
at  these  '  princely  pleasures  of  Kenilworth,'  wheuco 
Stratford  is  only  a  few  miles  distant."  The  prepara- 
tions for  this  celebrated  entertainment  were  on  so  mag- 
nificent a  scale,  the  puiveyings  must  have  been  sc 
enormous,  the  posts  so  unintermitting,  that  there  had 
needed  not  the  flourishings  of  paragraphs  (for  the  age  of 
paragraphs  was  not  as  yet)  to  have  roused  the  curiosity 
of  all  mid-England.  In  1575,  when  Robert  Dudley 
welcomed  his  sovereign  with  a  more  than  regal  magni- 
ficence, it  is  easy  to  believe  that  his  ambition  looked 
for  a  higher  reward  than  that  of  continuing  a  queen'n 
most  favored  servant  and  counsellor.  It  appears  to 
us  that  the  exquisite  speech  of  Oberon  in  '  A  Midsum- 
mer Night's  Dream'  is  founded  upon  a  recollection  of 
what  the  youuj,  Shakespeare  hoard  of  the  intent  of  the 
princely  pleasures  of  Kenilworth,  and  is  associated  with 
some  of  the  poetical  devices  which  he  might  have  there 
beheld : 

"  Ohe.  My  irentle  Puck,  come  hiltier:  Thou  remember'£t 
Since  once  I  sat  upon  a  promontory. 
And  hearti  a  mermaid,  on  a  dolphin's  back. 
Uttering  such  dulcet  and  h.irmonious  breath. 
That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  sons: ; 
And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres. 
To  hear  the  sea-maid's  music. 

Pack,  I  remember. 

Ohe.  That  very  time  I  saw.  (but  thou  conldst  not,) 
Flying:  between  tlie  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 
Cupid  nil  ftrm'd  ;  a  certain  aim  he  took 
At  a  fair  vestal,  throned  by  the  west: 
And  loos'd  his  love-shiift  STiiartiy  from  his  DOW, 
As  It  should  jiicrce  slinntlrcd  thousand  licaria; 
But  I  nii^rht  see  young  Cu[)ld"s  fiery  sliaft 
Qucnch'd  in  tlie  chaste  beams  of  the  watery  moon, 
And  tile  iuilierial  votaress  passed  on. 
In  mnidon  meditaUoii,  fancy  free." 

The  most  lemarkalile  of  the  shows  of  Kenilworth  we  o 

associated  with  the  mythology  and  the   romance  of 

lakes  and   se.as.     "Triton,  in  likeness  of  a  mermaid, 

came  towards  the  Queen's  Majesty."     "  Arion  appeared 

sitting  on  a  dolphin's  back."     So  the  quaint  and  really 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SUAKESPEARE. 


poetical  George  Gascoigne,  in  his  'Brief  Reliearsal,  or 
ratlier  a  true  Copy  of  as  much  as  was  presented  before 
her  Majesty  at  Kenilworth.'  But  the  diffuse  and  most 
entertaining  coxcomb  Lanuliara  describes  a  song  of 
Arion  with  an  ecstasy  wliich  may  justify  the  belief  that 
tlie  "dulcet  and  harmonious  breath"  of  "the  sea- 
maid's music"  might  be  the  echo  of  the  melodies  heard 
by  the  young  poet  as  he  stood  beside  the  lake  at  Kenil- 
worth : — "  Now,  Sir,  the  ditty  in  metre  so  aptly  endited 
to  tlie  matter,  and  after  by  voice  deliciously  delivered  ; 
the  song,  by  a  skilful  artist  into  his  parts  so  sweetly 
sorted  ;  each  part  in  his  instrument  so  clean  and  sharply 
touched  ;  every  instrument  again  in  his  kind  so  excel- 
lently tunable  ;  and  this  in  the  evening  of  the  day,  re- 
sounding from  the  calm  waters,  where  the  presence  of 
her  Majesty,  and  longing  to  listen,  had  utterly  damped 
all  noise  and  din,  the  whole  harmony  conveyed  in  time, 
tune,  and  temper  thus  incomparably  melodious  ;  with 
what  pleasure  (Master  Martin),  with  what  sliarpness  of 
conceit,  with  what  lively  delight  this  might  pierce  into 
the  hearers'  hearts,  I  pray  ye  imagine  yourself,  as  ye 
may."  If  Elizabeth  be  the  "fair  vestal  throned  by  the 
west, "  of  which  there  can  be  no  reasonable  doubt,  the 
most  appropriate  scene  of  the  mermaid's  song  would  be 
Kenilworth,  and  "that  very  time"  the  summer  of 
1575.  There  were  other  circumstances  connected  with 
his  locality  which  were  favorable  to  the  cultivation  of 
the  dramatic  spirit  in  the  boy-poet.  It  requires  not  the 
imagination  of  the  romance-writer  to  assume  that  be- 
fore William  Shakespeare  was  sixteen,  that  is,  before 
the  j'ear  1580,  when  the  pageants  at  Coventry,  with 
one  two  rare  exceptions,  were  finally  suppressed,  he 
would  be  a  spectator  of  one  of  these  remarkable  per- 
formances, which  were  in  a  few  years  wholly  to  perish  ; 
becoming,  however,  the  foundations  of  a  drama  more 
suited  to  tlie  altered  spirit  of  the  people,  more  univer- 
sal in  its  range, — the  drama  of  the  laity,  and  not  of 
the  chinch.  The  ancient  accounts  of  the  Chamberlain 
of  the  borough  of  Stratford  exhibit  a  number  of  pay- 
ments made  out  of  the  funds  of  the  corporation  for 
theatrical  performances.  In  1569,  when  John  Shake- 
speare was  chief  magistrate,  there  is  a  payment  of  nine 
shillings  to  the  Queen's  players,  and  of  twelve-pence  to 
the  Earl  of  Worcester's  players.  In  1573  the  Earl  of 
Leicester's  players  received  six  shillings  and  eight- 
pence.  In  1574  "  my  Lord  of  Warwick's  players"  have 
a  gratuity  of  seventeen  shillings,  and  the  Earl  of 
Worcester's  players  of  five  and  seven-pence.  In  1577 
"  my  Lord  of  Leicester's  players"  receive  fifteen  shil- 
lings, and  "my  Lord  of  Worcester's  players"  three  and 
four-iience.  In  1579  and  1580  the  entries  are  more 
circumstantial : 

"  1579.  Ittm  pnid  to  my  Lord  Strftn^e  men  tho  xl"*  day  of  Feb- 
ruftry  at  tho  comaundement  of  Mr.  Bayliffe,  v«. 

3 


P"*  at  the  comnndemeiit  of  Mr.  UBlifTe  to  the  Coanlys  uf  F.-wox 
pleura,  xivs.  \\d. 

15H0.  I'''  to  the  Earle  of  Darbyes  players  at  the  comaundemon'. 
of  Mr.  BsUITe,  vilis.  ivrf." 

It  thus  appears  that  there  had  been  three  sets  of  play- 
ers at  Stratford  within  a  short  distance  of  the  time 
when  William  Shakespeare  was  sixteen  years  of  age. 

It  is  a  curious  circumstance  that  the  most  precise  and 
interesling  account  which  we  possess  of  one  of  the 
earlieat  of  the  theatrical  performances  is  from  tlie  re- 
collection of  a  man  who  was  born  in  the  same  year  as 
William  Shakespeare.  In  1G33  R.  W.  (R.  Willis),  sta- 
ting his  age  to  be  seventy-five,  published  a  little  vol- 
ume, called  '  Mount  Tabor,'  which  contains  a  passage, 
"  upon  a  stage-play  which  I  saw  when  I  was  a  child," 
which  is  essential  to  be  given  in  any  history  or  sketch 
of  the  early  stage  : 

"  In  the  city  of  Gloucester  the  manner  is  (as  I  think 
it  is  in  other  like  corjxirations)  that,  when  players  of 
interludes  come  to  town,  they  first  attend  the  mayor, 
to  inform  him  what  nobleman's  servants  they  are,  and 
so  to  get  licence  for  their  public  playing ;  and  if  the 
mayor  like  the  actors,  or  would  show  respect  to  their 
lord  and  master,  he  appoints  them  to  play  their  first 
play  before  himself  and  the  aldermen  and  common 
council  of  the  city  ;  and  that  is  called  the  mayor's 
play,  where  every  one  that  will  comes  in  without 
money,  the  mayor  giving  the  players  a  reward  as  ho 
thinks  fit,  to  show  respect  unto  them.  At  such  a  play 
my  fether  took  me  with  him,  and  made  me  stand  be- 
tween his  legs,  as  he  sat  upon  one  of  the  benches, 
where  we  saw  and  heard  very  well.  The  play  was 
called  '  The  Cradle  oi  Security, '  wherein  was  persona- 
ted a  king  or  some  great  prince,  with  his  courtiers  of 
several  kinds,  amongst  which  three  ladieswere  in  special 
grace  with  him,  and  they,  keeping  him  in  delights  and 
pleasures,  drew  him  from  his  graver  counsellors,  hear- 
ing of  sermons,  and  listening  to  good  counsel  and  ad- 
monitions, that  In  the  end  they  got  him  to  lie  down  in 
a  cradle  upon  the  stage,  where  these  three  ladies, 
joining  in  a  sweet  song,  rocked  him  asleep,  that  he 
snorted  again,  and  in  the  meantime  closely  conveyed 
under  the  clothes  wherewithal  he  was  covered  a  vizard 
like  a  swine's  snout  upon  his  face,  with  three  wire 
chains  fastened  thereunto,  the  other  end  whereof  being 
holden  severally  by  those  three  ladies,  who  fell  to  sing- 
ing again,  and  then  discovered  his  face,  that  the  spec- 
tators might  see  how  they  had  transformed  him  going 
on  with  tlieir  singing.  Whilst  all  this  was  acting,  there 
came  forth  of  another  door  at  the  farthest  end  of  tho 
stage  two  old  men,  the  one  in  blue,  with  a  sergennt-at- 
arms  his  mace  on  his  shoulder,  the  other  in  red,  with  a 
drawn  sword  in  his  hand,  and  leaning  with  the  other  hand 
upon  the  other's  shoulder,  and  so  they  two  went  along 
in  a  soft  pace,  round  about  by  the  skirt  of  the  stage. 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SBAKESPEARE. 


till  .It  last  thev  came  to  the  cradle,  when  all  the  court 
was  ia  greatest  jollity,  and  then  the  foremost  old  man 
with  his  mace  stroke  a  fearful  blow  upon  the  cradle, 
whereat  all  the  courtiers,  with  the  three  ladies  and  the 
vizard,  all  vanished  ;  and  the  desolate  prince,  starting 
up  barefaced,  and  finding  himself  thus  sent  for  to  judg- 
ment, made  a  lamentable  complaint  of  his  miserable 
case,  and  so  was  carried  away  by  wicked  spirits.  This 
prince  did  personate  in  the  moral  the  wicked  of  the 
world;  the  three  ladies,  pride,  covetousncss,  and  lux- 
ury ;  the  two  old  men,  the  end  of  the  world  and  the 
last  judgment.  This  sight  took  such  impression  in  me, 
that  when  I  came  towards  man's  estate  it  was  as  fresh 
in  my  memory  as  if  I  had  seen  it  newly  acted." 

We  now  understand  why  the  bailiff  of  Stratford  paid 
the  players  out  of  the  public  money.  The  first  per- 
formance of  each  company  in  this  town  was  the  bailiffs, 
or  chief  magistrate's  play  ;  and  thus,  when  the  father 
of  William  Shakespeare  was  bailiff,  the  boy  might  have 
stood  ' '  between  his  legs  as  he  sat  upon  one  of  the 
benches." 

Tlie  hall  of  tlie  Guild,  which  afterwards  became  the 
Town  Hall,  was  the  occasional  theaire  of  Stratford.  It 
is  now  a  long  room,  and  somewliat  low,  the  building 
being  divided  into  two  floors,  the  upper  of  which  is 
used  as  the  Grammer  School.  The  elevation  for  the 
C'<jurt  at  one  end  of  the  hall  would  form  the  stage  ;  and 
on  one  side  is  an  ancient  separate  chamber  to  which  the 
performers  would  retire.  With  a  due  provision  of 
benches,  about  three  hundred  persons  could  be  accom- 
modated in  this  room  ;  and  no  doubt  Mr.  Bailiff  would 
be  liberal  in  the  issue  of  his  invitations,  so  that  Strat- 
ford might  not  grudge  its  expenditure  of  five  shillings. 

It  would  appear  from  Willis's  description  that  '  The 
(Jradle  of  Security'  w.is  for  the  most  part  dumb  show. 
It  is  probable  that  he  was  present  at  its  performance  at 
Gloucester  when  he  was  six  or  seven  years  of  age  ;  it 
evidently  belongs  to  that  class  of  moral  plays  which 
were  of  the  simplest  construction.  And  yet  it  was  i)op- 
ular  long  after  the  English  drama  had  reached  its 
highest  eminence.  When  the  pageants  and  mysteries 
had  been  put  down  by  the  force  of  public  opinion,  when 
spectacles  of  a  dramatic  character  had  ceased  to  be 
employed  as  instnmicnts  of  religious  instruction,  the 
professional  players  who  had  sprung  up  founded  their 
popularity  for  a  long  period  upon  the  .ancient  habits  and 
assiiciations  of  the  people.  Our  drama  was  essentially 
formed  by  a  course  of  steady  progress,  and  not  by  rapid 
transition.  We  are  accustomed  to  say  that  the  drama 
w:\8  created  by  Shakespeare,  JIarlowe,  Greene,  Kyd, 
and  a  few  others  of  distinguished  genius  ;  but  they  all 
of  them  worked  upon  a  foimdation  which  was  ready  for 
them.  The  superstructure  of  real  tragedy  and  comedy 
Imd  to  bo  erected  upon  the  moral  plays,  the  romances. 


the  histories,  which  were  beginning  to  be  popular  in 
the  very  first  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  continued 
to  be  so,  even  in  their  very  rude  forms,  be)  ond  the 
close  of  her  long  reign. 

The  controversy  upon  the  lawfulness  of  stage-plays 
was  a  remarkable  feature  of  the  period  which  we  are 
now  noticing  ;  and,  as  pamphlets  were  to  that  age  what 
newspapers  are  to  ours,  there  can  be  little  doubt  that 
even  in  the  small  literary  society  of  Stratford  the  tracts 
upon  this  subject  might  be  well  known.  The  dispute 
about  the  Theatre  was  a  contest  between  the  holders  of 
opposite  opinions  in  religion.  The  Puritans,  who  even 
at  that  time  were  strong  in  their  zeal  if  not  in  their 
numbers,  made  the  Theatre  the  especial  object  of  their 
indignation,  for  its  unquestionable  abuses  allowed  them 
BO  to  frame  their  invectives  that  they  might  tell  with 
double  force  against  every  description  of  public  amuse- 
ment, against  poetry  in  general,  p.gaiust  music,  against 
dancing,  associated  as  they  were  ■with  the  excesses  of 
an  ill-regulated  stage.  A  'Ireatise  of  John  Northbrooke, 
licensed  for  the  press  in  1577,  is  directed  against  "  di- 
cing, dancing,  vain  plays,  or  interludes."  Gosson,  who 
had  been  a  student  of  Christchurch,  Oxford,  had  him- 
self written  two  or  three  jilays  previous  to  his  publica- 
tion, in  1579,  of  'The  School  of  Abuse,  containing  a 
Pleasant  Invective  against  Poets,  Pipers,  Players,  Jest- 
ers, and  such-lite  Caterpillars  of  a  Commonwealth.' 
This  hook,  written  with  considerable  ostentation  of 
learning,  and  indeed  with  no  common  vigour  and  occa- 
sional eloquence,  defeats  its  own  purposes  by  too  large 
an  aim.  Poets,  whatever  be  the  character  of  their 
poetry,  are  the  objects  of  Gosson's  new-born  hostility. 
The  three  abuses  of  the  time  are  held  to  be  inseparable : 
"As  poetry  and  piping  are  cousin-germans,  so  piping 
and  |)laying  are  of  great  affinity,  and  all  three  chained 
in  links  of  abuse."  If  the  young  Shakespeare  had  liia 
ambition  turned  towards  dramatic  poetry  when  he  was 
sixteen,  that  ambition  was  not  likely  to  be  damped  by 
Gosson's  general  declamation. 

The  earliest,  and  the  most  permanent,  of  poetical 
associations  are  those  which  are  impressed  upon  the 
mind  by  localities  which  have  a  deep  historical  interest. 
It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  district  possessing  more 
striking  remains  of  a  jiast  time  than  the  neighbourhood 
in  which  William  Shakespeare  spent  his  youth.  The 
poetical  feeling  which  the  battle-fields,  and  castles,  and 
monastic  ruins  of  mid-England  would  excite  in  him, 
may  he  reasonably  considered  to  have  derived  an  in- 
tensity through  the  real  history  of  these  celebrated 
spots  being  vague,  and  for  the  most  part  traditional. 
The  age  of  local  historians  has  not  yet  arrived.  The 
moniunents  of  the  past  were  indeed  themselves  much 
more  fresh  and  perfect  than  in  the  subsequent  days, 
when  every  tomb  inscription  was  copied,  and  every 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SUAKESPEAKE. 


mouldering  document  set  forth.  But  in  the  year  1080, 
if  William  Shakespeare  desired  to  know,  for  example, 
with  some  precision,  the  history  which  belonged  to 
those  uoble  towers  of  Warwick  upon  which  he  had  often 
gazed  with  a  delight  that  scarcely  reijuircd  to  be  based 
upon  knowledge,  he  would  look  in  vain  for  any  guide 
to  his  inquiries.  Some  old  people  might  tell  him  that 
they  remembered  their  fathers  to  have  spoken  of  one 
John  Rous,  the  son  of  Geffrey  Rous  of  Warwick,  who, 
having  diligently  studied  at  Oxford,  and  obtained  a 
reputation  for  uncommon  learning,  rejected  all  ambi- 
tious thoughts,  shut  himself  up  with  his  books  in  the 
solitude  of  Guy's  Cliff,  and  was  engaged  to  the  last  in 
writing  the  Chronicles  of  his  country,  and  especially 
the  history  of  his  native  County  and  its  f;i)mous  Earls  : 
and  there,  in  the  quiet  of  that  pleasant  place,  perform- 
ing his  daily  offices  of  devotion  as  a  chantry  priest,  in 
tlie  little  chapel,  did  John  Rous  live  a  life  of  happy 
industry  till  1491.  But  the  world  in  general  deiived 
little  profit  from  his  labours.  Yet  if  the  future  Poet 
sustained  some  disadvantage  by  living  before  the  days 
of  antiquarian  minuteness,  he  could  still  dwell  in  the 
past,  and  people  it  with  the  beings  of  his  own  imagina- 
tion. The  Chroniclers  would,  however,  afford  him 
ample  materials  to  work  into  his  own  topography. 
There  was  a  truth  which  was  to  be  found  amidst  all 
the  mistakes  and  contradictions  of  the  annalists — the 
great  poetical  truth,  that  the  devices  of  men  are  insuffi- 
cient to  establish  any  permanent  command  over  events  ; 
that  crime  would  be  followed  by  retribution  ;  that  evil 
passions  would  become  their  own  tormentors  ;  that  in- 
justice could  not  be  successful  to  the  end ;  that  al- 
though dimly  seen  and  unwillingly  acknowledged,  the 
great  presiding  Power  of  the  world  could  make  evil 
work  for  good,  and  advance  the  general  happiness  out 
of  the  particular  misery.  This  was  the  mode,  we  be- 
lieve, in  which  that  thoughtful  youth  read  the  Chroni- 
cles of  his  country,  whether  brief  or  elaborate.  Looking 
at  them  by  the  strong  light  of  local  association,  there 
%vould  be  local  tradition  at  hand  to  enforce  that  univer- 
sal belief  in  the  justice  of  God's  pro\'idence  which  is  in 
itself  alone  one  of  the  many  proofs  of  that  justice. 
.  Hall,  the  chronicler,  writing  his  history  of  'Tlie 
Families  of  Lancaster  and  York,'  about  seventy  years 
after  the  "continual  dissension  for  the  crown  of  this 
noble  realm"  was  terminated,  says, — "What  noble- 
man liveth  at  this  day,  or  what  gentleman  of  any 
ancient  stock  or  progeny  is  clear,  whose  lineage  hath 
not  been  infested  and  plagued  with  this  unnatural  di- 
vision ?"  During  the  boyhood  of  William  Shakespeare, 
it  cannot  be  doubted  that  he  would  meet  with  many  a 
gentleman,  and  many  a  yeoman,  who  would  tell  him 
liow  their  forefathers  had  been  thus  ' '  infested  and 
plagued."     The  traditions  of  the  most  stirring  events 


of  that  contest  would  at  tliis  time  1  o  about  n  cent  .ry 
old ;  generally  diluted  in  their  interest  by  passing 
thi'ough  the  lips  of  three  or  four  generations,  but  occa- 
sionally presented  vividly  to  the  mind  of  the  inquiring 
boy  in  tlie  narration  of  some  amongst  the  "hoary 
headed  eld' '  whose  fathers  had  fought  at  Bosworth  or 
Tewksbury.  Many  of  these  traditions,  too,  would  be 
essentii  'ly  local  ;  extending  back  even  to  the  period 
when  the  banished  Duke  of  Hereford,  in  his  bold  march 

"  From  R.  venspurg  to  Cotflwold,'^ 
gathered  a  host  of  followers  in  the  counties  of  Der. 
by,  Kottingham,  Leicester,  Warwick,  and  Worcester. 
Fields,  where  battles  had  been  fought ;  towns,  where 
parliaments  had  assembled  and  treaties  had  been  rati- 
fied ;  castles,  where  the  great  leaders  bad  stood  at  bay, 
or  had  sallied  forth  upon  the  terrified  country — such 
were  the  objects  which  the  young  poet  would  associate 
with  many  an  elaborate  description  of  the  chroniclers, 
and  many  an  interesting  anecdote  of  his  ancient  neigh- 
bours. It  appears  to  us  that  his  dramatic  power  was 
early  directed  towards  this  long  and  complicated  story, 
by  some  principle  even  more  exciting  than  its  capabili- 
ties for  the  purposes  of  the  drama.  It  was  the  story, 
we  think,  which  was  presented  to  him  in  the  evening- 
talk  around  the  hearth  of  his  childhood  ;  it  was  the 
story  whose  written  details  were  most  accessible  to  him, 
being  narrated  by  Hall  with  a  rare  minuteness  of  pic- 
turesque circumstance  ;  but  it  was  a  story  also  of  which 
his  own  district  had  been  the  scene,  in  many  of  its 
most  stirring  events.  Out  of  ten  English  Historical 
Plays  which  were  written  by  him,  and  some  undoubt- 
edly amongst  his  first  performances,  he  has  devoted 
eight  to  circumstances  belonging  to  this  memorable 
story.  No  other  nation  ever  possessed  such  a  history 
of  the  events  of  a  century, — a  history  in  which  the 
agents  are  not  the  hard  abstractions  of  warriors  and 
statesmen,  liut  men  of  fle.sh  and  blood  like  ourselves  ; 
men  of  passion,  and  crime,  and  virtue ;  elevated  per- 
haps by  the  poetical  art,  but  filled  also,  through  that 
art,  with  such  a  wondrous  life,  that  we  dwell  amongst 
them  as  if  they  were  of  our  own  day,  and  feel  that  they 
must  have  spoken  as  he  has  made  them  speak,  and  act 
as  he  has  made  them  act.  It  is  in  vain  that  we  are 
told  that  some  events  are  omitted,  and  some  transposed ; 
that  documentary  history  does  not  exhibit  its  evidence 
here,  that  a  contemporary  narrative  somewhat  militates 
against  the  representation  there,  lire  general  truth  of 
this  dramatic  history  cannot  be  shaken.  It  is  a  philo- 
sophical history  in  the  very  highest  sense  of  that  some- 
what abused  term.  It  contains  the  philosophy  that  can 
only  be  produced  by  the  union  of  the  noblest  imagina- 
tion with  the  most  just  and  temperate  judginent.     It  is 

•  "Elchard  II.,"  Act  2,  scene  a 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


the  loftiness  of  the  poetical  spirit  wbicli  has  enabled 
Shakespeare  alone  to  write  this  history  with  impartial- 
ity. Open  the  chroniclers,  and  we  find  the  prejudices 
of  the  Yorldst  or  the  Lancastrian  manifesting  the  in- 
tensity of  the  old  factious  hatred.  Who  can  say  to 
svhich  faction  Shakespeare  belongs  ?  He  has  conipre- 
hcnded  the  whole,  whilst  others  knew  only  a  part. 

The  last  play  of  the  series  which  belongs  to  the  wars 
of  the  Roses  is  unquestionably  written  altogether  with 
a  more  matured  power  than  those  which  preceded  it ; 
yet  the  links  which  connect  it  with  the  other  three 
plays  of  the  series  ate  so  unbroken,  the  treatment  of 
character  is  so  consistent,  and  the  poetical  conception 
of  the  whole  so  uniform,  that,  whatever  amount  of 
criticism  may  be  yet  in  store  to  show  that  our  view  is 
incorrect,  we  now  confidently  speak  of  them  all  as  the 
plays  of  Shakespeare,  and  of  Shakespeare  alone.  Ma- 
lured,  especially  in  its  wonderful  exhibition  of  charac- 
ter, as  the  'Eichard  III.'  is,  we  cannot  doubt  that  the 
subject  was  very  early  familiar  to  the  young  poet's 
mind.  The  Battle  of  Bosworth  Field  was  the  great 
event  of  his  own  locality,  which  for  a  century  had  fixed 
the  government  of  England.  The  course  of  the  Refor- 
mation, and  especially  the  dissolution  of  the  Monaster- 
ies, had  produced  great  social  changes,  which  were  in 
operation  at  the  time  in  which  William  Shakespecvre 
was  born  ;  whose  efi'ects,  for  good  and  for  evil,  he  must 
have  seen  working  around  him.  as  he  grew  from  year 
to  year  in  knowledge  and  eJ^erience.  But  those  events 
were  too.reci^nt,  and  indeed  of  too  delicate  a  nature,  to 
assume  the  poetical  aspect  in  his  mind.  They  abided 
still  in  tlie  region  of  prejudice  and  controversy.  It  was 
dangerous  to  speak  of  the  great  religious  divisions  of 
the  kingdom  with  a  tolerant  impartiality.  History 
could  scarcely  deal  with  these  opinions  in  a  spirit  of 
justice.  Poetry,  thus,  which  has  regard  to  what  is 
permanent  and  universal,  has  passed  by  these  mat- 
ters, important  as  tlicy  are.  But  the  great  event  which 
placed  the  Tudor  family  on  the  throne,  and  gave 
England  a  stable  government,  however  occasionally 
distracted  by  civil  and  religious  division,  was  an  event 
which  would  seize  fast  upon  such  a  mind  as  that  of 
William  Sliakespeare.  His  ancestor,  there  can  be  little 
doubt,  had  been  an  adherent  of  the  Earl  of  Eichmond. 
For  his  faithful  services  to  the  conqueror  at  Bosworth 
he  was  rewarded,  as  we  are  assured,  by  lands  in  War- 
wicksliire.  Tliat  field  of  Bosworth  wouki  tliorefore 
have  to  Iiim  a  family  as  well  as  a  local  interest.  Burton, 
tlic  liistorian  of  Leicestershire,  who  was  born  about  ten 
years  after  William  Shakespeare,  tells  us  "  that  his 
great-great-grandfather,  John  Hardwick,  of  Lindley, 
near  Boswortli,  a  man  of  very  short  stature,  but  active 
and  courageous,  tenrlcrcd  his  service  to  Henry,  with 
acmo  troops  of  horse,  the  night  he  lay  at  Atherston, 


became  his  guiile  to  the  field,  advised  him  in  the  attack, 
and  how  to  profit  by  the  sun  and  by  the  wind."  Bur- 
ton further  says,  writing  in  1022,  that  the  inbabitanla 
living  around  the  plain  called  Bosworth  Field,  more 
properly  the  plain  of  Sutton,  ' '  have  many  occurrences 
and  passages  yet  fresh  in  memory,  by  reason  that  some 
persons  thereabout,  which  saw  the  battle  fought,  were 
living  within  less  than  forty  years,  of  whidi  persons 
myself  have  seen  some,  and  have  heard  of  their  dis- 
closures, though  related  by  the  second  hand."  I'his 
' '  living  within  less  than  forty  years' '  would  take  us 
back  to  about  the  period  which  we  are  now  viewing  in 
relation  to  the  life  of  Shakespeare.  But  cer  tainly  there 
is  something  over-marvellous  in  Burton's  story,  to 
enable  us  to  think  that  William  Shakespeare,  even  as  a 
very  young  hoy,  could  have  conversed  with  "some  per- 
sons thereabout"  who  had  seen  a  battle  fought  in  1485. 
That,  as  Burton  more  reasonably  of  himself  says,  he 
might  have  "heard  their  discourses  at  second-band"  is 
probable  enough.  Bosworth  Field  is  about  thirty  miles 
from  Stratford.  Burton  says  that  the  plain  derives  its 
name  from  Bosworth,  ' '  not  that  this  battle  was  fought 
at  this  place  (it  being  fought  in  a  large,  flat  plain,  and 
spacious  ground,  three  miles  distant  from  this  town, 
between  the  towns  of  Shenton,  Sutton,  Dadlington,  and 
Stoke) ;  but  for  that  this  town  was  the  most  worthy 
town  of  note  near  adjacent,  and  was  therefore  called 
Bosworth  Field.  That  this  battle  was  fought  in  this 
plain  appeareth  by  many  remarkable  places  :  By  a  little 
mount  cast  up,  where  the  common  report  is,  that  at 
the  first  beginning  of  tlie  battle  Henry  Earl  of  Rich- 
mond made  his  paraenetical  oration  to  his  army  ;  by 
divers  pieces  of  armour,  weapons,  and  other  warlike 
accoutrements,  and  by  many  arrowheads  here  found, 
whereof,  about  twenty  years  since,  at  the  enclosure  of 
the  lordship  of  Stoke,  great  store  were  digged  up,  of 
which  some  I  have  now  (1622)  in  my  custody,  being  of 
a  long,  large,  and  big  proportion,  far  greater  than  any 
now  in  use  ;  as  also  by  relation  of  the  inhabitants,  who 
have  many  occurrences  and  passages  yet  fresh  in  mem- 
ory." Burton  goes  on  to  tell  two  stories  connected  with 
the  eventful  battle.  The  one  was  the  vision  of  King 
Ricliard,  of  "  divers  fearful  ghosts  running  about  him, 
not  suffering  him  to  take  any  rest,  still  crying  '  Re- 
venge.' "  Hall  relates  the  tradition  thus: — "The 
fame  went  that  he  had  the  same  night  a  dreadful  and 
a  terrible  dream,  for  it  seemed  to  him,  being  asleep, 
that  he  saw  divers  images  like  terrible  devils,  not 
suffering  him  to  take  any  quiet  or  rest."  Burton 
says,  previous  to  his  description  of  the  drtam,  "The 
vision  is  reported  to  be  in  this  manner."  And  certainly 
his  account  of  the  fearful  ghosts  "still  crying  Revenge" 
is  essentially  different  from  that  of  the  dironiclcr. 
Shakespeare  has  followed  the  more  poetical  account  of 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SUAKESPEARE. 


XS1 


the  oW   Iix^l   historian  ;   which,  however,  could   not 
bavo  been  known  to  liira  : — 

"Methought  the  souls  of  all  that  I  have  mnrther'J 
Canio  to  my  tent ;  and  every  one  ilhl  threat 
To-morrow's  vengeance  on  the  head  of  Kichard." 

Did  Shiikespeare  obtain  )iis  notion  from  tlie  same  source 
as  liurton — from  "  relation  of  the  inhabitants  who  have 
manj-  occurrences  and  passages  yet  fresh  in  memory  ?" 
The  localities  amidst  which  Shakespeare  lived  were, 
as  we  have  thus  seen,  highly  favourable  to  his  cultiva- 
tion of  a  poetical  reverence  for  antiquity.     But  his 
unerring  observation  of  the  present  prevented  the  past 
becoming  to   him   an   illusion.     He   had   always  an 
earnest  patriotism  ;  he  had  a  strong  sense  of  the  bless- 
ings which  had  been  conferred  upon  his  own  day  through 
the  security  won  out  of  peril  and  suffering  by  the  mid- 
dle classes.      The  destruction  of  the  old  institutions, 
after  the  first  evil  effects  had  been  mitigated  by  the 
finergy  of  the  people,  had  diffused   capital,  and  h:vd 
caused  it  to  be  employed  with  more  activity.     But  he, 
who  scarcely  ever  stops  to  notice  the  political  aspects 
of  his  own  day,  cannot  forbear  an  indignant  comment 
upon  the  sufferings  of  the  very  poorest,  which,  if  not 
caused  by,   were  at  least  coincident  with,   the  great 
spoliation  of  the  property  of  the  Church.    Poor  Tom, 
"  who  is  whipped  from  tithing  to  tithing,  and  stocked, 
punished,  and  imprisoi>ed,"  was  no  fanciful  portrait; 
he  was  the  creature  of  the  pauper  legislation  of  half  a 
century.      Exhortations   in   the   churches,   "for   the 
furtherance  of  the  relief  of  such  as  were  in  unfeigned 
misery,"  were  prescribed  by  the  statute  of  the  1st  of 
Edward  VI.  ;  but  the  same  statute  directs  that  the 
unhappy  wanderer,  after  certain  forms  of  proving  that 
he  has  not  offered  himself  for  work,  shall  be  marked  V 
with  a  hot  iron  upon  his  breast,  and  adjudged  to  be 
' '  a  slave  '  tor  two  years  to  him  who  brings  him  before  jus- 
tices of  the  peace  ;  and  the  statute  goes  on  to  direct  the 
slave-owner  "  to  cause  the  said  slave  to  work  by  beat- 
ing, chaining,  or  otherwise,"     Three  years  afterwards 
the  statute  is  repealed,  seeing  that  it  could  Lot  be  car- 
ried into  effect  by  reason  of  the  multitude  of  vagabonds 
and  the  extremity  of  their  wants.     The  whipping  and 
the  stocking  were  applied  by  successive  enactments  of 
Elizabeth.     Tlie  gallows,  too,  was  always  at  hand  to 
make  an  end  of  the  wanderers  when,   hunted  from 
tithing   to   tithing,  they   inevitably   became   thieves. 
Nothing  but  a  compulsory  provision  for  the  mainten- 
ance of  the  poor  could  then  have  saved  England  from  a 
fearful  Jacquerie.      It  cannot  reasonably  be  doubted 
th.at  the  vast  destruction  of  capital  by  the  dissolution 
of  the  monasteries  threw  for  many  years  a  quantity  of 
superfluous  labour  upon  the  yet  unsettled  capital  of 
the  ordinary  industry  of  the  country.     That  Shake- 
Bpearc  had  witnessed  much  of  this  misery  is  evident 


from  his  constant  disposition  to  descry  '  a  soul  of 
goodness  in  things  evil."  and  from  his  indigiunt  hatred 
of  tli(!  heartlcssness  of  petty  authority  :— 

"  Thon  rnacal  beadlo,  hold  thy  bloody  hand." 

And  yet,  with  many  social  evils  about  him,  the  age  oi" 
Shakespeare's  youth  was  one  in  wliich  the  peojile  were 
making  a  great  intellectual  progress.  The  poor  were  ill 
provided  for.  The  Church  was  in  an  unsettled  state, 
attacked  by  the  natural  restlessness  of  those  who 
looked  upon  the  Eeformafion  with  regret  and  hatred, 
and  by  the  rigid  enemies  of  its  traditionary  ceremonies 
and  ancient  observances,  who  had  sprung  up  in  its 
bosom.  The  promises  which  had  been  made  that 
education  should  be  fostered  by  the  State  had  utterly 
failed  ;  for  even  the  preservation  of  the  universities, 
and  the  protection  and  establishment  of  a  few  gram- 
mar-schools, h.ad  been  unwillingly  conceded  by  the 
avarice  of  those  daring  statesmen  who  had  swallowed 
up  the  riches  of  the  ancient  establishment.  The  genial 
spirit  of  the  English  yeomanry  had  received  a  check 
from  the  intolerance  of  the  powerful  sect  who  frowned 
upon  all  sports  and  recreations — -who  despised  the 
arts — who  held  poets  and  pipers  to  be  "  caterpillars  of 
a  commonwealth."  But  yet  the  wonderful  stirring  up 
of  the  intellect  of  the  nation  had  made  it  an  age  favour- 
able for  the  cultivation  of  the  highest  literature  ;  and 
most  favourable  to  those  who  looked  upon  society,  as 
the  young  Shakespeare  must  have  looked,  in  the  spirit 
of  cordial  enjoyment  and  practical  wisdom. 

Charlcote  : — the  name  is  familiar  to  every  reader  of 
Shakespeare  ;  but  it  is  not  presented  to  the  world  under 
the  influence  of  pleasant  associations  with  tlie  world's 
poet.  The  story,  which  was  first  told  by  Howe,  must 
be  here  repeated : — "An  extravagance  that  he  was 
guilty  of  forced  him  both  out  of  his  country,  and  that 
way  of  living  which  he  had  taken  up  ;  and  though  it 
seemed  at  first  to  be  a  blemish  upon  his  good  manners, 
and  a  misfortune  to  him,  yet  it  afterwards  happily 
proved  the  occasion  of  esertiBg  one  of  the  greatest 
geniuses  that  ever  was  known  in  dramatic  poetry.  Ho 
had,  by  a  misfortune  common  enough  to  young  fellows, 
fallen  into  ill  company,  and,  amongst  them,  some  that 
made  a  frequent  practice  of  deer-stealing  engaged  him 
more  than  once  in  robbing  a  park  that  belonged  to  Sir 
Thomas  Lucy,  of  Charlcote,  near  Stratford.  For  this 
he  was  prosecuted  by  that  gentleman,  as  he  thought 
somewhat  too  severely  ;  and,  in  order  to  revenge  tliat 
ill  usage,  be  made  a  ballad  upon  him.  And  though 
this,  probably  the  first  essay  of  his  poetry,  be  lo9t,  yet 
it  is  said  to  have  been  so  very  bitter,  that  it  redoubled 
the  prosecution  against  him  to  that  degree,  that  he  was 
obliged  to  leave  his  business  and  family  in  Warwick- 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


Bliire  for  some  time,  and  shelter  himself  in  London."" 
The  good  old  gossip  Aubrey  is  wholly  silent  about  the 
deer-stealing  and  the  flight  to  London,  merely  saying, 
"This  AVilliam,  being  inclined  naturally  to  poetry  and 
acting,  came  to  London,  I  guess  about  eighteen."  But 
there  were  other  antiquarian  gossips  of  Aubrey's  age, 
who  have  left  us  their  testimony  upon  this  subject. 
llie  Eeverend  William  Fulman,  a  fellow  of  Corpus 
Christi  College,  Oxford,  who  died  in  1CS8,  bequeathed 
his  papei-s  to  the  Reverend  Eichard  Davies  of  Sanford, 
Oxford.shire  ;  and  on  the  death  of  Mr.  Davies,  in  1707, 
these  papers  were  deposited  in  the  library  of  Corpus 
Christi.  Fulman  appears  to  have  made  some  collec- 
tions for  the  biography  of  our  English  pcets,  and  under 
tlie  name  Shakespeare  he  gives  the  dates  of  his  birth 
and  deatli.  But  Davies,  who  added  notes  to  his  friend's 
manuscripts,  affords  us  the  following  piece  of  informa- 
tion:— ''He  was  much  given  to  all  unluckiness  in 
stealing  venison  and  rabbits ;  particularly  from  Sir 
Lucy,  who  had  him  oft  whipped,  and  sometimes  im- 
prisoned, and  at  last  made  him  fly  his  native  country, 
to  his  great  advancement.  But  his  revenge  was  so 
great,  that  he  is  his  Justice  Clodpate,  and  calls  him  a 
great  man,  and  that,  in  allusion  to  his  name,  bore  three 
louses  rampant  for  his  arms."  The  accuracy  of  this 
chronicler,  as  to  events  supposed  to  have  happened  a 
hinidred  years  before  he  wrote,  may  be  inferred  from 
his  correctness  in  what  was  accessible  to  him.  Justice 
Clodpate  is  a  new  character  ;  and  the  three  louses  ram- 
pant have  diminished  strangely  from  the  '  'dozen  white 
luces"  of  Master  Slender.  In  Mr.  Davies'  account  we 
have  no  mention  of  the  ballad — through  which,  ac- 
cording to  Rowe,  the  young  poet  revenged  his  "ill 
usage."  But  Capell,  the  editor  of  Shakespeare,  found 
a  new  testimony  to  that  fact :  ' '  The  writer  of  his  '  Life, ' 
the  first  modern,  [Rowe]  speaks  of  a  'lost  ballatl,' 
which  added  fuel,  lie  says,  to  the  knight's  before-con- 
reived  anger,  and  '  redoubled  the  prosecution  ;'  and 
calls  the  ballad  '  the  first  essay  of  Shakespeare's  poetry  ;' 
one  stanza  of  it,  which  has  the  appearance  of  genuine, 
was  put  into  the  editor's  hands  many  years  ago  by  an 
ingenious  gentleman  (grandson  of  its  preserver),  with 
this  account  of  the  way  in  which  it  descended  to  him  : 
Mr.  Thomas  Jones,  who  dwelt  at  Tarbick,  a  village  in 
Worccstersliire,  a  few  miles  from  Stratford-on-Avon, 
and  died  in  the  year  170.3,  aged  upwards  of  ninety, 
remembered  to  have  heard  from  several  old  people  at 
Stratford  the  story  of  Shakespeare's  robbing  Sir  Thomas 
r.iic.v''?  park;  and  their  account  of  it  agreed  with  Mr. 
Howe's,  with  tliis  addition — tliat  the  ballad  writen 
against  Sir  Thomas  by  Sli.akespeare  was  stuck  upon  his 
l<ark-gatc,  which  exasperated  the  knight  to  apply  to  a 


♦'Somo  Accirant  •>(  tile  LIfo  or  William  ShaUespcor '  written 
Dy  Mr  Kowo. 


lawyer  at  Warwick  to  proceed  against  him.  Mr.  Jones 
had  put  downin  writing  the  first  stanza  of  the  balhid, 
which  was  all  he  remembered  of  it,  and  Mr.  Thomne 
Wilkes  (mj'  grandfather)  transmitted  it  to  ray  fathir 
by  memory,  who  also  took  it  in  writing."  This,  then, 
is  the  entire  evidence  as  to  the  deer-stealing  tradition. 
According  to  Rowe,  the  young  Shakespeare  was  engaged 
more  than  once  in  robbing  a  park,  for  which  he  was 
prosecuted  by  Sir  Tiiomas  Lucy  ;  he  made  a  ballad 
upon  his  prosecutor,  and  then,  being  moie  severely 
pursued,  fled  to  London.  According  to  Davies,  he  was 
much  given  to  all  unluckiness  in  stealing  venison  and 
rabbits ;  for  which  he  was  often  whipped,  sometimes 
imprisoned,  and  at  last  forced  to  fly  the  country.  Ac- 
cording to  Jones,  the  tradition  of  Rowe  was  correct  a,>: 
to  robbing  the  park  ;  and  the  obnoxious  ballad  being 
stuck  upon  the  park-gate,  a  lawyer  of  Warwick  w.as 
authorized  to  prosecute  the  offender.  The  tradition  is 
thus  full  of  contradictions  upon  the  face  of  it.  It 
necessarily  would  be  so,  for  each  of  the  witnesses  speaks 
of  circumstances  tliat  must  have  happened  a  hundred 
years  before  his  time.  We  must  examine  the  credilii- 
lity  of  the  tradition  therefore  by  inquiring  what  was  the 
state  of  the  law  as  to  the  offence  for  which  William 
Shakespeare  is  said  to  ha^'e  been  prosecuted ;  what  wag 
the  state  of  public  opinion  as  to  the  oiiecce  ;  and  what 
was  the  position  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  as  regarded  his 
immediate  neighbours. 

The  law  in  operation  at  the  period  in  question  was 
the  .Sth  of  Elizabeth,  chapter  21.  The  ancient  fore.~.t- 
laws  had  regard  only  to  the  possessions  of  the  Crown  : 
and  therefore  in  tlie  32nd  of  Henry  VIII.  an  Act  wni) 
passed  for  the  protection  of  "  every  inheritor  and  pos- 
sessor of  manors,  land,  and  tenements,"  which  made 
the  killing  of  deer,  and  the  taking  of  rabbits  and 
hawks,  felony.  This  Act  was  repealed  in  the  1st  of 
Edward  VI.  ;  but  it  was  quickly  re-enacted  in  the  3rd 
and  4th  of  Edward  VI.  (1549  and  1550),  it  being  al- 
leged that  unlawful  hunting  prevailed  to  such  an  ex- 
tent throughout  the  realm,  in  the  royal  and  private 
parks,  that  in  one  of  the  king's  parks  within  a  few 
miles  of  London  five  liundred  deer  were  slain  in  one 
day.  For  the  due  piinishment  of  such  off'ences  the 
taking  of  deer  was  again  made  felony.  But  the  Act 
was  again  repealed  in  the  1st  of  Mary.  In  the  5th  of 
Elizabeth  it  was  attempted  in  Parliament  once  more  to 
make  tlie  offence  a  capital  felony.  But  this  was  suc- 
cessfully resisted  ;  and  it  was  enacted  tliat,  if  any  jier- 
son  by  night  or  by  day  "  wrongfully  or  unlawfully 
break  or  enter  into  any  park  empaled,  or  any  other 
several  ground  closed  with  wall,  pale,  or  hedge,  and 
used  for  the  keeping,  breeding,  and  cherishing  of  deer, 
and  so  wrongruUy  haunt,  drive,  or  chase  out,  or  take, 
kill,  or  slay  any  deer  within  any  such  empaled  park. 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEAIIK 


or  cloeei  ground  with  wall,  pale,  or  other  enclosure, 
md  used  for  deer  as  is  aforesaid,"  ho  shall  suffer  three 
months'  imprisonment,  pay  treble  damag(!S  to  the  party 
oCfcndcd,  and  find  sureties  fur  seven  years'  good  be- 
havi(nir.  But  there  is  a  clause  in  this  Act  (1562  3) 
which  renders  it  doubtful  whether  the  penalties  for 
taking  deer  could  be  applied  twenty  years  after  the 
passing  of  the  Act,  in  the  case  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy. 
"  Provided  always,  That  this  Act,  or  anything  con- 
taiued  therein,  extend  not  to  any  park  or  enclosed 
ground  hereafter  to  be  made  and  used  for  deer,  without 
the  grant  or  licence  of  our  Sovereign  Lady  the  Queen, 
her  heirs,  successors,  or  progenitors."  At  the  date  of 
this  statute,  Charlcote,  it  is  said,  was  not  a  deer-park  ; 
was  not  an  enclosed  ground  royally  licensed.  For  the 
space  of  forty-two  years  after  the  passing  of  this  Act  of 
Elizabeth  tliere  was  no  remedy  for  deer-stealing 
(except  by  action  for  trespass)  in  grounds  not  enclosed 
at  the  passing  of  that  Act.  The  statute  of  the  Srd  of 
James  I.  recites  that  for  offences  within  such  grounds 
there  is  no  remedy  provided  by  the  Act  of  Elizabeth, 
or  by  any  other  Act.  It  appears  to  us,  however,  that 
Malone  puts  the  case  against  the  tradition  too  strongly 
when  he  maintains  that  Charlcote  was  not  a  licensed 
paik  in  1562,  and  that,  therefore,  its  venison  continued 
to  be  unprotected  till  the  statute  of  James.  The  Act  of 
Elizabeth  clearly  contemplates  any  "several  ground" 
"  closed  with  wall,  pale,  or  hedge,  and  used  for  the 
keeping  of  deer;"  and  as  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  built  the 
mansion  at  Charlcote  in  1558,'  it  may  reasonably  be 
supposed  that  at  the  date  of  the  statute  the  domain  of 
Charlcote  was  closed  with  wall,  pale,  or  hedge.  Tlie 
deer-stealing  tradition,  however,  has  grown  more  mi- 
nute as  it  has  advanced  in  age.  Charlcote,  according 
to  Mr,  Samuel  Ireland,  was  not  the  place  of  Shake- 
speare's unlucky  adventures.  The  Park  of  Fulbrooke, 
he  says,  was  the  property  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  :  and  he 
gives  us  a  drawing  of  an  old  house  where  the  young  of- 
fender was  conveyed  after  his  detection.  Upon  the 
Ordnance  Map  of  our  own  day  is  the  Deer  Barn,  where, 
according  to  the  same  veracious  tradition,  the  venison 
was  concealed.  A  word  or  two  disposes  of  this  part  of 
the  tradition :  Fulbrooke  did  not  come  into  the  pos- 
session of  the  Lucy  family  till  the  grandson  of  Sir 
Thomas  purchased  it  in  the  reign  of  James  I.  We  have 
seen,  then,  that  for  ten  years  previous  to  the  passing  of 
the  Act  of  Elizabeth  for  the  preservation  of  deer  there 
had  been  no  laws  in  force  except  the  old  forest-laws, 
which  applied  not  to  private  property.  The  statute  of 
niizAbeth  makes  the  bird-nesting  boy,  who  climbs  up  to 
the  hawk's  eyrie,  as  liable  to  punishment  as  the  deer- 
stealer.  Tlie  tidving  of  rabbits,  as  well  as  deer,  was 
felony  by  the  statutes  of  Henry  VIII.  and  Edward  VI.  ; 
but  from  the  time  of  Henry  VIII.  to  James  I.  there  was 


no  protection  for  rabbits  :  they  were  /era  n/Uurct.  Our 
unhappy  poet,  therefore,  could  not  be  held  to  steal 
rabbits,  however  fond  he  might  be  of  hunting  thorn  ; 
and  certainly  it  would  have  been  legally  uii.'^afe  for 
Sir  Thomas  Lucy  to  have  whipped  him  for  such  a 
disposition.  Pheasants  and  partridges  were  free  for 
men  of  all  condition  to  shoot  with  gun  or  cross-bow,  or 
capture  with  hawk.  There  was  no  restriction  against 
taking  hares  except  a  statute  of  Henry  VIII.,  which, 
for  the  protection  of  hunting,  forbade  tracking  them  in 
the  snow.  With  this  general  right  of  sport  it  is  scarcely 
to  be  expected  that  the  statute  against  the  taking  of 
deer  should  be  very  strictly  observed  by  the  bold 
yeomanry  of  the  days  of  Elizabeth  ;  or  that  the  offence 
of  a  young  man  should  have  been  visited  by  such 
severe  prosecution  as  shouhl  have  compelled  him  to  fly 
the. country.  The  penalty  for  the  offence  was  a  defined 
one.  The  short  imprisonment  might  have  been  painful 
for  a  youth  to  bear,  but  it  would  not  have  been  held 
disgi-aceful.  All  the  writers  of  the  Elizabethan  period 
speak  of  killing  a  deer  with  a  sort  of  jovial  sympathy, 
worthy  the  descendants  of  Eobin  Hood.  "  I'll  h:ne  a 
buck  till  I  die,  I'll  slay  a  doe  while  I  live,"  is  the 
maxim  of  the  Host  in  '  The  Merry  Devil  of  Edmonton  ;' 
and  even  Sir  John,  the  priest,  reproves  him  not ;  he 
joins  in  the  fun.  With  this  loose  state  of  public 
opinion,  then,  upon  the  subject  of  venison,  is  it  likely 
that  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  would  have  pursued  for  such 
an  offence  the  eldest  son  of  an  alderman  of  Stratford 
with  any  extraordiuary  severity  ?  The  knight  was 
nearly  the  most  important  person  residing  in  the  im- 
mediate neighbourhood  of  Stratford.  In  1578  he  had 
been  High  Sheriff.  At  the  period  when  the  deer- 
stealing  may  be  suppcsed  to  have  taken  place  he  was 
seeking  to  be  member  for  the  county  of  Warwick,  for 
which  he  was  returned  in  1581.  He  was  in  the  habit 
of  friendly  intercourse  with  the  residents  of  Stratford, 
for  in  1583  he  was  chosen  as  an  arbitrator  in  a  matter 
of  dispute  by  Hamnet  Sadler,  the  friend  of  John  Shake- 
speare and  of  his  son.  All  these  considerations  tend, 
we  think,  to  show  that  the  improbable  deer-stealing 
tradition  is  based,  like  many  other  stories  connected 
with  Shakespeare,  on  that  vulgar  love  of  the  marvel- 
lous which  is  not  satisfied  with  the  wonder  which  a 
being  eminently  endowed  himself  presents,  without 
seeking  a  contrast  of  profligacy,  or  meanness,  or  igno- 
rance in  his  early  condition,  amongst  the  tales  of  a  rudo 
generation  who  came  after  him,  and,  hearing  of  hie 
fame,  endeavoured  to  bring  him  as  near  as  might  be  to 
themselves. 

In  the  sixteenth  century  young  men  married  early. 
In  the  middle  ranks  there  was  little'  outfit  required  th 
begin  housekeeping.     A  few  articles  of  useful  furniture 


LIFE  OF  \MLUAM  SUAKESPEAEE. 


satisfieii  their  simple  tastes  ;  and  we  doubt  not  there 
ivfi.'s  as  much  happiness  seated  on  the  wooden  bench  as 
now  on  the  silken  ottoman,  and  as  light  hearts  tripped 
over  the  green  rushes  as  upon  the  Persian  carpet.  A 
si'-ver  bowl  or  two,  a  few  spoons,  constituted  the  display 
of  the  more  ambitious ;  but  for  use  the  treen  platter 
was  at  once  clean  and  substantial,  though  the  pewter 
dish  sometimes  graced  a  solemn  merry-making.  Em- 
ployment, especially  agricultural,  was  easily  obtained 
by  the  industrious  ;  and  the  sons  of  the  yeomen,  whose 
ambition  did  not  drive  them  into  the  towns  to  pursue 
commerce,  or  to  the  universities  to  try  for  the  prizes  of 
professions,  walked  humbly  and  contentedly  in  the 
same  road  as  tlieir  fathers  had  walked  before  them. 
They  tilled  a  little  land  with  indifferent  akill,  and  their 
herds  and  flocks  gave  food  and  raiment  to  their  house- 
hold. Smrounded  by  the  cordial  intimacies  of  the 
class  to  which  he  belonged,  it  is  not  difficult  to  under- 
stand how  William  Shakespeare  married  early  ;  and  the 
very  circumstance  of  his  so  maiTying  is  tolerably  clear 
evidence  of  the  course  of  life  in  which  he  was  brought 
up.  It  has  been  a  sort  of  fashion  of,  late  years  to  con- 
sider that  Shakespeare  was  clerk  to  an  attorney. 
Thom;i.s  Nash  in  1589  published  this  sentence  :  "  It  is  a 
ccHuinon  practice  now-a-days,  among  a  sort  of  shifting 
companions,  that  run  through  every  art  and  thrive  by 
none,  to  leave  the  trade  of  Noverini,  whereto  they  were 
Ijorn,  and  busy  themselves  with  the  endeavours  of  art, 
that  could  scarcely  latinize  their  neck-verse  if  they 
Fhoidd  have  need ;  yet  ISnglish  Seneca,  read  by  can- 
dlelight, yields  many  good  sentences,  as  Blond  is  a 
Beggar,  and  so  forth :  and,  if  you  entreat  him  fair  in 
a,  frosty  morning,  he  will  afford  you  whole  Hamlets, 
I  should  say  handfuls,  of  tragical  speeches."  Tliis 
qaouvtion  is  held  to  furnish  the  external  evidence  that 
Shakespeare  had  been  an  attorney,  by  the  connexion 
here  implied  of ' '  the  trade  of  Noverint' '  and  ' '  whole 
Hamlets."  Noverint  was  the  technical  beginning  of  a 
b(md.  It  is  imputed,  then,  by  Nash,  to  a  sort  of  shift- 
ing companioiLS,  that,  running  through  every  art  and 
thriving  by  none,  they  attempt  dramatic  composition, 
drawing  their  tragical  speeches  from  English  Seneca. 
Docs  this  description  apply  to  Shakespeare  ?  Was  he 
thriving  by  no  art?  In  1589  he  was  established  in  life 
i\s  a  sharer  in  the  Blackfriars  Theatre.  Does  the  use  of 
the  iexm  "  whole  Hamlets"  fix  the  allusion  upon  him  ? 
It  appears  to  us  only  to  show  that  some  tragedy  called 
'  Hamlet,'  it  may  be  Shakespeare's,  was  then  in  exist- 
ence ;  and  that  it  was  a  play  also  at  which  Nash  might 
fneer  as  abounding  with  tragical  speeches.  But  it  does 
not  seem  to  us  that  there  is  any  absolute  connexion  be- 
tween the  Noverint  and  the  Hamlet.  The  external  evi- 
dence of  this  passage  (and  it  is  the  only  evidence  of  such 
ncbarncter  tluit  hag  been  found)  wholly  fails,  wo  tliink, 


in  showing  that  Shakcsi^care  was  in  1589  repiited  to 
have  been  an  attorney.  But  had  he  pursued  this  occu- 
pation, either  at  Stratford  or  in  London,  it  is  tolerably 
clear  that  there  would  have  been  ample  external  evi- 
dence for  the  establishment  of  the  fact.  In  those  times 
an  attorney  was  employed  in  almost  every  transaction 
between  man  and  man,  of  any  importance.  l)ec;ils, 
bonds,  indentures,  were  much  more  common  when 
legal  documents  were  untaxed,  and  legal  assistance 
was  comparatively  cheap.  To  every  document  attest- 
ing witnesses  were  numerous  ;  and  the  attorney's  clerk, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  was  amongst  the  number.  Such 
papers  and  parchments  are  better  secured  against  the 
ravages  of  time  than  any  other  manuscripts.  It  ia 
scarcely  possible  that,  if  Shakespeare  had  been  an  at- 
torney's clerk,  his  name  would  not  have  appeared  ia 
some  such  document,  as  a  subscribing  witness.*  No 
such  signature  has  ever  been  found.  This  fact  appears 
to  us  to  dispose  of  Malone's  confident  belief  that  uiJon 
Shakespeare  leaving  school  he  was  placed  for  two  or 
three  years  in  the  office  of  one  of  the  seven  attorneys 
who  practised  in  the  Court  of  Record  in  Stratford. 
Malone  adds,  "The  comprehensive  mind  of  oiir  poet, 
it  must  be  owned,  embraced  fdmost  every  object  of  na- 
ture, every  trade,  and  every  art,  the  manners  of  every 
description  of  men,  and  the  general  language  of  almost 
every  profession  ;  but  his  knowledge  and  application  of 
legal  terms  seem  to  me  not  merely  such  as  might  have 
been  acquired  by  the  casual  observation  of  his  all-com 
prehending  mind ;  it  has  the  appearance  of  technical 
skill ;  and  he  is  so  fond  of  displaying  it  on  all  occasions, 
that  there  is,  I  think,  some  ground  for  supposing  that 
he  was  early  Initiated  in  at  least  the  forms  of  law." 
Malone  then  cites  a  number  of  passages  exemplifying 
Shakespeare's  knowledge  and  application  of  legal  terms. 
Tlie  theory  was  origiually  propounded  by  Malone  iu  hia 
edition  of  1790 ;  and  it  gave  rise  to  many  subsequent 
notes  of  the  commentators,  pointing  out  these  techni- 
cal allusions.  The  frequency  of  their  occurrence,  and 
the  accuracy  of  their  use,  are,  however,  no  proof  to  us 
that  Shakespeare  was  professionally  a  lawyer.  Thero 
is  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  principles  of  law, 
especially  the  law  of  real  property,  were  much  more 
generally  understood  in  those  days  than  in  our  own, 
Etlucated  men,  especially  those  who  possessed  property, 
looked  upon  law  as  a  science  instsad  of  a  mystery  ;  and 
its  terms  were  used  in  familiar  speech  instead  of  being 
regarded  as  a  technical  jargon.  When  Hamlet  says, 
"This  fellow  might  be  in  his  time  a  great  buyer  ol 

*  >rr.  "Wli-^Icr.  of  Ptr.itfonl,  \inTin£r  taken  up  the  opinion  many 
years  nco.  upon  the  anppestion  Of  Miilonc.  that  Shnkespcaro  might 
have  \)i-\"\  in  iin  attorney's  oflke,  ha.s  availetl  himself  of  his  oppor- 
tiinitlo  lis  :i  ."olioltor  to  e.«ainlne  luilnlreds  of  docnnienta  of  Sliako- 
Bpeare's  tin.e.  in  tho  hopo  of  discovering  his  signature.  The  ox- 
bmination  wi-a  altogether  fruitless. 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


laud,  with  his  statutes,  his  recognizances,  his  fines,  his 
(ioiililo  voiiclieis,  ■  his  recoveries,"  he  employs  terms 
with  which  every  gentleman  was  familiar,  because  the 
owner  (if  jiroperty  was  often  engaged  in  a  practical 
aeinviintance  with  them.  This  general  knowledge, 
which  it  wovdd  be  very  remarkable  if  Shakespeare  had 
tint  acipiired,  involves  the  use  of  the  familiar  law-terms 
of  Ids  day,/ee  simpU,  fine  and  recmenj,  entail,  remainder, 
escheat,  mortgage.  The  commonest  practice  of  the  law, 
such  as  a  sharp  boy  would  have  learnt  in  two  or  three 
casual  attendances  upon  tlie  Bailiff's  Court  at  Stratford, 
would  ha\-e  familiarized  Shakespeare  very  early  with 
the  words  which  are  held  to  imply  considerable  tech- 
nical knowledge — action,  bond,  warrant,  bill,  suit,  plea, 
arrest.  It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  the  terms  of  law, 
however  they  may  be  technically  applied,  belong  to  the 
habittial  commerce  of  mankind  ;  they  are  no  abstract 
terms,  but  essentially  deal  with  human  acts,  and  in- 
terests, and  thoughts  :  and  it  is  thus  that,  without  any 
fancifid  analogies,  they  more  readily  express  the  feel- 
ings of  those  who  use  them  with  a  general  significancy, 
than  any  other  words  tliat  the  poet  could  apply. 

We  hold,  then,  that  William  Shakespeare,  the  son 
of  a  possessor  and  cultivator  of  land,  a  gentleman  by 
descent,  married  to  the  heiress  of  a  good  family,  com- 
fortable in  his  worldly  circumstances,  married  very 
early  the  daughter  of  one  in  a  similar  rank  of  life,  fmd 
in  all  probability  did  not  quit  his  native  place  when  he 
so  mariied.  The  marriage-bond,  which  was  discovered 
a  few  years  since,  has  set  at  rest  all  doubt  as  to  the 
name  and  residence  of  his  wife.  She  is  there  described 
as  Anne  Hathwey,  of  Stratford,  iu  the  diocese  of  Wor- 
cester, maiden.  Kowe,  in  his  "Life,"  says — "  Upon  his 
leaving  school  he  seems  to  have  given  entirely  into  that 
way  of  living  which  his  father  proposed  to  him  ;  and 
in  order  to  settle  iu  the  world,  after  a  family  manner, 
he  thought  fit  to  marry  while  he  was  yet  very  young. 
His  wife  was  the  daughter  of  one ■  Hathaway,  said  to 
have  been  a  substantial  yeoman  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Stratford."  At  the  hamlet  of  Shottery,  which  is  in 
thn  jjarish  of  Stratford,  the  Hathaways  had  been  settled 
forty  /ears  before  the  period  of  Shakespeare's  marriage  ; 
foT  m  the  Warwickshire  Surveys,  in  the  time  of  Philip 
and  Mary,  it  is  recited  that  John  Hathaway  held  prop- 
erty at  Shottery,  by  copy  of  court-roll,  dated  20th  of 
April,  34th  of  Henry  VIII.  (1543).°  The  Hathaway  of 
Shakespeare's  time  was  named  Richard  ;  and  the  inti- 
macy between  him  and  John  Shakespeare  is  shown  by 
a  precept  in  an  action  against  Richard  Hathaway,  dated 
1576,  m  which  John  Shakespeare  is  his  bondman.  Be- 
Tore  the  discovery  of  the  marriage-bond,  Malone  had 
found  a  confirmation  of  the  traditional  account  that 

*  The  Shottery  property,  wiich  wds  cnlleil  Hewland,  remnioed 
with  the  descendants  of  the  Hathaways  till  183S. 

4 


the  maiden  name  of  Shakespeare's  wife  was  Hathaway ; 
for  Lady  Barnard,  the  gr.and-daughter  of  Shakespeare, 
makes  bequests  in  her  will  to  the  children  of  Thomas 
Hathaway,  "  her  kinsman."  But  Malone  doubts  wheth- 
er there  were  not  other  Hathaways  than  those  of  Shot- 
tery, residents  in  the  town  of  Stratford,  an.l  not  in  the 
hatnlet  included  in  the  parish.  This  is  possible.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  description  in  the  marriage- 
bond  of  Anne  Hathaway,  as  of  Stratford,  is  no  proof 
that  she  was  not  of  Shottery  ;  for  such  a  document 
would  necessarily  have  regard  only  to  the  parish  of  the 
person  described.  Tradition,  always  valuable  when  it 
is  not  opposed  to  evidence,  has  associated  for  many 
years  the  cottage  of  the  Hathaways  at  Shottery  with 
the  wife  of  Shakespeare.  Garrick  purchased  relics  out 
of  it  at  the  time  of  the  Stratford  Jubilee  ;  Samuel  Ire- 
laiid  afterwards  carried  off  what  was  called  Shake- 
speare's courting-ehair  ;  and  there  is  still  in  the  house 
a  very  anient  carved  bedstead,  which  has  been  handed 
down  from  descendant  to  descendant  as  an  heirloom. 
The  house  was  no  doubt  once  adequate  to  form  a  com- 
fortable residence  for  a  substantial  and  even  wealthy 
yeoman.  It  is  still  a  pretty  cottage,  embosomed  liy 
trees,  and  surrounded  by  pleasant  pastures ;  and  here 
the  young  poet  might  have  surrendered  his  prudence 

to  his  affections  : — 

"As  in  the  sweetest  buds 
The  eating  canker  dwells,  so  eating  Inve 
Inhabits  in  the  finest  wits  of  all." 

The  very  early  marriage  of  the  young  man,  with  one 

more  than  seven  years  his  elder,  has  been  supposed  to 

have  been  a  rash  and  passionate  proceeding.     Upon 

the  face  of  "it,  it  appears  an  act  that  might  at  least  be 

reproved  in  the  words  which  follow  those  we  have  just 

quoted  : — 

"  As  the  most  forward  bud 
Is  eaten  by  the  c.inker  ere  it  blow, 
Even  so  by  love  tlio  young  and  tender  wit 
Is  turn'd  to  folly;  blasling  in  the  bud. 
Losing  his  wrdure  even  in  the  prime. 
And  all  the  fair  effects  of  future  hopes." 

Tills  is  the  common  consequence  of  precocious  mar- 
riages ;  hut  we  are  not  therefore  to  conclude  that  "  the 
young  and  tender  wit"  of  our  Shakespeare  was  "turned 
to  folly" — that  his  "forward  bud"  was  "  eaten  by  the 
canker" — tliat  "  his  verdure"  was  lost  "even  in  the 
prime,"  by  his  marriage  with  Anne  Hathaway  before 
he  was  nineteen.  The  Influence  which  this  marriage 
must  have  had  upon  his  destinies  was  no  doubt  con- 
siderable ;  but  it  is  too  much  to  assume,  as  it  has  been 
assumed,  that  it  was  an  unhappy  influence.  All  that 
we  really  know  of  Shakespeare's  family  life  warrants 
the  contrary  supposition.  We  believe  that  the  marriage 
of  Shakespeare  was  one  of  affection  ;  that  there  was  no 
disparity  n  the  worldly  condition  of  himself  and  the 
object  of  his  choice  ;  that  it  was  with  the  consent  of 
friends ;  that  there  were  no  circumstances  connected 


KVl 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHxiKESPEAKE. 


mth  it  which  indicate  that  it  was  either  iorced  or  clan- 
destine, or  urged  on  by  an  artful  woman  to  cover  her 
apprehended  loss  of  character. 

There  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  Shakespeare 
-.vas  remarkable  for  manly  beauty  : — "  He  was  a  hand- 
Bome,  well-shaped  man,"  says  Aubrey.  According  to 
tradition,  he  played  Adam  in  "As  You  Like  It,"  and 
the  Ghost  in  "  Hamlet."     Adam  says, — 

"  Though  I  look  old,  yet  I  am  strong  and  lusty." 
Upon  his  personation  of  the  Ghost,  Mr.  Campbell  has 
the  following  judicious  remarks  : — "It  has  been  alleged, 
in  proof  of  his  mediocrity,  that  he  enacted  the  part 
of  his  own  Ghost,  in  '  Hamlet. '  But  is  the  Ghost 
in  '  Hamlet  a  very  mean  character  ?  No  ;  though  its 
movements  are  few,  they  must  be  awfully  graceful  ; 
and  the  spectral  voice,  though  sulxlued  and  half-mono- 
tonous, must  he  solemn  and  full  of  feeling.  It  gives  us 
an  imposing  idea  of  Shakespeare's  stature  and  mien  to 
conceive  him  in  '.his  part.  The  English  public,  accus- 
tomed to  see  their  lofty  nobles,  their  Essexes,  and  their 
Raleighs,  clad  in  complete  armour,  and  moving  under 
it  with  a  majestic  air,  would  not  have  tolerated  the 
actor  Shakespeare,  unless  he  had  presented  an  appear- 
ance worthy  of  the  buried  majesty  of  Denmark."  That 
he  performed  kingly  parts  is  indicated  by  these  lines, 
written,  in  1611,  by  John  Davies,  in  a  poem  inscribed 
"To  our  English  Terence,  Mr.  William  Shakespeare :" — ■ 
"  Eome  say.  good  Will,  which  I  in  sport  do  sing, 

Hadst  thou  not  piay'd  some  kingly  parts  in  sport, 
Thou  hadst  been  a  companion  for  a  Iting, 
And  been  a  king  among  the  meaner  sort." 

The  portrait  by  Martin  Droeshout,  prefixed  to  the  edi- 
tion of  162.3,  when  Si^akespeare  would  be  Ivel!  remem- 
bered by  his  friends,  gjves  a  notion  of  a  man  of  remark- 
ably fine  features,  independent  of  the  wonderful  de- 
velopement  of  forehead.  The  lines  accompanying  it, 
which  bear  the  signature  B.  I.  (most  likely  Ben  Jon- 
son),  attest  the  accuracy  of  the  likeness.  The  Bust  at 
Stratford  hears  the  same  character.  The  sculptor  was 
Gerard  Johnson.  It  was  probably  erected  soon  after 
the  poet's  death ;  for  it  is  mentioned  by  Leonard  Digges, 
ill  his  verses  upon  the  publication  of  Sliakespeare's  col- 
lected works  by  his  "  pious  fellows."  All  the  circum- 
stances of  v>\  Ich  we  have  any  knowledge  imply  that 
Shakespeare  at  the  time  of  his  marriage,  was  such  a 
person  as  ndght  well  hitve  won  the  heart  of  a  mistress 
whom  tradition  lias  described  as  eminently  beautiful. 
Anne  Hathaway  at  this  time  was  of  mature  beauty. 
Tlic  inscription  over  her  grave  in  the  church  of  Strat- 
ford-upon-Avon states  that  she  died  on  "  the  Gth  day  of 
August,  1623,  being  of  the  ago  of  67  years."  In  Novem- 
ber, 1582,  therefore,  she  would  be  of  the  age  of  twenty- 
six.  This  disparity  of  years  between  Shakespeare  and 
his  wife  has  been,  we  think,  somewhat  too  much  dwelt 
upon.     Mulone  holds  tliat  ' '  such  a  disproportion  of 


age  seldom  fails  at  a  sulisequent  period  of  life  to  l.>e 
productive  of  unhappiness."  Malone  had,  r.o  doubt, 
in  his  mind  the  belief  that  Shakespeare  left  his  wift 
wholly  dependent  upon  her  children, — a  belief  of  which 
we  were  the  first  to  show  the  utter  groundlessness.*^ 
He  suggests  that  in  the  "  Midsummer-Night's  Dream" 
this  disproportion  is  alluded  to,  and  he  quotes  a  speech 
of  Lysander  in  Act  i.  Scene  i.  of  that  play,  not  however 
giving  the  comment  of  Hermia  upon  it.  The  lines  in 
the  original  stand  thus  ; — 

"  Lys.  Ah  me  I  for  anght  that  ever  I  could  read. 

Could  ever  hear  by  tale  or  history, 

Tlie  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth  : 

But  cither  it  wa-s  different  in  blood; — 
Her.  O  cross  1  too  higli  to  be  enthrall'd  to  lowl 
Ly^.  Or  else  mingrajf'ad,  in  respect  of  years  ; — 
Her.  0  s[iite  !  too  old  to  be  engag'd  to  young  I 
Lys.  Or  else  it  stood  upon  the  choice  of  friends  ; — 
Uer.  O  liell  I  to  choose  love  by  another's  eye  [ 
Lys.  Or.  if  tliero  were  a  sympathy  in  choice, 

War,  death,  or  sicltness  did  lay  siege  to  it" 

Difference  in  blood,  disparity  of  years,  the  choosing  o/ 
friends,  are  opposed  to  sympathy  in  choice.  But  was 
Sliakespeare's  own  case  such  as  he  would  bear  in  mind 
in  making  Hermia  exclaim,  "  0  spite  !  too  old  to  be  en- 
gag'd to  young!"  ?  The  passage  was  in  all  probability 
written  about  ten  years  after  his  marriage,  when  his 
wife  would  still  be  in  the  prime  of  womanhood.  Wlien 
Mr.  de  Quincey,f  therefore,  connects  the  saying  of 
Parson  Evans  with  Shakespeare's  early  love, — "I  like 
not  when  a  woman  has  a  great  peard," — he  scarcely 
does  justice  to  his  own  powers  of  obseivation  and  hi.-! 
book-experience.  The  history  of  the  most  imaginative 
minds,  probably  of  most  men  of  great  ability,  would 
show  that  in  the  first  loves,  and  in  the  early  marriages, 
of  this  class,  the  choice  has  generally  fallen  upon 
women  older  than  themselves,  and  this  without  any 
reference  to  interested  motives.  But  Mr.  de  Quinccy 
holds  that  Shakespeare,  "  looking  back  on  this  part  of 
his  youthful  history  from  his  maturest  years,  breathes 
forth  pathetic  coufisels  against  the  errors  into  which 
his  own  inexperience  had  been  ensnared.  The  disparity 
of  years  between  himself  and  his  wife  he  notices  in 
a  beautiful  scene  of  the  'Twelfth  Night.'"  In  this 
scene  Viola,  di.sguiscd  as  a  page,  a  very  boy,  one  of 
whom  it  is  said — 

"  For  they  shall  yet  belie  tliy  happy  years 
That  say  thou  art  a  man" — 

is  pressed  by  the  Duke  to  own  that  his  eye  "hath  stay'd 
upon  some  favour."  Viola,  who  is  enamoiucd  of  the 
Duke,  punningly  replies, — A  little,  by  your  favour;" 
and  being  still  pressed  to  describe  the  "  kind  of  woman," 
she  says,  of  the  Duke's  "  complexion"  and  the  Dukc'i" 
"  years."     Any  one  who  in  the  stage  representation  of 


•  .See  Posbcrlpt  to  "Twomh  Nl'ilit,"  Pictoria  Edltlou,  provln? 
tliat  SilaUcsiicare's  .vidow  was  provided  for  by  dowor. 
t  Life  uf  Shakcsjicaro,  in  the  "  Encyclopicdio  Uritannicfl." 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


the  Duke  should  do  otherwise  than  make  him  a  grave 

man  of  thii  ty-live  ol   forty,  a  staki  and  dignified  msui, 

would  not  present  Shakespeare's  whole  conception  of 

the  character.     There  would  be  a  difference  of  twenty 

years  between  him  and  Viola.     No  wonder,  then,  that 

the  poet  should  make  the  Duke  dramatically  e.xclaim, — 

"  Tiio  old,  hy  Heaven!  Let  still  the  woman  tako 
All  elder  tlian  herself;  so  wears  slie  to  him, 
So  sways  she  level  ia  her  husbamfs  liearL" 

Anil  wlieiefore ? — 

"For,  boy,  however  we  do  praise  ourselves, 
Our  fencies  are  more  giddy  and  uuflrm, 
More  longing,  wavering,  sooner  lost  and  worn. 
Than  women's  are." 

The  pathetic  counsels,  therefore,  which  Shakespeare  is 
here  supposed  to  breathe  in  his  maturer  years,  have 
reference'  only  to  bis  own  giddy  and  unfirm  fancies. 
We  are  of  opinion  that,  upon  the  general  principle  upon 
which  Shakespeare  subjects  his  conception  of  what  is 
individually  true  to  what  is  universally  true,  he  would 
have  rejected  instead  of  adopted  whatever  was  peculiar 
in  his  own  experience,  if  it  had  been  emphatically  re- 
commended to  his  adoption  througli  the  medium  of  his 
self-consciousness.  Shakespeare  wrote  these  lines  at  a 
time  of  life  (about  1602)  when  a  slight  disparity  of 
years  between  himself  and  his  wife  would  Viave  been  a 
very  poor  apology  to  his  own  conscience  that  his  affec- 
tion could  not  hold  the  bent ;  and  it  certainly  does 
happen,  as  a  singular  contradiction  to  his  supposed 
"  earnestness  in  pressing  the  point  as  to  the  inverted  Ais,- 
parity  of  years,  which  indicates  pretty  clearly  an  appeal 
to  the  lessons  of  his  personal  experience,"*  that  at  this 
precise  period  lie  should  have  retired  from  his  constant 
attendance  upon  the  stage,  purchasing  land  in  his  na- 
tive place,  and  thus  seeking  in  all  probability  the  more 
constant  companionship  of  that  object  of  his  early  choice, 
of  whom  he  is  thus  supposed  to  have  expressed  his  dis- 
taste. It  appears  to  us  that  this  is  a  tolerably  convin- 
cing proof  that  his  affections  could  hold  the  bent,  how- 
ever he  might  dramatically  and  poetically  have  said, — 
"Then  let  thy  love  be  younf^er  than  thyself. 
Or  thy  affection  cannot  lioUl  the  bent: 
For  women  are  as  roses;  whose  fair  flower, 
Being  onco  display'd,  doth  fall  that  very  hour." 

The  marriage-bontl  of  Shakespeare,  which  may  be 
seen  in  the  Consistorial  Court  of  Worcester,  was  first 
published  by  Mr.  Wheler  in  1836,  having  been  pre- 
viously discovered  by  Sir  E.  Phillips.  It  consists  of  a 
bond  to  the  officers  of  the  Ecclesiastical  Court,  in  which 
Fulk  Satidells,  of  the  county  of  Warwick,  farmer,  and 
John  Rychardson,  of  the  same  place,  farmer,  are  bound 
in  the  sum  of  forty  pounds,  &c.  It  is  dated  the  28th 
day  of  November,  in  the  25th  year  of  Elizabeth  (1582). 
The  date  of  this  marriage-bond,  and  the  date  of  the 

*  '  EncycloptBdia  Britannica ' 


birth  of  Shakespeare's  first  child,  have  led  to  the  bcdief 
that  the  marriage  was  forced  tipon  a  very  young  man 
by  tiie  friends  of  a  woman  whom  ho  had  injured.  W» 
believe  that  this  is  one  of  the  cases  in  which  we  may 
fill!  into  error  by  attempting  to  decide  without  knowings, 
all  tlie  facts.  We  hold  that  the  licence  for  matrimony, 
obtained  from  the  Consistorial  Court  at  Worcester,  was 
a  permission  sought  for  under  no  extraordinary  cir- 
cumstances ;— still  less  that  the  yoimg  man  who  was 
about  to  marry  was  compelled  to  urge  on  the  marriage 
as  a  consequence  of  previous  imprudence.  We  believf. 
on  the  contrary,  that  the  course  pursued  was  strictly 
in  accordance  with  the  customs  of  the  time,  and  of  the 
class  to  which  Shakespeare  belon/;ed.  The  espousals 
before  witnesses,  we  have  no  doubt,  were  then  con- 
sidered as  constituting  a  valid  marriage,  if  followed  up 
withii}  a  limited  time  by  the  marriage  of  the  Church  ; 
and  these  espousals  might  have  taken  place  in  Shake 
speare's  case,  as  in  very  many  of  the  marriages  of  tho 
middle  classes  of  his  time.  However  the  Eeformed 
Church  might  have  endeavoured  to  abrogate  this  prac- 
tice, it  was  unquestionablj'  the  ancient  habit  of  the 
people.  It  was  derived  from  the  Roman  haw,  the  foun- 
dation of  many  of  our  institutions.  It  prevailed  for  a 
long  period  without  offence.  It  still  prevails  in  the 
Lutheran  Church.  We  are  not  to  judge  of  the  customs 
of  those  days  by  our  own,  especially  if  our  inferences 
tave  the  effect  of  imputing  criminality  wliere  the  most 
perfect  innocence  may  have  existed. 

The  course  of  Shakespeare's  life  for  a  year  or  so  after 
his  marriage  cannot  be  followed  with  any  accuracj'. 
Aubrey  says,  "  This  William,  being  inclined  naturally 
to  poetry  and  acting,  came  to  London,  I  guess  about 
eighteen,  and  was  an  actor  at  one  of  the  play-houses, 
and  did  act  exceedingly  well.  Now  Ben  Jonson  was 
never  a  good  actor,  but  an  excellent  instructor.  He 
began  early  to  make  Essays  at  Dramatic  Poetry,  which 
at  that  time  was  very  low,  and  his  pl.ays  took  well." 
Thus  writes  honest  Aubrey,  in  the  year  .1680,  in  his 
'Minutes  of  Lives,'  addressed  to  his  "  worthy  friend, 
Mr.  Anthony  i  Wood,  Antiquary  of  Oxford."  Of  tlie 
value  of  Aubrey's  evidence  we  may  form  some  opinion 
from  his  own  statement  to  his  friend  : — "  'T  is  a  task 
that  I  never  thought  to  have  undertaken  till  you  im- 
posed it  upon  me,  saying  that  I  was  fit  for  it  by  reason 
of  my  general  acquaintance,  having  now  not  only  lived 
above  half  a  century  of  years  In  the  world,  but  have 
also  been  much  tumbled  up  and  down  in  it ;  which 
hath  made  me  so  well  known.  Besides  the  modern  ad- 
vantage of  coffeehouses  in  this  great  city,  before  which 
men  knew  not  how  to  be  acquainted  but  with  their 
own  relations  or  societies,  I  might  add  that  I  come  oi 
a  longaivous  race,  by  which  means  I  have  wiped  some 
feathers  off  the  wings  of  time  for  several  genorations. 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


ivliich  does  reach  high."  It  must  not  be  forgotten 
that  Aubi'er's  account  of  Shakespeare,  brief  and  imper- 
fect as  it  is,  is  the  earliest  known  to  exist.  His  stoiy 
of  Shakespeare's  coming  to  Loudon  is  a  simple  and 
natural  one,  without  a  single  marvellous  circumstance 
about  it: — "This  William,  being  inclined  naturally  to 
poetry  and  acting,  came  to  London."  This,  the  elder 
story,  appears  to  up  to  hare  much  greater  veri-simili- 
tude  than  Kowe's,  the  later: — -"He  was  obliged  to 
leave  his  business  and  family  in  Warwickshire  for  some 
time,  and  shelter  himself  in  London."  Aubrey,  who 
has  picked  up  all  the  gossip  ' '  of  coifeehouses  in  this 
great  city,"  hears  no  word  of  Eowe's  story,  which 
would  certainly  have  been  handed  down  amongst  the 
traditions  of  the  theatre  to  Davenant  and  Shadwell, 
from  whom  he  does  hear  something  : — "  I  have  heard 
Sir  William  Davenant  and  Mr.  Thomas  Shadwell  (who 
is  counted  the  best  comedian  we  have  now)  say,  that 
he  had  a  most  prodigious  viit."  Neither  does  he  say, 
nor  indeed  any  one  else  till  two  centuries  and  a  quarter 
after  Shakespeare  is  dead,  that,  "  after  four  years'  con- 
jugal discord,  he  would  resolve  upon  that  plan  of  soli- 
taiy  emigration  to  the  metropolis,  which,  at  the  same 
time  that  it  released  him  from  the  humiliation  of  do- 
mestic feuds,  succeeded  so  splendidly  for  his  worldly 
prosperity,  and  with  a  train  of  circumstances  so  vast 
for  all  future  ages. "  -■  It  is  certainly  a  singular  voca- 
don  for  a  wi-itei  of  genius  to  bury  the  legendary  scan- 
dals of  the  days  of  Eowe,  for  the  sake  of  exhuming  a 
new  scandal,  which  cannot  be  received  at  all  without 
the  belief  that  the  circumstance  must  have  had  a  per- 
manent and  most  evil  influence  upon  the  mind  of  the 
unhappy  man  who  thus  cowardly  and  ignominiously  is 
lield  to  have  severed  himself  from  his  duty  as  a  hus- 
band and  a  father.  We  cannot  trace  the  e^l  influence, 
and  therefore  we  reject  the  scandal.  It  has  not  even 
t^ie  slightest  support  from  the  weakest  tradition.  It  is 
founded  upon  an  imperfect  comparison  of  two  docu- 
ments, judging  of  the  habits  of  that  period  by  those  of 
our  own  day;  supported  by  quotations  from  a  dramatist 
of  wliom  it  would  be  difficult  to  affirm  that  he  ever 
wrote  a  line  whicli  had  strict  reference  to  his  own  feel- 
ings and  circumstances. 

In  the  baptismal  register  of  the  pari.sh  of  Stratford 
for  1 583  i.s  the  entry  of  tlie  baptism  of  Susanna  on  the 
26th  May.  This  record  necessarily  implies  the  resi- 
dence of  the  wife  of  William  Shakespeare  in  the  parish 
of  Stratford.  Did  he  himself  continue  to  reside  in  tliis 
parish  ?  1  here  is  no  evidence  of  liis  residence.  His 
nams  ap|x;ar8  in  no  suit  in  the  Bailiff's  Court  at  this 
period.  He  fills  no  municipal  office,  such  as  liis  father 
bad  filled  before  him.     But  his  wife  continues  to  reside 


'  Bacylopmdla  BrlUnnldn.' 


in  the  native  place  of  her  hu."band,  surrounded  by  hil 
relations  and  her  own.  His  father  and  his  mother  no 
doubt  watch  with  anxious  solicitude  over  the  fortunes 
of  their  first  son.  He  has  a  brother,  Gilbert,  seventeen 
years  of  age,  and  a  sister  of  fourteen.  His  brotlier 
Richard  is  nine  years  of  age  ;  but  Edmund  is  young 
enough  to  be  the  playmate  of  his  little  Susanna.  On 
the  2nd  February,  1585,  there  is  anotlier  entry  in  the 
parochial  register,  of  the  baptism  of  Hamnet  and  Ju- 
dith, son  and  daughter  to  William  Shakespeare.  While 
he  is  yet  a  minor  he  is  the  father  of  three  children 
The  circumstance  of  his  minority  may  perhaps  account 
for  the  absence  of  his  name  from  all  records  of  court- 
leet,  or  bailiffs  court,  or  common- haU.  He  was  neither 
a  constable,  nor  an  ale-conner,  nor  an  overseer,  nor  a 
jury-man,  because  he  was  a  minor.  We  cannot  affirm 
that  he  did  not  leave  Stratford  before  his  minority  ex- 
pired ;  but  it  is  to  be  inferred  that,  if  he  had  continued 
to  reside  at  Stratford  after  he  was  legally  of  age,  we 
should  have  found  traces  of  his  residence  in  the  records 
of  the  town.  If  his  residence  was  out  of  the  borough, 
as  we  have  supposed  his  father's  to  have  been  at  this 
period,  some  trace  would  yet  have  been  found  of  him, 
in  .all  likelihood,  within  the  parish.  Just  before  the 
termination  of  his  minority  we  have  an  undeniable 
record  that  he  was  a  second  time  a  father  within  the 
parish.  It  is  at  this  period,  then,  that  we  would  place 
his  removal  from  Stratford  ;  his  flight,  according  to 
the  old  legend  ;  his  solitaiy  emigration,  according  to 
the  new  discovery.  That  his  emigration  was  even  soli- 
tary we  have  not  a  tittle  of  evidence.  Rowe  says  that, 
after  having  settled  in  the  world  in  a  family  manner, 
and  continued  in  this  kind  of  settlement  for  some  time, 
the  extravagance  of  which  he  was  guilty  in  robbing 
Sir  Thomas  Lucy's  park  obliged  him  to  leave  his  busi- 
ness and  family.  He  coidd  not  have  so  left,  even  .ac- 
cording to  the  circumstances  which  were  known  to 
Rowe,  till  after  the  birth  of  his  son  and  daughter  in 
1585.  But  the  story  goes  on  : — -"It  is  at  this  time,  and 
upon  this  accideut,  that  he  is  said  to  have  made  his 
first  .acquaintance  in  tlie  playhouse.  He  was  received 
into  the  company  then  in  being,  at  first  in  a  very  mean 
rank :  but  his  admirable  wit,  and  the  natural  turn  of 
it  to  the  stage,  soon  distinguished  him,  if  not  as  an  ex- 
triiordinary  actor,  yet  as  an  excellent  writer."  Sixty 
years  after  the  time  of  Rowe  the  story  .assumed  a  taore 
circumstantial  shape,  ius  far  as  regards  the  mean  rank 
which  Shakespeare  filled  in  his  early  connexion  with 
the  theatre.  Dr.  Johnson  adds  one  passage  to  the 
'Life,'  which  he  says  "  Mr.  Pope  related  as  communi- 
cated to  him  by  Mr.  Rowe."  It  is  so  remarkable  an 
anecdote  tluit  it  is  somewliat  surprising  that  Rowe  did 
not  liinisclf  add  it  to  his  own  meagre  .account : — 
"  In  the  time  of  Eiiaibeth,  coaches  being  yet  uncom- 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SUAKESPEARE. 


S2U 


moil,  ami  hircil  eoaclica  not  a  all  iu  use,  those  who 
were  too  proud,  too  t«naer,  or  too  idle  to  walk,  went 
on  horseback  to  any  distant  business  or  diversion. 
Many  came  on  horseback  to  the  play  ;  and  wlien  Shake- 
speare fled  to  London  from  the  terror  of  a  criminal 
prosecution,  bis  first  expedient  was  to  wait  at  the  door 
of  the  playhouse,  and  liold  the  liorses  of  those  that 
had  no  servants,  that  they  might  be  ready  again  after 
the  performance.  In  this  office  he  became  so  con- 
spicuous for  his  care  and  readiness,  that  in  a  short  time 
every  man  as  he  alighted  called  for  Will  Shakespeare, 
!ind  scarcely  any  other  waiter  was  trusted  with  a  horse 
while  Will  Shakespeare  could  be  had.  This  was  tlie 
fii-st  dawn  of  better  fortune.  Shakespeare,  finding 
more  horses  put  into  his  hand  than  he  could  hold,  hired 
boys  to  wait  under  his  inspection,  who,  when  Will 
Shakespeare  was  summoned,  were  immedi;i,tely  to  pre- 
sent themselves — 'I  am  Shakespeare's  boy.  Sir.'  In 
thne,  Shakespeare  found  higher  employment ;  but  as 
long  as  the  practice  of  riding  to  the  playhouse  con- 
tinued, the  waiters  that  held  the  horses  retained  the 
appellation  of  Shakespeare's  hoys." 

Steevens  has  attempted  to  impugn  the  credibility  of 
this  anecdote  by  saying, — "Tliat  it  was,  once  the  gen- 
eral custom  to  ride  on  horseback  to  the  play  I  am  yet 
to  learn.  The  most  popular  of  the  theatres  were  on  the 
Eankside  ;  and  we  are  told  by  the  satiricil  pamphleteers 
of  that  time  that  the  usual  mode  of  conveyance  to 
these  places  of  amusement  was  by  water,  but  not  a 
single  writer  so  much  as  hints  at  the  custom  of  riding 
to  them,  or  at  the  practice  of  having  horses  held  during 
the  hours  of  exhibition."  Steevens  is  here  iu  error; 
he  has  a  vague  notion — which  is  still  persevered  in  witii 
singular  obstinacy,  even  by  those  who  have  now  the 
means  of  knowing  that  Shakespeare  had  acquired  prop- 
erty in  the  chief  theatre, in  1589 — that  the  great  dra- 
matic poet  had  felt  no  inspiration  till  he  was  about 
cight-and-twcnty,  and  that,  therefore,  his  connexion 
with  the  theatre  began  in  the  palmy  days  of  the  Globe 
on  the  I'ankside — a  theatre  not  built  till  1593.  To  the 
earlier  theatres,  if  they  were  frequented  by  the  gallants 
of  the  Court,  they  would  have  gone  on  horses.  They 
did  so  go,  as  we  learn  from  Dekker,  long  after  the 
Bankside  theatres  were  established.  The  story  first 
appeared  in  a  book  entitled  '  The  Lives  of  the  Poets,' 
considered  to  be  the  work  of  Theophilus  Gibber,  but 
said  to  be  written  by  a  Scotchman  of  the  name  of 
Shiels,  who  was  an  amanuensis  of  Dr.  Johnson.  Shiels 
had  certainly  some  hand  in  the  book ;  and  there  we 
find  that  Davenant  told  the  anecdote  to  Betterton,  who 
ccmimunicated  it  to  Row;;,  who  told  it  to  Pope,  who 
told  it  tc  Dr.  Newton.  Improbable  as  the  story  is  as 
it  uuw  9  ands,  there  may  be  a  scintillation  of  truth  in 
it,  as  in  any  traditions      It  is  by  no  means  impossible 


that  the  Blackfiiars  Theatre  might  have  had  Shake- 
speare's boys  to  hold  horses,  but  not  Khukespt-aie  him- 
self. As  a  proprietor  of  the  tlioatre,  Shakespeare  might 
sagaciously  perceive  that  its  interest  would  be  promoted 
by  the  readiest  accommodation  being  offered  to  its  vis- 
itors ;  and  further,  with  that  worldly  adroitness  which 
in  him,  was  not  incompatible  with  the  exercise  of  the 
highest  genius,  he  might  have  derived  an  individual 
profit  by  employing  servants  to  perform  this  oflice.  In 
an  age  when  horse-stealing  was  one  of  the  commonest 
occurrences,  it  would  he  a  guarantee  for  the  safe  charge 
of  tire  horses  that  they  were  committed  to  the  care  o( 
the  agents  of  one  then  well  known  in  the  world, — an 
actor,  a  writer,  a  proprietor  of  tlie  theatre.  Such  an 
association  with  the  author  of  '  Hamlet'  must  sound 
most  anti-poetical ;  but  the  fact  is  scarcely  less  prosaic 
than  that  the  same  wondrous  man,  about  the  period 
when  he  wrote  '.Macbelb,'  had  an  action  for  debt  in  the 
Bailiffs  Court  at  Stratford,  to  recover  thirty-five  shill- 
ings and  tenpence  for  corn  by  him  sold  and  delivered. 

Familiar,  then,  with  .theatrical  exhibitions,  such  as 
they  were,  from  his  earliest  youth,  and  with  a  genius 
so  essentially  dramatic  that  all  other  writers  that  the 
world  has  seen  have  never  approached  him  iu  liis  power 
of  going  out  of  himself,  it  is  inconsistent  with  proba- 
bility that  he  should  not  have  attempted  some  dramatic 
composition  at  an  early  age.  The  theory  that  he  wafc 
first  employed  in  repairing  tho  plays  of  others  we  hold 
to  he  altogether  untenable;  supported  only  by  a  very 
narrow  view  of  the  great  essentials  to  a  dramatic  worlc, 
and  by  verbal  criticism,  which,  when  carefully  exam- 
ined, utterly  fails  even  in  its  own  petty  assumptions.^ 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  three  Parts  of  '  Henry 
VI.'  belong  to  the  early  stage.  We  believe  them  to  be 
wholly  and  absolutely  the  early  work  of  Shakespeare. 
But  we  do  not  necesfjarily  hold  that  they  were  liis 
earliest  work  ;  for  the  proof  is  so  clear  of  the  continual 
improvements  and  elaborations  which  he  made  in  his 
best  productions,  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  that 
some  of  the  plays  which  have  the  most  finished  air,  but 
of  which  there  were  no  early  editions,  may  not  he 
founded  upon  very  youthful  compositions.  Others  may 
have  wholly  perished  ;  thrown  aside  after  a  season ; 
never  printed  ;  and  neglected  by  their  author,  to  whom 
new  inventions  would  be  easier  than  remodelling?  of 
pieces  probably  composed  upon  a  false  theory  of  art. 
For  it  is  too  much  to  imagine  that  his  first  productions 
would  be  wholly  untainted  by  the  taste  of  the  period. 
Some  might  have  been  weak  delineations  of  life  and 
character,  overloaded  with  mythological  conceits  and 
pastoral  affectations,  like  the  plays  of  Lyly,  which 
were  the  Court  fashion   before   1590.     Otheis   might 

•  See  our  'Essay  on  the  Three  Parts  of  Henry  VI.,  «ul  Richird 
III..'  Ill  the  Pictorial  and  Library  editions. 


LIFE  Of  WILLIAM  SUAKESrEAJlL. 


have  been  pi  ompteJ  b^  tie  fj,]s3  ambition  to  produce 
etfect,  which  is  the  characie.-istic  of  '  Locrine,'  and  par- 
tially so  of  '  Titus  Andronicus.'  But  of  one  thing  we 
may  be  sure — that  there  would  be  no  want  of  power 
even  in  his  first  productions ;  that  real  pqetry  would 
have  gushed  out  of  the  bombatt,  ar^d  true  wit  sparkled 
amidst  the  conceits.  His  first  plays  would,  we  think, 
fall  in  with  the  prevailing  desire  of  the  people  to  learu 
the  histoiy  of  their  country  through  the  stage.  If  so, 
they  would  certainly  not  exhibit  the  feebleness  of  some 
of  those  performances  which  were  popular  about  the 
period  of  which  we  are  now  speaking,  and  which  con- 
tinued to  be  popular  even  after  he  had  raost  successfully 
undertaken 

"To  raise  oar  ancient  sovereigns  from  thtlf  bearse." 
The  door  of  the  theatre  was  not  a  difhcult  one  for  him 
to  enter.  It  is  a  singular  fact,  that  several  of  the  most 
eminent  actors  of  this  very  period  are  held  to  have 
been  his  immediate  neighbours.  We  see  no  difficulty 
in  believing  that  the  first  step  taken  by  him  in  a  decis- 
ion as  interesting  to  ages  unborn  as  important  to  him- 
self, was  the  experimental  one  of  rendering  his  personal 
aid  towards  the  proper  performance  of  his  first  acted 
play.  We  inverse  the  usual  belief  iu  this  matter.  We 
think  that  Shakespeare  became  an  actor  because  he 
was  a  dramatic  writer,  and  not  a  dramatic  writer  be- 
cause he  was  an  actor.  He  very  quickly  made  his  way 
to  wealth  and  reputation,  not  so  much  by  a  handsome 
person  and  pleasing  manners,  as  by  that  genius  which 
left  all  other  competitors  far  behind  hira  in  the  race 
of  dramatic  composition  ;  and  by  that  prudence  which 
taught  him  to  combine  the  exercise  of  his  extraordi- 
nary powers  with  a  constant  reference  to  the  course  of 
life  he  had  chosen,  not  lowenng  his  art  for  the  ad- 
vancement of  his  fortune,  but  achieving  his  fortune 
in  showing  what  miglity  things  might  be  accomplished 
by  his  art. 

Amongst  those  innumerable  by-ways  in  London 
which  are  familiar  to  the  hurried  pedestrian,  there  is  a 
well-known  line  of  streets,  or  rather  lanes,  teiuling 
from  the  hill  on  which  St.  Paul's  stands  to  the  great 
thoroughfare  of  Blackfrlars  Bridge.  Between  Apothe- 
caries' Hall  and  Printing-house  Square  is  a  short  lane, 
loading  into  an  open  sjjace  called  Playhouse  Yard.  It 
is  one  of  those  shabby  places  of  which  so  many  in  Lon- 
don lie  close  to  the  glittering  thoroughfares  ;  hut  which 
are  known  only  to  their  own  inliabitants,  and  have  at 
all  times  an  air  of  quiet  which  seems  like  desolation. 
'I'he  houses  of  this  little  square,  or  yard,  are  neither 
indent  nor  modem.  Some  of  them  were  probably 
built  soon  after  the  great  fire  of  London  ;  for  a  few 
present  their  gable  fronts  to  the  streets,  and  the  wide 
caHCmcnts  of  others  have  evidently  been  lilleil  up  and 
tuodem  Kwhcs  inserted.    But  there  iu  nothing  here,  nor 


Indeed  in  the  whole  precinct,  with  the  excejition  of  th« 
few  yards  of  ancient  wall,  that  has  any  pretension  tc 
belong  to  what  may  be  called  the  antiquities  of  Lon- 
don. In  the  heart  of  this  precinct,  close  by  the  church 
of  a  suppressed  monastery,  surrounded  by  the  nev, 
houses  of  the  nobility,  in  the  very  spot  which  is  now 
known  as  Playhouse  Yard,  was  built,  in  1575,  the  Black- 
friars  I'heatre. 

The  history  of  the  early  stage,  as  it  is  to  he  deduced 
fron  statutes,  and  proclamations,  and  orders  of  council, 
exhibits  a  constant  succession  of  conflicts  between  the 
civic  authorities  and  the  performers  of  plays.  The  act 
of  the  1-ilh  of  Elizabeth,  "for  the  punishment  of  vaga- 
bonds, and  for  relief  of  the  poor  and  impotent,"  was 
essentially  an  act  of  protection  for  the  established  com- 
panies of  players.  We  have  here,  for  the  first  time,  a 
definition  of  rogues  and  vagabonds  ;  and  it  includes  not 
only  those  who  can  "give  no  reckoning  how  he  or  she 
doth  lawfully  get  his  or  her  living,"  but  "all  fencers, 
bearwards,  common  players  in  interludes,  and  min- 
strels, not  belonging  to  any  baron  of  this  realm,  oi 
towards  any  other  honourable  personage  of  greater  de- 
gree ;  all  jugglers,  pedlers,  tinkers,  and  petty  chapmen  ; 
which  said  fencers,  bearwards,  common  players  lE 
interludes,  min*trels,  jugglers,  pedlers,  tinkers,  and 
pettj-  chapmen,  shall  wander  abroad,  and  have  nol 
license  of  two  justices  of  the  peace  at  the  least,  whcreol 
one  to  be  of  the  quorum,  where  and  in  what  shire  they 
shall  happen  to  wander. ' '  The  circumstance  of  helcug- 
ing  to  any  baron,  or  person  of  greater  degree,  was  iu 
itself  a  pretty  large  exception  ;  and  if  in  those  times  ol 
rising  Puritanism  the  license  of  two  justices  of  the  peace 
was  not  always  to  he  procured,  the  large  number  of 
companies  enrolled  as  the  servants  of  the  nobility  ofi'ers 
sufficient  evidence  that  the  profession  of  a  player  was 
not  a  persecuted  one,  but  one  expressly  sanctioned  by 
the  ruling  powers,  lliere  was  one  company  of  players, 
the  Earl  of  Leicester's,  which,  within  two  yeara  after 
the  legislative  protection  of  this  act,  received  a  mora 
important  privilege  from  the  Queen  herself.  In  1574  a 
v.rit  of  privy  seal  was  issued  to  the  keeper  of  the  great 
seal,  commanding  him  to  set  forth  letters  patent  ad- 
dressed to  all  justices,  &c.,  licensing  and  authorizing 
James  Burbage,  and  four  other  persons,  servants  to  the 
Earl  of  Leicester,  "  to  use,  exercise,  and  occupy  the  art 
and  faculty  of  playing  comedies,  tragedies,  interludes, 
stageplays,  and  such  other  like  as  they  have  already 
used  and  studied,  or  hereafter  shall  use  and  study,  as 
well  for  the  recreation  of  our  loving  subjects,  as  for  our  ) 
solace  and  pleasure,  when  we  shall  think  good  to  sec 
them."  And  they  were  to  exhibit  their  performances 
"  as  well  within  our  Cily  of  lyondon  and  liberties  of  the 
same,"  as  "  throughout  our  rcaliu  of  Kngland."  With 
out  knowing  how  far  the  servants  of  the  Earl  of  Leiciw 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


xxi) 


ter  might  iiavc  been  molested  by  the  aiithoiilies  of  the 
City  of  Ijoiidon,  in  dcliancc  of  this  iiateut,  it  is  clear 
that  tin*  patent  was  of  rtsclf  insufficient  to  insure  their 
Ivind  reception  within  the  city  ;  for  it  appears  that, 
ivithiu  three  mouths  after  the  date  of  the  patent,  a  let- 
tor  was  written  from  the  Privy  Council  to  the  Lord 
llayor,  directing  him  "  to  admit  the  comedy-players 
witliin  the  city  of  London,  and  to  be  otherwise  favour- 
ably used."  This  mandate  was  probably  obeyed  ;  but 
in  1575  the  Court  of  Common  Council,  without  any 
exception  for  the  objects  of  the  patent  of  1574,  made 
certain  orders,  in  the  city  language  termed  an  act, 
which  assumed  that  the  whole  authority  for  the  regu- 
lation of  plays  was  in  the  Ijord  Mayor  and  Court  of 
Aldermen  ;  that  they  only  could  license  theatrical  ex- 
■  hibitious  within  the  city  ;  and  that  the  players  whom 
they  did  license  should  contribute  half  their  receipts  to 
charitable  purposes.  The  civic  authorities  appear  to 
have  stretched  their  power  somewhat  too  far ;  for  in 
that  very  year  James  Burbage,  and  the  other  servants 
of  the  Earl  of  Leicester,  erected  their  theatre  amidst 
the  houses  of  the  great  in  the  Blaclcfriars,  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  the  city  walls,  but  absolutely  out  of 
the  control  of  the  city  officers.  The  immediate  neigli- 
bours  of  the  players  were  the  Lord  Chamberlain  and 
Lord  Huusdon,  as  we  learn  from  a  petition  against  the 
players  from  the  inhabitants  of  the  precinct.  The  pe- 
tition was  unavailing.  The  rooms  which  it  states  "one 
Burbadge  hath  lately  bought"  were  converted  "  into  a 
common  playliouse  ;"  and  within  fourteen  years  from 
the  period  of  its  erection  William  Shakespeare  was  one 
of  its  proprietors. 

The  royal  patent  of  1574  authorized  in  the  exercise 
of  their  art  and  faculty  "  James  Burbadge,  John  Fer- 
kyn,  John  Lanliam,  William  Johnson,  and  Eobert  Wil- 
son," who  are  described  as  the  servants  of  the  Earl  of 
Leicester.  Although  on  the  early  stage  the  characters 
were  frequently  doubled,  we  can  scarcely  imagine  that 
these  five  persons  were  of  themselves  sufBcient  to  form 
a  company  of  comedians.  They  had,  no  doubt,  subordi- 
nate actors  in  their  pay  ;  they  being  the  proprietors  or 
shareholders  in  the  general  adventure.  Of  these  five 
original  patentees  four  remained  as  the  "  sharers  in  the 
Blackfriars  Playhouse"  in  1589,  the  name  only  of  John 
Perkyn  being  absent  from  the  subscribers  to  a  certifi- 
cate to  the  Privy  Cojmcil  that  the  company  acting  at 
the  Blackfriars  "have  never  given  cause  of  displeasure 
in  tliat  they  have  brought  into  their  plays  matters  of 
state  and  religion."  This  certificate— which  bears  the 
date  of  November,  1589— exhil  its  to  us  the  list  of  the 
professional  companions  of  Shakespeare  in  an  early 
Btagr  of  his  career,  though  certainly  not  in  the  very 
eailifcst.  The  certificate  describes  the  persons  sub- 
ecribmg  it  as  "  her  Majesty's  poor  players,"  and  sets 


forth  that  they  are  "  all  of  tliem  sharers  in  the  Black- 
friars Playliouse."  Their  names  are  presented  in  thf 
following  order  ; — 1.  James  Burbadge.  2.  IlichardBur- 
badge.  3.  John  Laueham.  4.  Thomas  Greene.  6. 
Robert  Wilson.  6.  John  Taylor.  7.  Anth.  Wadeson. 
8.  Thomas  Pope.  9.  George  Peele.  10.  Augustine 
Phillipps.  11.  Nicholasi  Towlcy.  12.  William  Shake- 
speare. 13.  William  Kempc.  14.  William  Johnson. 
15.  Baptistc  Goodale.     IG.  Robert  Armyn. 

It  would  not  be  an  easy  matter,  without  some  know- 
ledge of  minute  facts  and  a  considerable  effort  of  im- 
agination, to  form  an  accurate  notion  of  that  building 
in  the  Blackfriars — rooms  converted  into  a  common 
playhouse — in  which  we  may  conclude  that  the  first 
plays  of  Shakespeare  were  exhibited.  The  very  ex- 
pression used  by  the  petitioners  against  Burbage's  pro- 
ject wordd  implj'  that  the  building  was  not  very  nicely 
adapted  to  the  purposes  of  dramatic  representation. 
Tlipy  say,  "  which  rooms  the  said  Burbage  is  now  alter- 
ing, and  nieaneth  very  shortly  to  convert  and  turn  tho 
same  into  a  common  playhouse."  And  yet  we  are  not 
to  infer  that  the  rooms  were  hastily  adapted  to  their 
object  by  the  aid  of  a  few  boards  and  drapery,  like  the 
barn  of  a  strolling  company.  In  1590  the  shareholders 
say,  in  a  petition  to  the  Privy  Council,  that  the  theatre, 
' '  by  reason  of  its  having  been  so  long  built,  hath  fiillen 
into  great  decay,  and  that,  besides  the  reparation  there- 
of, it  has  been  found  necessary  to  make  the  same  more 
convenient  for  the  entertainment  of  auditories  coming 
thereto."  The  structure,  no  doubt,  was  adapted  to  its 
object  without  any  very  great  regard  to  durability  ; 
and  the  accommodations,  both  for  actors  and  audience, 
were  of  a  somev.hat  rude  nature.  The  Blackfriars  was 
a  Tvinter  theatre  ;  so  that,  differing  from  the  Globe, 
which  belonged  to  the  same  company,  it  was,  there 
can  be  little  doubt,  roofed  in.  It  appears  surprising 
that,  in  a  climate  like  that  of  England,  even  a  summer 
theatre  should  be  without  a  roof ;  but  the  surprise  is 
lessened  when  we  consider  that,  when  the  Globe  was 
built,  in  1504,  not  twenty  years  had  elapsed  since  plays 
were  commonly  represented  in  the  open  yards  of  the 
inns  of  London.  The  Belle  Savage  was  amongst  the 
most  famous  of  these  inn-yard  theatres  ;  and  even  the 
present  area  of  that  inn  will  show  how  readily  it  might 
be  adapted  for  such  performances.  The  Blackfriars 
theatre  was  probably  little  more  than  a  large  space, 
arranged  pretty  much  like  the  Belle  Savage  yard,  but 
with  a  roof  over  it.  Indeed,  so  completely  were  the 
public  theatres  adapted  after  the  model  of  the  tem- 
porary ones,  that  the  space  for  the  "  gx-oundlings"  lung 
continued  to  be  called  the  yard.  One  of  the  earliest 
theatres,  built  probably  about  the  same  time  as  the 
Blackfriars,  was  called  the  Curtain,  from  which  we  may 
infer  that  the  refinement  of  separating  the  iictors  from 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


the  auilieuce  duiiufj  tlie  intervals  of  the  representation 
was  at  Ib'st  peculiar  to  that  theatre. 

In  the  continuation  of  Stow's  '  Chronicle,'  by  Eil- 
ciunJ  Howes,  there  is  a  very  curious  passage,  which 
carries  us  bacli  from  the  period  in  which  he  was  writing 
(1631)  for  sixty  years.  He  describes  the  destruction 
of  the  Globe  by  fire  in  1613,  the  burning  of  the  Fortune 
Playhouse  four  years  after,  the  rebuilding  of  both  the- 
atres, and  the  erection  of  "a  new  fair  playhouse  near 
the  Whitefriars."  He  then  adds, — "And  this  is  the 
seventeenth  stage,  or  common  playhouse,  which  hath 
been  new  made  within  the  space  of  threescore  years 
within  London  and  the  suburbs,  viz.  :  five  inns,  or 
coiuraon  hostelries,  turned  to  playhouses,  one  Cockpit, 
St.  Paul's  singing-school,  one  in  the  Blackfriars,  and 
one  in  the  Whitefriars,  which  was  built  last  of  all,  in 
the  year  one  thousand  six  hundred  twenty-nine.  All 
the  rest  not  named  were  erected  only  for  common  play- 
houses, besides  the  new-built  Bear-garden,  which  was 
built  as  well  for  plays,  and  fencers'  prizes,  as  bull- 
baiting  ;  besides  one  in  former  time  at  Newington 
Butts.  Before  the  space  of  threescore  years  abovesaid 
I  neither  knew,  heard,  nor  read  of  any  such  theatres, 
set  stages,  or  playhouses,  as  have  been  purposely  built 
within  man's  memory."  It  would  appear,  as  far  as  we 
can  judge  from  the  very  imperfect  materials  which 
exist,  that  in  the  early  pei'iod  of  Shakespeare's  con- 
nexion with  the  Blackfriars  it  was  the  only  private  the- 
atre. It  is  natural  to  conclude  that  the  proprietors  of 
this  theatre,  being  the  Queen's  servants,  were  the  most 
respectable  of  their  vocation ;  conformed  to  the  ordi- 
nances of  the  state  with  the  utmost  scrupulousness  ; 
endeavoured  to  attract  a  select  audience  rather  than  an 
uncritical  multitude  ;  and  received  higher  prices  for 
admission  than  were  paid  at  the  public  theatres.  The 
performances  at  the  Blackfriars  were  for  the  most  part 
in  the  winter.  Whether  the  performances  were  in  the 
day  or  evening,  artificial  liglits  were  used.  The  au- 
dience in  wliat  we  now  call  tlie  pit  (then  also  so  called) 
sat  upon  benclies,  and  did  not  stand,  as  in  the  yard 
open  to  the  sky  of  tire  public  playhouse.  There  were 
small  rooms  corresponding  with  the  private  boxes  of 
existing  theatres.  A  portion  of  the  audience,  including 
those  who  aspired  to  the  distinction  of  critics,  sat  upon 
the  stage.  It  is  po.ssible,  and  indeed  there  is  some  evi- 
dence, that  the  rate  of  admission  varied  according  to 
the  attraction  of  the  performance  ;  and  we  may  be 
pretty  sure  that  a  company  like  that  of  Sliakespeare'e 
generally  charged  at  a  higher  rate  than  llie  larger  the- 
atres, wliich  dependcil  more  upon  tlie  multitude. 

At  an  early  perio<l,  but  not  so  early  as  the  date  of 
the  certificate  of  1089,  which  shows  that  Sliakcspeare 
wo.?  a  sharer  in  the  company  acting  at  the  Blackfriars, 
be  is  mentioned  by  contemporaries.     Henry  Chcttle  is 


one  of  the  very  few  persons  who  have  left  us  any  dis- 
tinct memorial  of  Shakespeare.  He  appears  to  have 
had  some  connexion  with  the'writers  of  liis  time,  in 
preparing  their  manuscripts  for  the  press.  He  so  pre- 
pared Greene's  posthumous  tract,  'The  Groafs-worth 
of  Wit,'  copying  out  the  author's  faint  and  blotted 
sheets,  written  on  his  sick-bed.  In  this  pamphlet  of 
Greene's  an  insult  was  ofl'ered  to  Shakespeare  ;  and  it 
would  appear  from  the  allusions  of  Chettle  that  he  was 
justly  offended.  Marlowe,  also,  resented,  as  well  he 
might,  a  charge  of  impiety  which  was  levelled  against 
him.  Chettle  says,  "  With  neither  of  tliem  that  take 
offence  was  I  acquainted."  By  acquaintance  he  means 
companionship,  if  not  friendship.  He  goes  on,  "And 
with  one  of  them  I  care  not  if  I  never  bo."  He  is  sup- 
posed here  to  point  at  Marlowe.  But  to  the  other  he 
tenders  an  apology,  in  all  sincerity  :  "  The  other,  whom 
at  that  time  I  did  not  so  much  spare  as  since  I  wish  I 
had,  for  that  as  I  "nave  moderated  the  heat  of  living 
writers,  and  might  have  used  my  own  discretion  (espe- 
cially in  such  a  case),  the  author  being  dead,  that  I  did 
not  I  am  as  sorry  as  if  the  original  fault  had  been  my 
fault ;  because  myself  have  seen  his  demeanour  no  less 
civil  than  he  excellent  in  the  quality  he  professes  :  be- 
sides, divers  of  worship  have  reported  his  uprightness 
of  dealing,  which  argues  his  honesty,  and  his  facetious 
grace  in  writing,  that  approves  his  art. "  In  the  Induc- 
tion to  '  Cynthia's  Revels'  Ben  Jonson  makes  one  of 
the  personified  spectators  on  the  stage  say,  "  I  would 
speak  with  your  author  ;  where  is  he  ?"  It  may  be 
presumed,  therefore,  that  it  was  not  uncommon  for  the 
author  to  mix  with  that  part  of  the  audience  ;  and 
thus  Henry  Chettle  may  be  good  evidence  of  the  civil 
demeanour  of  William  Shakespeare.  We  may  thus 
imagine  the  young  author  composedly  moving  amidst 
the  throng  of  wits  and  critics  that  fill  the  stage.  He 
moves  amongst  them  modestly,  but  without  any  false 
humility.  In  worldly  station,  if  such  a  consideration 
could  influence  liis  demeanour,  he  is  fully  their  equal. 
They  are  for  the  most  part,  as  he  himself  is,  actors,  as 
well  as  makers  of  plays.  Phillips  says  Marlowe  was  an 
actor.  Greene  Is  reasonably  conjectured  to  have  been 
an  actor.  Peele  and  Wilson  were  actors  of  Shake- 
speare's own  company  ;  and  so  was  Anthosy  Wadeson. 
There  can  be  little  doubt  that  upon  the  early  stage  the 
occupations  for  the  most  part  went  together.  Tlie  dia- 
logue was  less  regarded  than  the  action.  A  plot  was 
hastily  got  up,  with  rude  shovfs  and  startling  incidents. 
The  characters  were  little  discriminated  ;  one  actor 
took  tlie  tyrant  line,  and  another  the  lover  ;  and  ready 
words  were  at  hand  for  the  one  to  rant  with  and  tlio 
other  to  whine.  The  actors  were  not  very  solicitous 
about  the  words,  and  often  discharged  their  mimic 
passions  in  extemporaneous  eloquence.     In  a  few  jcarr 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


xxxiii 


the  necesf  ity  of  pleasing  more  refined  audiences  changed 
the  economy  of  the  stage.  Men  of  liigh  tiilcnt  sought 
the  theatre  iis  a  ready  mode  of  maintenance  by  tlieir 
writings  ;  but  tlieir  connexion  witli  tlie  stage  would 
naturally  begin  in  acting  rather  than  in  authorship. 
Tlie  managers,  themselves  actors,  would  tliink,  and 
perhaps  rightly,  that  an  actor  would  be  the  best  judge 
of  dramatic  effect.  The  rewards  of  authorship  through 
the  mediinn  of  the  press  were  in  those  days  small  in- 
deed ;  and  paltry  as  was  the  dramatist's  fee,  the  players 
were  far  better  paymasters  than  the  stationers.  To  be- 
come a  sharer  in  a  theatrical  speculation  offered  a  rea- 
sonable chance  of  competence,  if  not  of  wealth.  If  a 
sharer  existed  who  was  "excellent"  enough  in  "the 
quality"  he  professed  to  fill  the  stage  creditably,  and 
added  to  that  quality  "a  facetious  grace  in  writing," 
there  is  no  doubt  that  with  "  uprightness  of  dealing" 
he  would,  in  such  a  company  as  that  of  the  Blackfriars, 
advance  rapidly  to  distinction,  and  have  the  counte- 
nance and  friendship  of  "divers  of  worship."  Those 
of  Shakespeare's  early  competitors  who  approached  the 
nearest  to  him  in  genius  possessed  not  that  practical 
wisdom  which  carried  him  safely  and  honourably 
through  a  life  beset  with  some  temptations.  They 
knew  not  the  value  of  "government  and  modesty." 
He  lived  amongst  them,  but  we  may  readily  conclude 
that  he  was  not  of  them. 

In  the  spring  of  1588,  and  through  the  summer  also, 
we  may  well  believe  th;U;  Shakespeare  abided  in  Lon- 
don, whether  or  not  he  had  his  wife  and  children  about 
him.  The  course  of  public  events  was  such  that  he 
would  scarcely  have  left  the  capital,  even  for  a  few 
weeks.  For  the  hearts  of  all  men  in  the  vast  city  were 
mightily  stirred;  and  whilst  in  that  "shop  of  wai-" 
might  be  heard  on  every  side  the  din  of  "  anvils  and 
hammers  waking  to  fiishion  out  the  plates  and  instru- 
ments of  armed  justice,""  the  poet  had  his  own  work 
to  do,  in  urging  forward  the  noble  impulse  through 
which  the  people,  of  whatever  sect  or  whatever  party, 
willed  that  they  would  be  free.  It  was  the  year  of  the 
Anuada. 

But,  glorious  as  was  the  contemplation  of  the  attitude 
of  England  during  this  year,  the  very  energy  that  had 
called  forth  this  noble  display  of  patriotic  spirit  exhi- 
bited itself  in  domestic  controversy  when  the  pressure 
from  without  was  removed.  The  same  season  that  wit- 
nessed the  utter  destruction  of  the  armament  of  Spain 
Baw  London  excited  to  the  pitch  of  fury  by  polemical 
disputes.  It  was  not  now  the  quarrel  between  Protest- 
ant and  Romanist,  but  between  the  National  Ciiurch 
anil  Puritanism.  The  theatres,  those  new  and  power- 
ful teachers,  lent  themselves  to  the  controversy.  In 
some  of  these  their  licence  to  entertain  the  people  was 
•  illlton :  '  Speech  for  the  Liberty  of  Unlicensed  Printing' 


abused  by  the  introduction  of  matters  connected  with 
religion  and  politics ;  so  that  in  1589  Lord  Burghlcy 
not  only  directed  the  Lord  Mayor  to  inquire  what  com" 
panics  of  pla)  ers  had  offended,  but  a  commission  was 
appointed  for  the  same  purpose.  How  Shakespeare's 
company  proceeded  during  this  inquiry  has  been  made 
out  most  clearly  by  the  valuable  document  discovered 
at  Bridgewater  Houst  by  Mr.  Coilier,  wherein  they  dis- 
claim to  have  conducted  themselves  amiss.  " 'i'he.se 
are  to  certify  your  Right  Honourable  Lordships  that  her 
Majesty's  poor  players,  James  Burbage,  Richard  Bur- 
bage,  John  Laneham,  Thomas  Greene,  Robert  Wilson, 
John  Taylor,  Anth.  Wadcson,  Thomas  Pope,  George 
Peele,  Augustine  Phillipps,  Nicholas  Towley,  William 
Shakespeare,  William  Kem[)e,  William  Johnson,  Bap- 
tiste  Goodale,  and  Robert  Armyn,  being  all  of  them 
sharers  in  the  Blackfriars  playhouse,  have  never  given 
cause  of  displeasure,  in  that  they  have  brought  into 
their  plays  matters  of  state  and  religion,  unfit  to  be 
handled  by  them  or  to  be  presented  before  lewd  specta- 
tors :  neither  hath  any  complaint  in  that  kind  ever 
been  preferred  against  them  or  any  of  them.  AVhere- 
fore  they  trust  most  humbly  in  your  Lordships'  con- 
sideration of  their  former  good  behaviour,  being  at  all 
times  ready  and  willing  to  yield  obedience  to  any  com- 
mand whatsoever  your  Lordships  in  your  wisdom  may 
think  in  such  case  meet,"  &c. 

"Nov.  1589." 

In  this  petition,  Shakespeare,  a  sharer  in  the  theatre, 
but  with  others  below  him  in  the  list,  says,  and  they 
all  say,  that  "  they  have  never  brought  into  their  plays 
matters  of  state  and  religion."  The  public  mind  in 
1589-90  was  furiously  agitated  by  ' '  matters  of  state  and 
religion."  A  controversy  was  going  on  which  is  now 
known  as  that  of  Martin  Marprdale,  in  which  the  consti- 
tution and  discipline  of  the  church  were  most  furiously 
attacked  in  a  succession  of  pamphlets  ;  and  they  were 
defended  with  equal  violence  and  scurrility.  The  the- 
atres took  part  in  the  controversy,  as  we  learn  from  a 
tract  by  Gabriel  Harvey. 

Shakespeare's  great  contemporary,  Edmund  Spenser, 
in  a  poem  entitled  '  The  Tears  of  the  Muses,"  origin- 
ally published  In  1591,  describes,  in  the  'Oomplaint' 
of  Thalia,  the  Muse  of  Comedy,  the  state  of  the  drama 
at  the  time  in  which  he  is  writing  : — 

"  Where  be  the  sweet  delisbts  of  learning's  tronauro, 

That  wont  with  comic  suck  to  beautify 
The  painted  theatres,  and  till  witli  pleasure 

The  listeners'  eyes,  and  ears  witli  melody; 
In  which  I  late  was  wont  to  reign  as  queeu. 
And  mask  in  mirth  with  graces  well  besecn? 

O !  all  is  gone  ;  and  all  that  goodly  glee, 

"Which  wont  to  be  the  glory  of  gay  wita, 
l8  laid  a-bed,  and  nowhere  now  to  see; 

And  in  her  room  unseemly  Sorrow  sitfl, 
■Witli  hollow  brows  and  griesly  countenoacet 
Marring  my  joyous  gentle  dallianca 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


And  him  Lesule  sits  ugly  Barbarism, 

And  brutish  Ignorance,  ycrept  of  late 
Out  of  dread  darkness  uf  the  deep  abysm, 

Where  being  bred,  he  light  and  lieaven  (!oes  bate; 
They  in  tlie  minds  of  men  now  t^'rannize. 
And  the  f;iir  scene  with  rudeness  Ibul  disguise. 

Al!  places  tI:oy  with  folly  liave  possess'd, 

And  with  vain  toys  the  vulgar  entertain  ; 
But  me  liave  banished,  with  all  the  rest 

That  whilom  wont  to  wait  iipon  my  train, 
Fine  Counterfesance.  and  uuhurtful  J^port, 
Delight,  and  Laughter,  deck'd  in  seemly  sort'* 

Spen-ser  was  in  Euglaud  in  1.590-91,  and  it  is  probable 
that  '  The  Tears  of  the  Muses'  was  written  in  1590. 
The  four  stanais  which  we  have  quotod  are  descrip- 
tive, as  we  thiuli,  of  a  period  of  the  drama  wlien  it 
had  emerged  from  the  semi-barbarism  by  which  it  was 
characterized,  "from  the  commencement  of  Shake- 
speare's boyhood,  till  about  the  earliest  date  at  which 
liis  removal  to  London  can  be  possibly  fixed."*  This 
description  has  nothing  in  common  witli  those  accounts 
of  tlie  drama  whicli  have  reference  to  tliis  ' '  semi-bar- 
barism." Nor  does  the  writer  of  it  belong  to  the  school 
which  considered  a  violation  of  the  unities  of  time  and 
place  as  the  great  defect  of  the  English  theatre.  Nor 
does  he  assert  his  preference  of  the  classic  scliool  over 
the  romantic,  by  objecting,  as  Sir  Philip  Sidney  objects, 
that  "  plays  be  neither  right  tragedies  nor  right  come- 
dies mingling  kings  and  clowns."  There  had  been, 
jccording  to  Spenser,  a  state  of  the  drama  that  would 

*'Fill  with  pleasure 
The  listeners'  eyes,  and  ears  with  melody." 

Can  any  comedy  be  named,  if  we  assume  that  Shake- 
speare had,  in  1590,  not  written  any,  which  could  be 
celebrated — and  by  the  exquisite  versifier  of  '  The 
Fairy  Queen' — for  its  "  melody"  ?     Could  any  also  be 

praised  for 

'*  That  goodly  glee 
Which  wont  to  be  the  glory  of  gay  wits"  ? 

Could  the  plays  before  Shakespeare  be  described  by  the 

most  competent  of  judges — the  most  poetical  mind  of 

tliat  age  next  to  Shakespeare — as  abounding  in 

"Fine  Counterfesance,  and  unhjirtful  Sport, 
Delight,  and  Laughter,  deck'd  in  seemly  sort"  ? 

We  ha\-e  not  seen  such  a  comedy,  except  some  three  or 

four  of  Shakespeare's,  which  could  have  existed  before 

1590.     We  do  not  believe  there  is  such  a  comedy  from 

any  other  pen.     What,  according  to  the  '  Complaint' 

of  Tlialia,  has  banished   such   comedy?     "Unseemly 

Sorrow, "  it  appears,  has  been  fashionable  ;— not  the 

proprieties  of  tragedy,  but  a  Sorrow 

"  With  hollow  hrmea  and  grUsly  coantenanco  ;"— 

the  violent  scenes  of  blooil  which  were  ofi'ered  for  the 

excitement  of  the  multitude,  before  the  tragedy  of  real 

ftrt  w;is  devised.     But  this  state  of  the  drama  is  shortly 

•  'Udlnburgh  Review,'  vol.  Ixxl.,  p.  469. 


passed  over.  Thert  is  something  more  define.  By 
the  side  of  this  false  tragic  sit  "  ugly  Barbarism  ■iuA 
brutish  Ignorance."  These  are  not  the  barbarism  and 
ignorance  of  the  old  stage  ; — they  are 

"Ycrept  of  late 
Out  of  dread  darkness  of  the  deep  abysm." 

They  " now  tyrannize  ;"  they  now  "disguise"  the  fair 

scene  "with  rudeness."     The  Muse   of  Tragedy,   Mol- 

pomene,  had  previously  described  the  ' '  rueful  ?peo- 

tacles"  of  "  the  stage."     It  was  a  stage  which  had  no 

"  true  tragedy."     But  it  had  possessed 

"  Delight,  and  Laughter,  deck'd  in  seemly  sort." 

The  four  stjinzas  which  we  have  quoted  are  imme 

diately  followed  by  these  four  others  : — 

*'  All  these,  and  all  that  else  the  comic  stage 

With  season'd  wit  and  goodly  ple.isure  graced. 
Ey  which  man's  life  in  his  likest  image 

Was  limned  forth,  are  wholly  now  def;iced  ; 
And  those  sweet  wits,  which  wont  the  like  to  fram^ 
Are  now  despis'd,  and  made  a  laughing  game. 

And  he,  the  man  whom  Nature  self  had  mad'j 

To  mock  herself,  and  Truth  to  imitate 
With  kindly  counter,  under  mimic  shade 

Our  pleasant  Willy,  ah  !  is  dead  of  late 
With  whom  all  joy  and  jolly  merriment 
Is  also  deaded,  and  in  dolour  drent 

Instead  thereof  scoffing  Scurrility, 
And  scornfnl  Fully,  witii  Contempt,  is  crept, 

Rolling  in  rhymes  of  shameless  rib<ildry, 
Without  regard  or  due  decorum  kept; 

Each  idle  wit  at  will  presumes  to  make, 

And  doth  the  Learned's  task  upon  him  take. 

But  that  same  gentle  spirit,  from  whose  pen 
Large  streams  of  honey  and  sweet  nectar  flow. 

Scorning  the  boldness  of  such  b.ase-born  men. 
Which  dire  their  lollies  forth  so  rashly  throw, 

Doth  rather  choose  to  sit  in  idle  coll 

Than  so  himself  to  mockery  to  sell." 

The  love  of  personal  abuse  had  driven  out  real  comedy , 
and  there  was  one  who,  for  a  brief  season,  had  left  the 
madness  to  take  its  course.     We  cannot  doubt  that 
"Hb,  the  man  whom  Nature  self  had  made 
To  mock  herself,  and  Truth  to  imitate," 
was  William  Sfiakcsj'care. 

England  was  sorely  visited  by  the  plague  in  1592 
and  1593.  The  theatres  were  shut ;  there  were  no 
performances  at  Court.  Shakespeare,  we  may  believe, 
during  the  long  peiiod  of  the  continuance  of  the  plague 
in  London,  had  no  occupation  at  the  Blackfriars  The- 
atre ;  and  the  pastimes  of  the  Lord  Chambeilain's  ser- 
vants were  disjiensed  with  at  the  jialaccs.  It  is  prob- 
able that  he  was  residing  at  his  own  Stratford.  The 
leisure,  we  think,  afforded  him  opportunity  rf  preparing 
the  most  important  of  that  wonderful  series  of  historical 
dramas  which  unquestionably  appeared  within  a  few 
years  of  this  period  ;  and  of  pinducing  some  oilier 
dramatic  compositions  of  the  highest  order  of  poetical 
excellence.  It  appears  to  us,  looking  at  the  piinted 
labours  of  Shakespeare  at  this  exact  periixl,  that  thera 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEAEE, 


was  some  pause  in  his  professional  occupation  ;  and 
that  many  months'  residence  in  Stratford,  from  tlie 
nutumn  of  1092  to  tlie  summer  of  1593,  enabled  him 
more  svsti'matically  to  cultivate  tliose  liiglicr  faculties 
xliich  placi!d  him,  even  in  tlie  opiuiun  of  Uis  coutem- 
po'iiries,  at  tlic  licail  of  the  living'  jjoets  of  England. 

It  is  easy  to  believe  that  if  any  external  impulse  were 
minting  to  stimulate  the  poetical  amhition  of  Shake- 
speare— to  maUe  him  aspire  to  some  higher  character 
tliau  that  of  tlie  most  popular  of  dramatists — such  might 
be  found  in  1593  in  the  clear  field  which  was  left  for 
the  exercise  of  his  peculiar  powers.  Robert  Greene 
had  died  on  the  3rd  of  September,  1592,  leaving  behind 
Uim  a  sneer  at  the  actor  who  aspired  "to  bombast  out 
a  blank  verse."  Had  his  genius  not  been  destroyed  by 
the  wear  and  tear,  and  the  corrupting  influences,  of  a 
profligate  life,  he  never  could  have  competed  with  the 
mature  Shakespeare.  But  as  we  know  that  "  the  only 
Shake-scene  in  a  country,"  at  whom  the  unhappy  man 
presumed  to  scoflf,  felt  the  insult  somewhat  deeply,  so 
we  may  presume  he  took  the  most  eff'ectual  means  to 
prove  to  the  world  that  he  was  not,  according  to  the 
malignant  insinuation  of  his  envious  compeer,  "an  up- 
start crow  beautified  with  our  feathers."  We  believe 
that  in  the  gentleness  of  his  nature,  when  he  introduced 
into  'A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream' 

"  The  thrice  three  Muses  mourning  for  the  death 
Of  learning  late  deceas'd  in  beggary," 

lie  dropped  a  tear  upon  the  grave  of  Greene,  whose  de- 
merits were  to  be  forgiven  in  his  misery.  On  the  1st  of 
June,  1593,  Christopher  Marlowe  perished  in  a  wretch- 
ed brawl,  "  slain  by  Francis  Archer,"  as  the  Register  of 
Burials  of  the  parish  of  St.  Nicholas,  Deptford,  informs 
us.  Who-was  left  of  the  dramatists  that  could  enter 
into  competition  with  William  Shakespeare,  such  as  he 
tlien  was  ?  He  was  almost  alone.  The  great  disciples 
of  his  school  had  not  arisen.  Jonson  had  not  appeared 
to  found  a  school  of  a  diff'erent  character.  It  was  for 
him,  thenceforth,  to  sway  the  popular  mind  after  his  own 
fashion  ;  to  disregard  the  obligation  which  the  rivalry 
of  high  talent  might  have  imposed  upon  him  of  listen- 
ing to  other  suggestions  than  those  of  his  own  lofty 
art ;  to  make  the  multitude  bow  before  that  art,  rather 
than  that  it  should  accommodate  itself  to  their  habits 
and  prejudices.  But  at  a  period  when  the  exercise  of 
the  poetical  power  in  connexion  with  the  stage  was 
scarcely  held  amongst  the  learned  and  the  polite  in 
irself  to  be  poetry,  Shakes]>eare  vindicated  his  reputa- 
tion ly  tha  publication  of  the  'Venus  and  Adonis.' 
It  was,  he  says,  "the  first  heir  of  my  invention." 
There  may  he  a  doubt  whether  Shakespeare  meant  to 
6ay  literally  that  this  was  the  first  poetical  work  that 
he  had  produced  ;  or  whether  he  held,  in  deference  to 
some  critical  opinions,  that  his  dramatic  productions 


coiddnotbc  classed  amongst  the  heirs  ;f  "invention." 
We  think  that  he  meant  to  use  the  words  literally; 
and  lliat  he  used  them  at  a  period  when  lie  might 
assinni>,  witliout  vanity,  tliat  ho  had  taken  his  rank 
amongst  the  poets  of  his  time.  He  dedicates  to  the 
Earl  of  Southampton  something  that  had  not  before 
been  given  to  the  world.  He  calls  his  verses  "  un- 
polished lines  ;"  he  vows  to  take  advantage  of  all  idle 
hours  till  he  had  honoured  the  young  patron  of  the 
Muses  with  "some  graver  labour."  But  invmiion  was 
received  then,  as  it  was  afterwards,  as  the  highest  qua- 
lity of  the  poet.  Dryden  says, — "  A  poet  is  a  maker, 
as  the  word  signifies ;  and  he  who  cannot  make,  that 
is,  invent,  hath  his  name  for  nothing."  We  consider, 
therefore,  that  "my  invention"  is  not  the  language  of 
one  unknown  to  fame.  He  was  exhibiting  the  powers 
which  he  possessed  upon  a  diflerent  instrument  than 
that  to  which  the  world  was  accustomed  ;  but  the  world 
knew  that  the  power  existed.  We  employ  the  word 
genius  always  with  reference  to  the  inventive  or  creative 
faculty.  Substitute  the  word  genius  for  invention,  and 
the  expression  used  by  Shakespeare  sounds  like  arro- 
gance. But  t'ae  substitution  may  indicate  that  the 
actual  expression  could  not  have  been  used  by  one  who 
came  forward  for  the  first  time  to  claim  tlie  honoura  oi 
the  poet.  It  has  been  argued  from  tliis  expression  that 
Shakespeare  had  produced  nothing  original  before  the 
'  Venus  and  Adonis' — that  up  to  the  period  of  its  pub- 
lication, in  1593,  he  was  only  a  repairer  of  the  works  of 
other  men.  We  hold  that  the  expression  implies  the 
direct  contrary. 

We  have  a  distinct  record  when  the  theatres  were 
re-opened  after  the  plague.  The  '  Diary'  of  Philip 
Henslowe  records  that  "the  Earl  of  Sussex  his  men" 
acted  '  Huon  of  Bordeaux'  on  the  28th  of  December, 
1593.  Henslowe  appears  to  have  had  an  interest  in 
this  company.  It  is  probable  that  Shakespeare's  theatre 
of  the  Blackfriars  was  opened  about  the  same  period. 
We  have  some  evidence  to  show  what  was  the  duration 
of  the  winter  season  at  this  theatre  ;  for  the  same  diary 
shows  tliat  from  June,  1594,  the  performances  of  the 
theatre  at  Newington  Butts  were  a  joint  undertaking 
by  the  Lord  Admiral's  men  and  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain's men.  How  long  this  association  of  two  companies 
lasted  is  not  easy  to  determine  ;  but  during  the  month 
of  June  we  have  entries  of  the  exhibition  of  '  Andro- 
nicus,'  of  '  Hamlet,"  and  of  '  The  Taming  of  a  Shrew.' 
No  subsequent  entries  exhibit  the  names  of  plays  which 
have  any  real  or  apparent  connexion  with  Shakespeare. 
It  appears  that  in  December,  1593,  Richard  Burbage 
entered  into  a  bond  with  Peter  Streete,  a  carpente.',  fol 
the  performance  on  the  part  of  Burbage  of  the  cove- 
nants contained  in  an  indenture  of  agreement  by  which 
Streete  undertook  to  erect  a  new  theatre  for  Burbage' 8 


IXXVl 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESrEARE. 


company.  This  was  the  famous  Globe  on  the  Bankside, 
of  wliich  Shakespeare  was  unquestionably  a  proprietor. 
We  thus  see  that  in  1594  there  were  new  di.i_ancls  to 
be  made  upon  his  invention  ;  and  we  may  reasonably 
conclude  that  the  reliance  of  Burbage  and  his  other 
fellows  upon  their  poet's  unequalled  powers  was  one  of 
tl'.eir  principal  inducements  to  engage  in  this  new  en- 
terprise. 

In  the  midst  of  his  professional  engagements,  which 
doubtless  were  renewed  with  Increased  activity  after 
their  long  suspension,  Shakespeare  published  his  '  Rape 
of  Lucrece.'  He  had  vowed  to  take  advantage  of  all 
idle  hours  till  he  had  honoured  Lord  Southampton 
with  some  graver  labour  than  the  first  heir  of  his  inven- 
tion. The  '  Venus  and  Adonis'  was  entered  in  the 
Registers  of  the  Stationers'  Company  on  the  18th  of 
April,  1593.  The  'Lucrece'  appears  in  the  same  Re- 
gisters on  the  9th  of  May,  1594.  Tliat  this  elaborate 
poem  was  wholly  or  in  part  composed  in  that  interval 
of  leisure  which  resulted  from  the  shutting  of  the 
theatres  in  1593  may  be  reasonably  conjectured  ;  but 
it  is  evident  that  during  the  year  which  had  elapsed 
between  the  publication  of  the  first  and  the  second 
poem,  Shakespeare  had  been  brought  into  more  in- 
timate companionship  witli  his  noble  patron.  The  lan- 
guage of  the  first  dedication  is  that  of  distant  respect, 
the  second  is  that  of  grateful  friendship.  At  the  period 
when  Shakespeare  dedicated  to  him  his  '  Venus  and 
Adonis'  Lord  Southampton  was  scarcely  twenty  years 
of  age.  He  is  supposed  to  have  become  intimate  with 
Shakespeare  from  the  circumstance  that  his  mother  had 
married  Sir  Thomas  Heueage,  who  filled  the  office  of 
Treasurer  of  the  Chamber,  and  in  the  discharge  of  his 
official  duties  would  be  brought  into  frequent  inter- 
course with  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  players.  This  is 
Drake's  theory.  The  more  natural  belief  appears  to  be 
that  he  had  a  strong  attachment  to  literature,  and, 
with  the  generous  impetuosity  of  his  character,  did  not 
regaril  the  distinctions  of  rank  to  the  extent  with 
which  they  were  regarded  by  men  of  colder  tempera- 
ments and  more  worldly  minds.  Shakespeare  appears 
to  have  been  the  first  amongst  the  writers  of  his  day 
that  ofiFered  a  public  tribute  to  the  merits  of  the  young 
nobleman.  Both  the  dedications,  and  especially  that 
of  'Lucrece,'  are  conceived  in  a  modest  and  a  manlj- 
spirit,  entirely  different  from  the  oi'dinary  language  of 
literary  adulation.  There  is  evidence  in  the  second 
dedication  of  a  higher  sort  of  intercourse  between  the 
two  minds  than  consists  with  any  forced  adulation  of 
fti  y  kind,  and  especially  with  any  extravagant  compli- 
ments to  the  learning  and  to  the  abilities  of  a  superior 
In  rafik.  Such  testimonies  are  always  suspicious  ;  and 
prol)ably  honest  old  Florio,  when  ho  dedicated  his 
•■R^orld  of  Woids'  to  the  Earl  in  1598,  shows  pretty 


correctly  what  the  race  of  panegyrists  expected  in 
return  for  their  compliments  :  "  In  truth,  I  acknowl- 
edge an  entire  debt,  not  only  of  my  best  knowledge, 
but  of  all ;  yea  of  more  than  I  know,  or  can,  to  youi 
bounteous  lordship,  in  whose  pay  and  patronage  I  have 
lived  some  years  ;  to  whom  I  owe  and  vow  the  years  1 
have  to  live.  But,  as  to  me,  and  many  more,  the  glori- 
ous and  gracious  sunshine  of  your  honour  hath  infused 
light  and  life."  '  There  is  an  extraordinary  anecdote 
told  by  Rowe  of  Lord  Southampton's  munificence  to 
■  Shakespeare,  which  seems  to  bring  the  poet  somewhat 
near  to  Florio' s  plain-speaking  association  of  pay  and 
patronage  : — "  What  grace  soever  the  Queen  conferred 
upon  him,  it  was  not  to  her  only  he  owed  the  fortune 
which  the  reputation  of  his  wit  made.  He  had  the 
honour  to  meet  with  many  great  and  uncommon  marks 
of  favour  and  friendship  from  the  Earl  of  Southampton, 
famous  in  the  histories  of  that  time  for  his  friendship 
to  the  unfortunate  Earl  of  Essex.  It  was  to  that  noble 
loid  that  he  dedicated  his  poem  of  '  Venus  and  Ador.is.' 
There  is  one  instance  so  singular  in  the  magnificence  of 
this  patron  of  Shakespeare's,  that  if  I  had  not  been  as- 
sured that  the  story  was  handed  down  by  Sir  William 
D'Avenant,  who  was  probably  very  well  acquainted 
with  his  afiiiirs,  I  should  not  have  ventured  to  hav« 
inserted  ;  that  my  Lord  Southampton  at  one  time  gave 
him  a  thousand  pounds,  to  enable  him  to  go  througli 
with  a  purchase  which  he  heard  he  had  a  mind  to.  A 
bounty  very  gi'eat,  and  very  rare  at  any  time,  and  al- 
most equal  to  that  profuse  generosity  the  present  age 
has  shown  to  Pi'ench  dancers  and  Italian  singers.'  This 
is  one  of  the  many  instances  in  which  we  are  not  war- 
ranted in  rejecting  a  tradition,  however  we  may  look 
suspiciously  upon  the  accuracy  of  its  details.  D'Ave- 
nant could  scarcely  be  very  well  acquainted  with  Shake- 
speare's affairs,  for  he  was  only  ten  years  old  when 
Shakespeare  died.  The  sum  mentioned  as  the  gift  of 
the  young  nobleman  to  the  poet  is  so  large,  looking  at 
the  value  of  money  in  those  days,  that  it  could  scarcely 
consist  with  the  independence  of  a  generous  spirit  to 
bear  the  load  of  such  a  prodigality  of  bounty.  The 
notions  of  those  days  were,  however,  dilferent  from 
ours.  Examples  will  readily  suggest  themselves  of  the 
most  lavish  rewards  bestowed  by  princes  and  nobles 
upon  great  painters.  They  received  such  gifts  witliout 
any  compromise  of  their  intellectual  dignity.  It  was 
the  same  then  with  poets.  According  to  the  habits  ol 
the  time  Shakespeare  might  have  received  a  large  gift 
from  Lord  Southampton,  without  any  forfeiture  of  his 
self-respect.  Nevertheless,  Rowo's  story  must  still  ap- 
pear sutliciontly  a|iocryphal  :  "  My  Lord  Southampton 
at  one  time  gave  him  a  thousand  pounds,  to  enable  liim 
to  go  through  with  a  pmchaso  which  ho  heard  he  had 
a  mind   to."     It  is  not  necessary  to  accoimt  /or  tho 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SIlAKESl'EAKE, 


xTxni 


gradual  aoqulsitioii  of  property  by  Shakespeare  tliat  wo 
rUouUI  yield  our  assent  to  this  tradition,  witlunit  some 
qualilication.  In  1589,  wlien  Ijord  Soulliampton  was  a 
lad  at  College,  Shakespeare  had  already  iicquircd  that 
property  which  was  to  be  the  foundation  of  his  future 
fortime.  He  was  then  a  shareholder  in  the  Blackfriars 
Theatre.  That  the  adventure  was  a,  prosperous  one,  not 
only  to  himself  but  to  his  brother  shareholders,  may  be 
inferred  from  the  fact  that  four  years  afterwards  they 
began  the  building  of  another  theatre.  The  Globe  was 
commenced  In  December,  1593  ;  and  being  constructed 
for  the  most  part  of  wood,  was  ready  to  be  opened,  we 
should  imagine,  in  the  summer  of  1594.  In  1596  the 
same  prosperous  company  were  prepared  to  expend  con- 
siderable sums  upon  the  repair  and  extension  of  their 
original  theatre,  the  Blackfriars.  The  name  of  Shake- 
speare occupies  a  prominent  position  in  the  document 
from  which  we  collect  this  fact  :  it  is  a  petition  to  the 
Lords  of  the  Privy  Council  from  "Thomas  Pope,  Rich- 
ard Burbadge,  John  Hemings,  Augustine  Philips,  Wil- 
liam Shakespeare,  William  Kempe,  William  Slye, 
Nicholas  Tooley,  and  others,  servants  lo  the  Eight 
Honorable  the  Lord  Chambtrlain  to  her  Majesty;"  and 
it  sets  forth  that  they  are  "  the  owners  and  players  of 
the  private  theatre  in  the  Blaokfriar.s  ;  that  it  hath 
fallen  into  decay ;  and  that  it  has  been  found  necessary 
to  make  the  same  more  convenient  for  the  entertain- 
ment of  auditories  coming  thereto."  It  then  states 
what  is  important  to  the  present  question  : — "  To  this 
end  your  petitioners  have  all  and  each  of  them  put 
down  sums  of  money  according  to  tlieir  shares  in  the 
5aid  theatre,  and  which  they  have  justly  and  honestly 
gained  by  the  exercise  of  their  quality  of  stage-players." 
It  then  alleges  that  certain  inhabitants  of  the  precinct 
had  besought  the  Council  not  to  allow  the  said  private 
house  to  remain  open,  "  but  hereafter  to  be  shut  up 
and  closed,  to  the  manifest  and  great  injury  of  your 
petitioners,  who  have  no  other  means  whereby  to  main- 
tain their  wives  and  families,  but  by  the  exercise  of 
their  quality  as  they  have  heretofore  done."  The 
common  proprietorship  of  the  company  in  the  Globe 
and  Blackfriars  is  also  noticed: — "In  the  summer 
season  your  petitioners  are  able  to  play  at  their  new- 
built  house  on  the  Bankside,  called  the  Globe,  but  in 
the  winter  they  are  compelled  to  come  to  the  Black- 
friars." If  the  winter  theatre  be  shut  up,  they  say 
they  will  be  "unable  to  practise  themselves  in  any 
plays  or  interludes  when  called  upon  to  perform  for  the 
recreation  and  solace  of  her  Majesty  and  her  honour- 
able Court,  as  they  have  been  heretofore  accustomed. ' ' 
Though  the  Registers  of  the  Council  and  the  Office- 
Looks  of  the  Treasurer  of  the  Chamber  are  wanting  for 
this  exact  period,  we  have  here  the  distinct  evidence 
of  the  intimate  relation  between  Shakespeare's  com- 


jiany  and  the  Court.  The  petitioners,  in  concluding 
liy  the  iirayer  that  their  "  honourable  Lordships  will 
grant  permission  to  finish  the  reparations  and  altera- 
tions they  have  begun,"  add  as  a  reason  for  this  favour 
tliat  they  "  have  hitherto  been  well  ordered  in  theii 
behaviour  and  just  in  their  dealings."  The  perform- 
ances at  the  Blackfriars  went  on  without  interruption. 
Shakespeare,  in  1597,  bouglit  "all  that  capital  messu- 
age or  tenement  in  Stratford  called  the  New  Place." 
This  appears  to  have  boon  his  first  investment  in  prop- 
erty distinct  from  his  theatrical  speculations.  The  pur- 
chase of  the  best  house  in  his  native  town,  at  a  period 
of  his  life  when  his  professional  occupations  could  have 
allowed  him  little  leisure  to  reside  in  it,  would  ai)pear 
to  have  had  in  view  an  early  retirement  from  a  pursuit 
which  probably  was  little  agreeable  to  him.  His  power* 
as  a  dramatic  writer  might  be  profitably  exercised  with 
out  being  associated  with  the  actor's  vocation.  We 
know  from  other  circumstances  that  at  this  period  Strat- 
ford was  nearest  to  his  heart.  On  the  24th  of  January, 
1598,  Mr.  Abraham  Sturley,  an  alderman  of  Stratford, 
writes  to  his  brother-in-law,  Richard  Quiney,  then  in 
London  : — "  I  would  write  nothing  unto  you  now — but 
come  home.  I  pray  God  send  you  comfortably  home. 
This  is  one  special  remembrance,  from  your  father's 
motion.  It  seemeth  by  him  that  our  countryman  Mr. 
Shakspere  is  willing  to  disburse  some  money  upon 
some  odd  yard  land  or  other  at  Shottery,  or  near  about 
us.  He  thinketh  it  a  very  fit  pattern  to  move  him  to 
deal  in  the  matter  of  our  tithes.  By  the  instructions 
you  can  give  him  thereof,  and  by  the  friends  he  can 
make  therefore,  we  think  it  a  fair  mark  for  him  to 
shoot  at,  and  not  impossible  to  hit.  It  obtained,  would 
advance  him  indeed,  and  would  do  us  much  good." 
We  thus  see  that  in  a  year  after  the  purchase  of  New 
Place,  Shiikespeare's  accumulation  of  money  was  going 
on.  The  worthy  alderman  and  his  connexions  appear 
to  look  confidently  to  their  countryman,  Mr.  Shake- 
speare, to  assist  them  in  their  needs.  On  the  4th  of 
November,  in  the  same  year,  Sturley  again  •writes  a 
very  long  letter  "  to  his  most  loving  brother  Mr.  Rich- 
ard Quiney,  at  the  Bell,  in  Carter  Lane,  in  London," 
in  which  he  says  of  a  letter  written  by  Quiney  to  him 
on  the  21st  of  October,  that  it  imported,  amongst  other 
matters,  "that  our  countryman  Mr.  W.  Shakspere 
would  procure  us  money,  which  I  well  like  of,  as  I 
shall  hear  when,  and  where,  and  how  ;  and  I  pray  let 
not  go  that  occasion,  if  it  may  sort  to  any  indifferent 
conditions."  Quiney  himself  at  this  very  time  writes 
the  following  characteristic  letter  to  his  ' '  loving  good 
friend  and  countryman,  Mr.  William  Shakspere:"— 
"  Loving  countryman,  I  am  bold  of  you  as  of  a  friend, 
craving  your  help  with  thirty  pounds  upon  Mr.  Bushell 
and  my  security,  or  Mr.  Myttens  ^ith  me.     Mr.  Eoss- 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHz\.KESPEARE. 


W5ll  is  not  come  to  London  as  yet,  and  I  have  especial 
cause.  Tou  shall  friend  me  much  in  helping  me  out 
of  all  the  dehts  I  owe  in  London,  I  thank  God,  and 
much  quiet  to  my  mind  which  would  not  be  indebted. 
I  am  now  towards  the  Court  in  hope  your  answer  for 
the  dispatch  of  my  business.  You  shall  neither  lose 
credit  nor  money  by  me,  the  Lord  willing  ;  and  now 
but  persuade  yourself  so  as  I  hope,  and  you  shall  not 
need  to  feai'  but  with  all  hearty  thankfulness  I  will 
hold  my  time,  and  content  your  friend,  and  if  we  bar- 
gain farther,  you  shall  be  the  paymaster  yourseii.  My 
time  bids  me  to  hasten  to  an  end,  and  so  I  commit  this 
to  your  care  and  hope  of  your  help.  I  fear  I  sliall  not 
be  back  this  night  from  the  Court.  Haste.  The  Lord 
be  with  you  and  with  us  all.  Amen.  From  the  Bell 
in  Carter  Lane,  the  25th  October,  1598.  Yours  in  all 
kindness.  Eye.  Quiney."  The  anxious  dependence 
which  these  honest  men  appear  to  have  upon  the  good 
offices  of  their  townsman  is  more  satisfactory  even 
than  the  evidence  which  their  letters  afford  of  his 
worldly  condition. 

In  the  midst  of  this  prosperity  the  registers  of  the 
parish  of  Stratford-upon-Avon  present  to  us  an  event 
which  must  have  thrown  a  shade  over  the  brightest 
prospects.  The  burial  of  the  only  son  of  the  poet  is 
recorded  in  1596.  Hamnet  was  born  on  the  2nd  of 
February,  l.j85  ;  so  that  at  his  death  he  was  eleven 
years  and  six  months  old.  He  was  a  tv,'in  child  ;  and 
It  is  not  mdikely  that  he  was  constitutionally  weak. 
Some  such  cause  interfered  probably  with  the  educa- 
tion of  the  twin-sister  Judith  ;  for  whilst  Susanna,  the 
elder,  is  recorded  to  have  been  "  witty  above  her  sex," 
and  wrote  a  firm  and  vigorous  hand,  as  we  may  judge 
from  her  signature  to  a  deed  in  1639,  the  mark  of 
Judith  appears  as  an  attesting  witness  to  a  conveyance 
in  1611. 

With  the  exception  of  this  inevitable  calamity,  the 
present  period  may  probably  be  regarded  as  a  happy 
epoch  in  Shakespeare's  life.  He  had  conquered  any  ad- 
verse circumstances  by  which  his  earlier  career  might 
have  been  impeded.  He  had  taken  his  rank  among  the 
first  minds  of  his  age  ;  and,  above  all,  his  pursuits 
.  were  so  engi'ossing  as  to  demand  a  constant  exercise  of 
his  faculties,  and  to  demand  tliat  exercise  in  the  cultiva- 
tion of  the  highest  and  the  most  pleasurable  flioughts. 
This  was  the  period  to  which  belong  the  great  histories 
of  'Richard  IL,'  'Richard  IIL,'  and  'Henry  IV.,'  and 
the  delicious  comedies  of  the  '  Merchant  of  Venice,' 
'Much  Ado  about  Nothing,'  and  'Twelfth  Night.' 
Tliese  productions  afford  the  most  abundant  evidence 
that  the  greatest  of  intellects  was  in  the  most  healthful 
possession  of  its  powers.  I'heso  were  not  hasty  adapta- 
tions for  the  popular  appetite,  as  we  may  well  believe 
some,  of  till'  earlier  plays  were  in  their  first  shape  ;  but 


highly- wrought  performances,  to  which  all  the  nreU.od 
of  his  cultivated  art  had  been  strenuously  applied.  It 
was  at  this  period  that  the  dramatic  poet  appears  not  to 
have  been  satisfied  with  the  applause  of  the  Globe  CI 
the  Blackfriars,  or  even  with  the  gracious  encourage- 
ments of  a  refined  Court.  During  three  years  he  gave 
to  the  world  careful  editions  of  some  of  these  plays,  as 
if  to  vindicate  the  drama  from  the  pedantic  notion  that 
the  Muses  of  tragedy  and  comedy  did  not  meet  their 
sisters  upon  equal  ground.  '  Richard  II.,' and  'Richard 
HI.,'  were  published  in  1597  ;  '  Love's  Labour's  Lost, 
and  '  Henry  IV.,  Part  I.,'  in  1598  ;  '  Romeo  and  Juliet,' 
corrected  and  augmented,  in  1599;  'Henry  IV.,  Part 
II.,'  the  '  Merchant  of  Venice,'  '  A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,'  and  '  Much  Ado  about  Nothing,'  in  1600. 
The  system  of  publication  then  ceased.  It  no  doubl 
interfered  with  the  interests  of  his  fellows  :  and  Shake- 
speare was  not  likely  to  assert  an  exclusive  interest,  or 
to  gratify  an  exclusive  pride,  at  the  expense  of  his  asso- 
ciates. Cut  his  reputation  was  higher  than  that  of  any 
otlier  man,  when  only  four  of  his  plays  were  accessible 
to  the  readers  of  poetry.  In  1598  it  was  proclaimed, 
not  timidly  or  questionably,  that  "  as  Plautus  and  Sen 
eca  are  accounted  the  best  for  tragedy  and  comedy 
among  the  Latins,  so  Shakespeare,  among  the  English, 
is  the  most  excellent  in  both  kinds  for  the  stage  :"  and 
"As  the  soul  of  Euphorbus  was  thought  to  live  in 
Pythagoras,  so  the  sweet  witty  soul  of  Ovid  lives  in 
mellifluous  and  honey-tongued  Shakespeare."  It  was 
certainly  not  at  this  period  of  Shakespeare's  life  that 
he  wrote  with  reference  to  himself,  unlocking  his  heart 
to  some  nameless  friend  : — 

"  When  in  disirr.ice  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 
I  nil  alone  bc-weep  my  outcast  state." 
Sonnets  of  Shakespeare  were  in  existence  in  1598, 
when  Meres  tells  us  of  "  his  sugared  sonnets  among  his 
private  friends. ' '  We  do  not  receive  these  Sonnets  al- 
together as  evidences  of  Shakespeare's  personal  history 
or  feelings.  We  believe  that  the  order  in  which  they 
were  printed  is  an  arbitrary  one  ;  that  some  form  a  con- 
tinuous poem  or  poems,  that  others  are  isolated  in  their 
subjects  and  the  persons  to  w^hom  they  arc  addressed  ; 
that  some  may  express  the  poet's  personal  feelings,  that 
others  are  wholly  fictitious,  dealing  with  imaginary 
loves  and  jealousies,  and  not  attempting  to  separate  the 
personal  identity  of  the  artist  from  the  sentiments 
which  he  expressed,  and  the  situations  which  he  delin- 
eated. We  believe  that,  taken  as  works  of  art,  having 
a  certain  degree  of  continuity,  the  Sonnets  of  Spenser, 
of  Daniel,  of  Drayton,  of  Shakespeare,  although  iu 
many  instances  they  might  shadow  forth  real  feelings 
and  be  outpourings  of  the  inmost  heart,  were  presented 
to  the  world  as  exercises  of  fancy,  and  were  received  by 
the  world  as  such.  Even  of  those  portions  of  these 
remarkable  lyrics  which  appear  to  have  an  obvious  ref- 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


XXS1£ 


eienee  to  the  poet's  feelings  and  circumstances,  we  can- 

aot  avoid  rejecting  tlie  principle  of  continuity  ;  for  they 

clearly  belong  to  different  pericds  of  his  life,  if  they  are 

the   reflection  of  his  real  sentiments.     We  have  the 

playfulness  of  an  early  love,  and  the  agonizing  throes 

of  an  unlawful  passion.     They  speak  of  a  period  when 

the  writer  had  won  no  honour  or  substantial  rewards — 

"  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes,"  the  period 

of  his  youth,  if  the  allusion  was  at  all  real :  and  yet 

the  writer  is 

"  With  time's  Injurious  hand  crush'd  and  o'crworn." 

One  little  dedicatory  poem  says, 

*'  Lord  of  my  love,  to  whom  In  vassalage 
Thy  merit  hath  my  duty  strongly  knit. 
To  thee  I  send  this  written  embassage. 
To  witness  duty,  not  to  show  my  wit," 

Another  (and  it  is  distinctly  associated  with  what  we 
hold  to  be  a  continued  little  poem,  wholly  fictitious,  in 
which  the  poet  dramatizes  as  it  were  the  poetical  char- 
acter) boasts  that 

"Not  mart)Ie,  not  the  gilded  monuments, 
Of  princes  shall  outlive  this  powerful  rhyme." 

Without  attempting  therefore  to  disprove  that  these 
Sonnets  were  addressed  to  the  Earl  of  Southampton,  or 
to  the  Earl  of  Pembroke,  we  must  leave  the  reader  who 
fancies  he  can  find  in  them  a  shadowy  outline  of  Shake- 
speare's life  to  form  his  own  conclusion  from  their  care- 
fid  perusal.  '1'hey  want  unity  and  consistency  too 
much  to  be  received  as  credible  illustrations  of  this  life. 
The  71st  to  the  74th  Sonnets  seem  bursting  from  a 
heart  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  its  own  unworthiness, 
and  surrendeied  to  some  overwhelming  misery.  There 
is  a  line  in  the  74th  which  points  at  suicide.  We 
cling  to  the  belief  that  the  sentiments  here  expressed 
arc  essentially  dramatic.  In  the  32nd  Sonnet,  where 
we  recognise  the  man  Shakespeare  speaking  in  his  o%vn 
modest  and  cheerful  spirit,  death  is  to  come  across  his 
"  well-contented  day ."  We  must  place  one  sentiment  in 
opposition  to  th«  other,  and  then  tlie  effect  is  neutral- 
ized. The  opinion  which  we  have  formed  of  the  proba- 
ble admixture  of  the  artificial  and  the  real  in  the 
Sonnets  arising  from  their  supposed  original  fragmenta- 
ry state,  necessarily  leads  to  the  belief  that  some  are 
accurate  illustrations  of  the  poet's  situationand  feelings. 
It  is  collected  from  these  Sonnets,  for  example,  that  his 
profession  as  a  player  was  disagreeable  to  him ;  and 
this  complaint  is  found  amongst  those  portions  which 
may  be  separated  from  the  series  of  verses  which  a.p- 
pcar  to  us  to  he  written  in  an  artificial  character.  It 
might  be  a{ldressed  to  any  one  of  his  family,  or  some 
honoured  friend,  such  as  Lord  Southampton  ; — 

"  O,  for  my  sake  do  yon  with  Fortune  chide. 
The  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmful  deeds. 
That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide 
Than  public  means,  which  public  manners  breeds. 


Thence  comes  it  that  my  name  receives  a  brrjld. 
And  almost  thence  my  nature  is  subdued 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  band." 

But  if  from  his  professional  occupation  his  nature  vras 
felt  by  him  to  be  subdued  to  what  it  worked  in,— U 
thence  his  name  received  a  brand, — if  vulgar  scandal 
sometimes  assailed  him, — he  had  high  thouglits  to 
console  him,  such  as  were  never  before  imparted  to 
mortal.  This  was  probably  written  in  some  period  of 
dejection,  when  his  heart  was  ill  at  ease,  and  he  looked 
upon  the  world  with  a  slight  tinge  of  indifference,  if 
not  of  dislike.  Every  man  of  high  genius  has  felt 
something  of  this.  It  was  reserved  for  the  highest  to 
throw  it  off,  "  like  devr-drops  from  the  lion's  mane." 
But  the  profound  self-abasement  and  despondency  of 
the  74th  Sonnet,  exquisite  as  the  diction  is,  appear  to 
us  Unreal,  as  a  representation  of  the  mental  state  of 
William  Shakespeare ;  written,  as  it  most  probably  v<.,'.. 
at  a  period  of  his  life  when  he  revels  and  luxuriates  (in 
the  comedies  which  belong  to  the  close  of  the  sixtenntb 
century)  in  the  spirit  of  enjoyment,  gushing  from  a 
heart  full  of  love  for  his  species,  at  peace  with  itself 
and  with  all  the  world. 

About  the  close  of  the  year  1599,  the  Elackfriars 
Theatre  was  remarkable  for  the  constant  presence  of 
two  men  of  high  rank,  who  were  there  seeking  amuse- 
ment and  instruction  as  some  solace  for  the  bitter  mor 
tiflcations  of  disappointed  ambition.  "  My  Lord  South 
ampton  and  Lord  Kutland  came  not  to  the  Court ;  the. 
one  doth  but  very  seldom  ;  they  pass  away  the  time  in 
London  merely  in  going  to  plays  every  day."*  Essex 
had  arrived  from  Ireland  on  the  28th  of  September, 
1599— not 

"  Bringing  rebellion  broached  on  his  sword," — 

not  surrounded  with  swarms  of  citizens  who 

"  Go  forth,  and  fetch  their  conquering  Cffisar  in," 
but  a  fugitive  from  his  army  ;  one  who  in  his  desire  for 
peace  had  treated  with  rebels,  and  had  brought  down 
upon  him  the  censures  of  the  Court ;  one  who  knew 
that  his  sovereign  was  surrounded  with  his  persona! 
enemies,  and  who  in  his  reckless  anger  once  thought  to 
turn  his  army  homeward  to  compel  justice  at  theii 
hands-;  one  who  at  last  rushed  alone  into  the  Queen's 
presence,  "  full  of  dirt  and  mire,"  and  found  that  he 
was  in  the  toils  of  his  foes.  From  that  Michaelmas 
till  the  2Gth  of  August,  1600,  Essex  was  in  the  custody 
of  the  Lord  Keeper  ;  in  free  custody  as  it  was  termer!, 
but  to  all  intents  a  prisoner.  It  was  at  this  period  that 
Southampton  and  Rutland  passed  "  away  the  time  in 
London  merely  in  going  to  plays  every  day."  South- 
ampton, in  1598,  had  married  Elizabeth  Vernon,  a 
cousin  of  Lord  Essex.    The  marriage  was  without  the 

»  Letter  of  Rowland  Why te  to  Sir  Robert  8yd.»ey,  in  th2  '  Syd 
ney  Papers.' 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEAKE. 


consent  of  lUe  Queen  ;  and  tlierefore  Southampton  was 
under  the  bar.  of  the  Court,  having  been  peremptorily 
dismissed  by  Elizabeth  from  the  office  to  which  Essex 
had  api-ioiuted  him  in  the  exjiedition  to  Ireland.  Kut- 
laud  w;is  also  connected  with  Essex  by  family  ties,  hav- 
ing married  the  daughter  of  Lady  Essex,  by  her  iirst 
husband,  the  accomplished  Sir  Philip  Sidney.  The 
season  when  these  noblemen  sought  recreation  at  the 
Theatre  was  one  therefore  of  calamity  to  themselves, 
and  to  the  friend  who  was  at  the  head  of  their  party  in 
the  st;ite.  At  Shakespeare's  theatre  there  were  at  this 
period  abundant  materials  for  the  highest  intellectual 
gratification.  Of  Shakespeare's  own  works  we  know 
that  at  the  opening  of  the  seventeenth  century  there 
were  tnenty  plays  in  existence.  Thirteen  (considering 
'Henry  IV.,'  as  two  parts)  are  recorded  by  Meres  in 
15'J8  ;  'Much  Ado  About  Nothing,'  and  'Henry  V.,' 
(not  in  Meres'  list),  were  printed  ia  1600  ;  and  we  have 
to  add  the  three  parts  of  '  Henry  TI.,'  '  The  Taming  of 
the  Shrew,'  and  the  original  '  Hamlet,'  which  are  also 
wanting  in  Meres'  record,  but  which  were  unquestion- 
ably produced  before  this  iieriod.  We  cannot  with 
extreme  precision  fix  the  date  of  any  novelty  from  the 
pen  of  Shakespeare  when  Southampton  and  Rutland 
were  amongst  his  daily  auditors  ;  but  there  is  every 
reason  to  believe  that  'As  You  Like  It'  belongs  as 
nearly  as  possible  to  this  exact  period.  It  is  pleasant 
to  speculate  upon  the  tranquillizing  effect  that  might 
have  been  produced  upon  the  minds  of  the  banished 
courtiers  by  the  exquisite  philosophy  of  this  most  de- 
licious play.  It  is  pleasant  to  imagine  Southampton 
■visiting  Essex  in  the  splendid  prison  of  the  Lord 
Keeper's  house,  and  there  repeating  to  him  from  time 
to  time  those  lessons  of  wisdom  that  were  to  be  found 
in  the  woods  of  Arden.  We  could  almost  slide  into 
the  belief  that  '  As  You  Like  It'  had  an  especial  refer- 
ence to  the  circumstances  in  which  Essex  and  South- 
ampton were  placed  in  the  spring  of  ICOO.  There  is 
nothing  desponding  in  its  tone,  nothing  essentially  mis- 
anthropical in  its  philosophy.  Jaques  stands  alone  in 
his  railing  against  mankind.  The  healing  influences  of 
nature  fall  sweetly  and  fruitfully  upon  the  exiled  Duke 
and  his  co-mates.  But,  nevertheless,  the  ingratitude 
of  the  world  is  emphatically  dwelt  upon,  even  amidst 
the  most  soothing  aspects  of  a  pure  and  simple  life 
"  under  the  greenwood  tree." 

The  period  at  which  Essex  fell  upon  the  block,  and 
Southampton  was  imder  condemnation,  must  have  been 
a  gloomy  period  in  the  life  of  Shakespeare.  The  friend- 
ship of  Southampton  in  all  likelihood  raised  the  humble 
actor  t»  that  just  appreciation  of  liimself  which  could 
alone  prevent  his  nature  being  subdued  to  what  it 
worked  in.  Tliere  had  been  a  compromise  between  the 
lne<iuaUty  of  rank  and  the  inequality  of  intellect,  and 


the  fruit  had  been  a  continuance  and  a  strength-ining 
of  that  "love"  which  seven  years  earlier  had  bein  de- 
scribedas  "  withoutend."  Those  ties  were  now  broken 
by  calamity.  UTie  accomplished  noble,  a  prisoner  look- 
ing daily  for  death,  could  not  know  the  depth  of  the 
love  of  his  ' '  especial  friend.  "^  He  was  beyond  the 
reach  of  any  service  that  his  friend  could  render  him. 
All  was  gloom  and  uncertainty.  It  has  been  said,  and 
we  believe  without  any  intention  to  depreciate  the 
character  of  the  great  poet,  that  "  There  seems  to  have 
been  a  period  of  Shakespeare's  life  when  his  heart  was 
ill  at  ease,  and  ill  content  with  the  world  or  his  own 
conscience  ;  the  memory  of  hours  mis-spent,  the  pang 
of  affection  misplaced  or  unrequited,  the  experience  of 
man's  worser  nature,  which  intercourse  with  ill-chosen 
associates,  by  choice  or  circumstance,  peculiarly  teaches ; 
— these,  as  they  sank  down  into  the  depths  of  his  great 
mind,  seem  not  only  to  have  inspired  into  it  the  con- 
ception of  Lear  and  Timon,  but  that  of  one  primary 
character,  the  censurer  of  mankind. "f  The  genius  of 
Shixkespeare  was  so  essentially  dramatic,  that  neither 
Lear,  nor  Timon,  nor  Jaques,  nor  the  Duke  in  '  Measure 
for  Measure, '  nor  Hamlet,  whatever  censure  of  man- 
kind they  may  express,  can  altogether  be  held  to  reflect 
"  a  period  of  Shtdiespeare's  life  when  his  heart  was  ill 
at  ease,  and  ill  content  with  the  world."  That  period 
is  referred  to  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
to  which  the  plays  belong  that  ai-e  said  to  exhibit  these 
attributes.  J  But  from  this  period  there  is  certainly  a 
more  solemn  cast  of  thought  in  all  the  works  of  the 
great  poet.  The  influence  of  time  in  the  formation  and 
direction  of  the  poetical  power  must  yet  be  taken  into 
account,  as  well  as  any  temper  arising  out  of  passing 
events.  Shakespeare  was  now  thirty-seven  years  of 
age.  He  had  attained  to  the  consciousness  of  his  own 
intellectual  strength,  and  he  had  acquired  by  long 
practice  the  mastery  of  his  own  genius.  He  had  al- 
ready learnt  to  direct  the  stage  to  higher  and  nobler 
purposes  than  those  of  mere  amusement.  It  might  be 
carried  farther  Into  the  teaching  of  tli6  highest  philos- 
ophy through  the  medium  of  the  grandpst  poetry.  The 
epoch  which  produced  'Othello,'  'Loar,'  and  'Mac- 
beth,' has  been  described  as  exhibitiog  the  genius  of 
Shakespeare  in  full  possession  and  hshitual  exercise  of 
power,  "at  its  very  point  of  culmination." 

The  year  ICOl  was  also  a  year  which  brought  to 
Shakespeare  a  great  domestic  atffiction.  His  father  died 
on  the  8lh  of  September  of  that  year.  It  is  impossible 
not  to  feel  that  Shakespeare's  family  ruraugemcuts,  im- 
perfectly as  we  know  them,  had  especial  reference  to 

•  Tho  ;-xpressIon  is  nsed  by  8outb(UMpton  m  his  letter  to  Ixird 
Elle&iiM-re  iiiti.Hhicin?  SlmkL'speAre  anij  Liu-baj^o  iu  1C08.  See  Ccl- 
Ilor's  ■  Ni'vv  1M..-1S,'  p.  .■53. 

+  IlalliiniV  •  Literature  -" "  Europe,'  /jl  lii.,  p.  C6S. 

t  Mr.  .Hullaiu  refers  t:    nnuiiol'  in  ilo  altered  *oi  Ji 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


zli 


the  comfoit  and  honour  of  his  pareutb.  When  he 
bought  New  Pliice  in  1597,  his  occupations  then  de- 
manding his  piesence  in  Loudon  through  great  part  of 
tlie  year,  liis  wife  and  cliildren,  we  may  readily  im- 
agine, were  under  the  same  roof  with  liis  fatlicr  aud 
mother.  They  had  sighed  over  the  declining  health  of 
hif.  little  Hamnet, — they  had  watched  over  the  growth 
of  his  Susanna  and  Judith.  If  restricted  means  had  at 
any  previous  period  assailed  them,  he  had  provided  for 
tlie  comforts  of  their  advanced  age.  Aud  now  that 
father,  the  companion  of  his  boyhood — he  who  liad  led 
him  forth  into  the  fields  and  had  taught  him  to  look  at 
nature  with  a  practical  eye — was  gone.  More  materials 
for  deep  thought  in  the  year  1601.  The  Register  of 
Stratford  attests  the  death  of  this  earliest  friend. 

The  fortieth  volume  of  the  registers  of  the  Town 

Council  of  Aberdeen  contains  some  entries,  which  are 

not  without  their  reference  to  the  life  of  Shakespeare  : 

"  Nono  Octobris  ICOl. 

"Ordinance  to  the  dean  of  gild. 

*'Tlie  sainen  day  The  prouest  Bailleis  and  counsall  ordanis  the 
ivme  of  tlirettie  tua  uierl^is  to  be  gevin  to  ttie  Kingis  serwaados 
presently  in  this  burcbt..quiia  playes  comedeis  and  staise  playes. 
Be  VL';isoun  they  ar  recomniendit  be  his  majesties  speeiall  letter 
and  hes  played  snm  of  tlieir  comedies  in  this  burclit  and  ordanis 
the  said  svnie  to  be  payit  to  tham  be  the  dean  of  gild  quhilk  salbe 
allowit  in  h!s  comptis." 

"22  Oct'  1601. 

"The  Quliilk  day  Sir  Francis  Hospitall  of  Ilaulszie  Kiiycht 
Frensolunan  being  recoinmendit  be  his  majistie  to  the  Prouest 
Uailk'is  and  Counsall  of  this  brocht  to  be  favorablie  Interteneit 
with  the  grntilnien  his  majesties  sernands  efter  specifeit  quha  war 
direct  to  tills  burcht  be  bis  niajestie  to  accumpanie  the  said  Frensh- 
nian  being  ane  nobillman  of  France  cuniming  only  to  this  burclit 
to  sic  the  towne  and  cuntrie  the  said  Frenshuian  with  the  knightia 
and  gentillmen  folowlng  wcr  all  ressauit  and  admittit  Burgesses  of 
Gild  of  tills  burcht  quha  gawe  tliair  nithis  in  common  form  folowis 
the  names  of  thame  that  war  admlltit  burgesses 

Sir  Fratmis  Hospitall  of  halzie  knycbt 

Sir  rland  IlarnJltoun  of  Schawfeild  knycbt 

Sir  Jolim  Grahame  of  orkill  knycbt 

Sir  diihn  Ramsay  of  Ester  Barouie  knycbt 

iTames  Hay  James  Auchterlony  Robert  Ker  James  Schaw 
Tlioiiia.s  foster  James  Gleghorne  DauidDrummond  Se- 
riiitors  t3  his  Majestie 

Monsieur  de  Scheyne  Monsieur  la  Bar  Seruitours  to  the  said 
Sir  Francis 

James  Law 

James  Hamiltoun  scrnitour  to  the  said  Sir  Claud 

Archibald  Syiu  Trumpeter 

Laurence  Fletcher  comediane  to  his  m^estie 

Mr  Dauid  Wod 

Johne  Bronderstalnifl" 

These  documents  present  something  more  than  the 
facts,  that  a  company  of  players,  specially  recommend- 
ed by  the  King,  were  paid  a  gratuity  from  the  Corpora- 
tion of  Aberdeen  for  their  performances  in  that  town, 
ono  of  them  subsequently  receiving  the  freedom  of  the 
b,..niugh.  The  provost,  baillies,  and  council  ordain 
(h;it  thirty-two  marks  should  be  given  to  the  King's 
servants  then  in  that  borough,  who  played  comedies  and 
stage-plays.  The  circumstance  that  they  are  recom- 
mended by  the  King's  special  letter  is  not  so  important 


as  the  (icfjcription  of  them  .as  tlic  King's  servants. 
Thirteen  days  after  the  entiy  of  the  9th  of  October,  at 
which  first  period  these  servants  of  the  King  had  played 
some  of  their  comedies,  Lawrence  Fletcher,  coin.'dian 
to  his  Maje.sty,  is  admitted  a  burgess  of  guild  of  the 
borough  of  Aberdeen — the  greatest  honour  which  the 
Corporation  could  bestow.  He  is  admitted  to  this  hon- 
our in  company  with  a  nobleman  of  France  visiting 
Aberdeen  for  the  gratification  of  his  curiosity,  and  re- 
commended by  the  King  to  be  favourably  entertained  ; 
as  well  as  with  three  men  of  rank,  and  others,  who 
were  directed  by  his  Majesty  to  accompany  "the  Goid 
Frenchman."  All  the  party  are  described  in  the  docu- 
ment as  knights  aud  gentlemen.  We  have  to  inquire, 
then,  who  was  Lawrence  Fletcher,  comedian  to  his 
Majesty  ?  Assuredly  the  King  had  not  in  his  service  a 
company  of  Scotch  players.  In  1599  he  had  licensed  a 
company  of  English  comedians  to  play  at  Edinburgh. 
Fond  as  James  was  of  theatrical  exhibitions,  he  had 
not  the  means  of  gratifying  his  taste,  e.tcept  through 
the  visits  of  English  comedians.  Scotland  had  no 
drama  in  tlie  proper  sense  of  the  word.  We  may  safely 
conclude  that  King  James  would  have  no  Scottish  com- 
pany of  players,  because  Scotland  had  no  dramas  to 
play. 

"Lawrence  Fletcher,  comedian  to  his  Majesty,"  was 
undoubtedly  an  Englishman  ;  and  ' '  the  King's  servants 
presently  in  this  borough  who  play  comedies  and  stage- 
plays"  were  as  certainly  English  players.  There  arc 
not  many  facts  known  by  which  we  can  trace  the 
history  of  Lawrence  Fletcher.  He  is  not  mentioned 
amongst  "the  names  of  the  principal  actors  in  p.\\ 
these  plays,  "which  list  is  given  in  the  first  folio  edition 
of  Shakespeare ;  but  he  undoubtedly  belonged  to 
Shakespeare's  company.  Augustine  Phillipps,  who,  liy 
his  will,  in  1605,  bequeathed  a  thirty-shilling  piece  of 
gold  to  his  "  fellow"  William  Shakespeare,  also  be 
queathed  twenty  shillings  to  his  "  fellow"  Lawrence 
Fletcher.  But  there  is  more  direct  evidence  than  this 
of  the  connexion  of  Fletcher  with  Shakespeare's  com- 
pany. The  patent  of  James  I.,  dated  at  Westminster 
on  the  nineteenth  of  May,  1603,  in  favour  of  the  players 
.acting  at  the  Globe,  is  headed  "  Pro  Laurentio  Fletcher 
et  Willielmo  Shakespeare  et  aliis;"  and  it  licenses  and 
autliorises  the  performances  of  ' '  Laurence  Fletcher, 
William  Shakespeare,  Kichard  Burbage,  Augustine 
Phillipps,  John  Hemiugs,  Henrie  Condell,  William  Sly, 
Kobert  Armin,  Richard  Cowly,  and  the  rest  of  their  as- 
sociates." The  connexion  in  1603  of  Fletcher  and 
Shakespeare  cannot  be  more  distinctly  established  than 
by  this  document.  Chalmers  says  that  Fletcher  "  was 
placed  before  Shakespeare  and  Richard  Burbage  in  King 
James's  license  as  much  perhaps  by  accident  its  by  do- 
sign.  ' '     The  Aberdeen  Register  is  evidence  iigainst  this 


xii) 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


opinion.  Lawrence  Fletcher,  comedian  to  his  Majesty, 
is  ndmitted  to  honours  which  are  not  bestowed  upon 
tlie  other  King's  servants  who  had  acted  plays  in  the 
horongh  of  Aberdeen  in  ICOl.  Lawrence  Fletcher  is 
first  named  in  the  letters  patent  of  1603.  It  is  evident, 
we  think,  that  he  was  admitted  a  burgess  of  Aberdeen 
as  the  head  of  the  company,  and  that  he  was  placed 
first  in  the  royal  license  for  the  same  reason.  But  there 
is  a  circumstance,  we  apprehend,  set  forth  in  the  Aber- 
deen Eegisters  which  is  not  only  important  with  refer- 
fince  to  the  question  of  Shakespeare  having  visited 
Scotland,  but  which  explains  a  remarkable  event  in  the 
history  of  the  stage.  The  company  rewarded  by  the 
Corporation  of  Aberdeen  on  the  9th  of  October,  1601, 
were  not  only  recommended  by  his  Majesty's  special 
letter,  but  they  were  the  King's  servants.  Lawrence 
Fletchei,  according  to  the  second  entry,  was  comedian 
to  his  Majesty.  This  English  company,  then,  had  re- 
ceived an  honour  from  the  Scottish  King,  which  had 
not  been  bestowed  upon  them  by  the  English  Queen. 
They  were  populai'ly  termed  the  Queen's  players  about 
1-j90  ;  but  subsequently,  we  find  them  invariably  men- 
tioned in  the  oflicial  entries  as  the  Lord  Chamberlain's 
servants.  Mr.  Collier,  in  noticing  the  license  '  Pro 
Laureutio  Fletcher  et  Willielmo  Shakespeare  et  aliis,' 
says  that  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  company  "  by  virtue 
of  this  instrument,  in  which  they  are  termed  '  our  ser- 
vants,' became  the  King's  players,  and  were  so  after- 
wards constantly  distinguished."  But  the  instrument 
did  not  create  Lawrence  Fletcher,  William  Shakespeare, 
and  others,  the  King's  servants  :  it  recognises  them  as 
Iho  King's  servants  already  appointed:  "Know  you 
that  we,  of  our  special  grace,  certain  knowledge,  and 
mere  motion,  have  licensed  and  authorised,  and  by 
these  presents  do  license  and  authorise,  these  our  ser- 
vants," &c.  They  are  licensed  to  use  and  exercise  their 
art  and  faculty  "as  well  for  the  recreation  of  our  lov- 
ing subjects  as  for  our  solace  and  pleasure,  when  we 
shall  think  good  to  see  them."  Tliey  are  "  to  show 
and  exercise  publicly  to  their  best  commodity  when  the 
infection  of  the  plague  shall  decrease,  within  their  now 
usual  house  called  the  Globe,"  as  in  all  other  places. 
The  justices,  mayors,  sheriffs,  and  others  to  whom  the 
letters  patent  are  a<Idressed,  are  called  upon  to  aid  and 
assist  them,  and  to  do  them  courtesies  ;  and  the  instru- 
ment thus  concludes  :  "And  also  what  further  favour 
you  shall  show  to  these  our  servants  for  our  sake  wc 
Ehall  take  kindly  at  your  hands."  The  terms  of  this 
patent  exhibit  towards  the  players  of  the  Globe  a  favour 
and  countenance,  almost  an  affectionate  solicitude  for 
their  welfare,  which  is  scarcely  reconcilable  with  a  be- 
lief that  they  first  became  the  King's  players  by  virtue 
of  this  instrument.  James  arrived  in  London,  at  the 
Charte:  House,  on  the  7l.t  of  May,  1603.     He  then  re- 


moved to  the  Tower,  and  subsequently  to  Greenwich 
on  the  13th.  'I'he  Privy  Seal,  directing  the  lett<;r3 
patent  to  Fletcher,  Shakespeare,  and  others,  is  dated 
from  Greenwich  on  the  17th  of  May  ;  and  in  that  doc- 
ument the  exact  words  of  the  patent  are  prescribed. 
The  words  of  the  Privy  Seal  and  of  the  patent  un- 
doubtedly imply  some  previous  appointment  of  the 
persons  therein  named  as  the  King's  servants.  It  ap- 
pears scarcely  possible  that  during  the  three  days 
which  elapsed  between  James  taking  up  his  residence 
at  Greenwich,  and  the  day  on  which  the  Privy  Seal  ia 
issued,  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  servants,  at  the  season 
of  the  plague,  should  have  performed  before  the  King, 
and  have  so  satisfied  him  that  he  constituted  them  his 
own  servants.  It  would  at  first  seem  improbable  that 
amidst  the  press  of  business  consequent  upon  the  ac- 
cession, the  attention  of  the  King  should  have  been 
directed  to  the  subject  of  players  at  all,  especially  in 
the  selection  of  a  company  as  his  own  servants,  con- 
trary to  the  precedent  of  the  former  reign.  If  these 
players  had  been  the  servants  of  Elizabeth,  their  ap- 
pointment as  the  servants  of  James  might  have  been 
asked  as  a  matter  of  course  ;  but  certain  players  were 
at  once  to  be  placed  above  all  their  iirofessional  breth- 
ren, by  the  King's  own  act,  carried  into  eft'ect  within 
ten  days  after  his  arrival  within  his  new  metropolis. 
But  all  these  objections  are  removed  when  we  refer  to 
the  facts  opened  to  us  by  the  council  registers  of  Aber- 
deen. King  James  the  Sixth  of  Scotland  had  recom- 
mended his  servants  to  the  magistrates  of  Aberdeen ; 
and  Lawrence  Fletcher,  there  can  be  no  doubt,  was  one 
of  those  servants  so  recommended.  The  patent  of 
James  the  First  of  England  directed  to  Lawrence 
Fletcher,  William  Shakespeare,  and  others,  eighteen 
months  after  the  performances  at  Aberdeen,  is  directed 
to  those  persons  as  "  our  servants."  It  does  not  ap- 
point them  the  King's  servants,  but  recognises  the 
appointment  as  already  existing.  Can  there  be  a  rea- 
sonable doubt  that  the  appointment  was  originally 
made  by  the  King  in  Scotland,  and  subsisted  when  the 
same  King  ascended  the  English  throne  ?  Lawrence 
Fletcher  was  admitted  a  burgess  of  Guild  of  the  bo- 
rough of  Aberdeen  as  comedian  to  his  Majesty,  in 
company  with  other  persons  who  were  servitors  to  his 
Majesty.  He  received  that  honour,  we  may  conclude, 
as  the  hea<l  of  the  company,  also  the  King's  servants. 
We  know  not  how  he  attained  tliis  distinction  amongst 
his  fellows,  but  it  is  impossible  to  imagine  that  accident 
so  favoured  him  in  two  instances.  The  King's  servant 
who  was  most  favoined  at  Aberdeen,  and  the  King's 
servant  who  is  first  in  the  patent  iu  1003,  was  surely 
placed  in  that  position  by  the  voice  of  his  fellows,  the 
other  King's  servants.  William  Shakcspoari!  is  named 
with  him  in  a  marked  manner  in  the  heading  of  the 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


xliU 


patent.  Srvoi  of  their  fellows  are  also  named,  as  dis- 
tiii;{uisheJ  from  "  the  rest  of  their  associates."  'I'here 
can  be  no  doubt  of  the  identity  of  the  Lawrence 
Fletcher,  the  servant  of  James  VI.  of  Scotland,  and 
the  Liiwrence  Fletcher,  the  servant  of  James  I.  of 
Kngland.  Can  we  doubt  that  the  King's  servants  who 
played  comedies  and  stage-plays  in  Aberdeen,  in  1001, 
were,  taken  as  a  company,  the  King's  servants  who 
were  licensed  to  exercise  the  art  and  faculty  of  playing 
throughout  all  the  realm,  in  1603  ?  If  these  points  are 
evident,  what  reason  have  we  to  doubt  that  William 
Shakespeare,  the  second  named  in  the  license  of  1603, 
was  amongst  the  King's  servants  at  Aberdeen  hi  1601  ? 
Every  circumstance  concurs  in  the  likelihood  that  he 
was  of  that  number  recommended  by  the  King's 
special  letter  ;  and  his  position  in  the  license,  even 
before  Burbage,  was,  we  may  well  believe,  a  compli- 
ment to  him  who  in  1601  had  taught  "our  James" 
something  of  the  power  and  riches  of  the  English 
drama.  Tliese  circumstances  give  us,  we  think,  war- 
ranty to  conclude  that  the  story  of  Macbeth  might 
have  been  suggested  to  Shakespeai'e  upon  Scottish 
ground  ;  that  the  accuracy  displayed  in  the  local  de- 
scriptions and  allusions  might  have  been  derived  from 
a  rapid  personal  observation ;  and  that  some  of  the 
peculiarities  of  his  witchcraft  imagery  might  have 
been  found  in  Scottish  superstitions,  and  more  espe- 
cially in  those  which  were  rife  at  Aberdeen  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  seventeenth  century. 

In  May,  1602,  Shakespeare  made  a  large  addition  to 
his  property  at  Stratford  by  the  purchase,  from  William 
and  John  Combe,  for  the  sum  of  three  hundred  and 
twenty  pounds,  of  one  hundred  and  seven  acres  of 
arable  land  in  the  town  of  Old  Stratford.  The  inden- 
ture, which  is  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Wheler  of  Strat- 
ford, is  dated  the  1st  of  May,  1602.  The  conveyance 
bears  the  signatures  of  the  vendors  of  the  property. 
But  although  it  concludes  in  the  usual  form,  "The 
parties  to  these  presents  having  interchangeably  set  to 
their  hands  and  seals,"  the  counterpart  (also  in  the 
poss>3Ssion  of  Mr.  Wheler)  has  not  the  hand  and  seal  of 
the  purchaser  of  the  property  described  in  the  deed  as 
"William  Shakspeie,  of  Stratford-upon-Avon,  in  the 
countie  aforesaide.  Gentleman."  The  counterpart  is 
not  signed,  and  the  piece  of  wax  which  is  affixed  to  it 
is  unimpressed  with  any  seal.  The  acknowledgment 
of  possession  is  however  recorded.  The  property  is  de- 
livered to  Gilbert  Shakespeare  to  the  use  of  William. 
Gilbert  was  two  years  and  a  half  younger  than  'Viniliam, 
and  in  all  likelihood  was  the  cultivator  of  the  land 
which  the  poet  thus  bought,  or  assisted  their  father  in 
the  cultivation. 

Amongst  the  few  papers  rescued  from  "time's  de- 
vouring maw"  which  enable  us  to  trace  Shakespeare's 


career  with  any  exactness,  there  is  another  which  relates 
to  the  acquisition  of  property  in  the  same  year.  It  is  a 
copy  of  Court  Roll  for  the  Manor  of  Ilowington,  dated 
the  28th  of  September,  1602,  containing  the  surrender 
by  Walter  Getley  to  the  use  of  William  Shakespeare  of 
a  house  in  Stratford,  situated  in  Walker-street.  This 
tenement  was  opposite  Shakespeare's  house  of  New 
Place.  It  is  now  taken  down ;  it  was  in  existence  a 
few  years  ago.  This  document,  which  is  in  the  pos- 
session of  Mr.  Hunt,  the  town-clerk  of  Stratford,  also 
shows  that  at  the  latter  end  of  September,  1G02,  Wil- 
liam Shakespeare,  the  ptu-chaser  of  this  property,  w.ia 
not  at  Stratford.  It  could  not  legally  pass  to  him, 
being  a  copyhold,  till  he  had  done  suit  and  service  in 
the  Lord's  Court ;  and  the  surrender  therefore  provides 
that  it  should  remain  in  the  possession  of  the  lord  till 
he,  the  purchaser,  should  apjiear. 

In  the  September  of  1002,  the  Earl  of  Worcester, 
writing  to  the  Earl  of  Shrewsbury,  says,  "  We  are  frolic 
here  in  Court,  much  dancing  in  the  Privy  Chamber  of 
country-dances  before  the  Queen's  Majesty,  who  is  ex- 
ceedingly pleased  therewith."  In  the  December  she 
was  entertained  at  Sir  Robert  Cecil's  house  in  the 
Strand,  and  some  of  the  usual  devices  of  flattering 
mummery  were  exhibited  before  her.  A  few  months 
saw  a  period  to  the  frolic  and  the  flattery.  The  last 
entry  in  the  books  of  the  Treasurer  of  the  Chamber 
during  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  which  pertains  to  Shake- 
speare, is  the  following  ; — melancholy  in  the  contrast 
between  the  Candlemas-Day  of  1603,  the  2nd  of  Feb- 
ruary, and  the  following  24th  of  March,  when  Eliza- 
beth died  : — "  To  John  Hemynges  and  the  rest  of  hia 
compauie,  servaunts  to  theLorde  Chamberleyne,  uppon 
the  Councells  Warraunte,  dated  at  Whitehall  the  xxth 
of  Aprill,  1603,  for  their  paines  and  expences  in  pre- 
sentinge  before  the  late  Queenes  Ma"'  twoe  playes,  the 
one  uppon  St.  Stephens  day  at  nighte,  and  thother  upon 
Candlemas  day  at  night,  for  ech  of  which  they  were 
allowed,  by  way  of  her  Ma'"  rewarde,  tenne  poundes, 
amounting  in  all  to  xx"." 

King  James  I.  of  England  left  his  good  city  of  Edin- 
burgh on  the  5th  of  April,  1603.  He  was  nearly  five 
weeks  on  the  road.  On  the  7th  of  May  he  was  safely 
lodged  at  the  Charter  House  ;  and  one  of  his  first  acts 
of  authority  was,  as  already  noticed,  after  creating  four 
new  peers,  and  issuing  a  proclamation  against  robbery 
on  the  Borders,  to  order  the  Privy  Seal  for  the  patent 
to  Lawrence  Fletcher,  William  Shakespeare,  and  others. 
We  learn  from  the  patent  itself  that  the  King's  servants 
were  to  perform  publicly  "when  the  infection  of  the 
plague  shall  decrease."  It  is  clear  that  the  King's 
servants  were  not  at  liberty  then  to  perform  publicly. 
How  long  the  theatres  were  closed  we  do  not  exactly 
know  ;  but  a  document  is  in  existence,  dated  April  9th, 


xliv 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


1604,  directing  the  Lord  Mayor  of  London,  and  Justices 
of  Middlesex  and  Surrey,  "  to  permit  and  suffer  the 
three  companies  of  players  to  the  King,  Queen,  and 
Prince  to  exercise  their  plays  in  their  several  and  usual 
houses."  On  the  20th  of  October,  1G03,  Joan,  the  wife 
of  the  celebrated  Edward  Alleyn,  writes  to  her  husband 
from  IjohdoQ, — "About  us  the  sickness  doth  cease,  and 
likely  more  and  more,  by  God's  help,  to  cease.  AH 
the  companies  be  come  home,  and  well,  for  aught  we 
know."  Her  husband  is  hawkitg  in  the  country,  and 
Ilenslowe,  his  partner,  is  at  the  Court.  Shakespeare 
is  in  London.  Some  one  propounded  a  theory  that 
there  was  no  real  man  called  William  Shakespeare,  and 
that  the  plays  which  passed  with  his  name  were  the 
works  of  Marlowe  and  others.  Tliis  very  letter  of  good 
Mrs.  AJleyn  shows  that  William  Sliakespeare  not  only 
lived,  but  went  about  prett)'  much  like  other  people, 
calling  common  things  by  their  common  names,  giving 
advice  about  worldly  matters  in  the  way  of  ordinary 
folk,  and  spoken  of  by  the  wife  of  his  friend  without 
any  wonder  or  laudiition,  just  as  if  he  had  written  no 
'Midsummer  Night's  Dream,'  or  'Othello  :' — "  Aboute 
a  wseke  a  goe  there  came  a  youthe,  who  said  he 
was  Mr.  Francis  Chaloner,  who  would  have  borrowed 

x"  to  have  bought  things  for and  said  he  was 

inown  imto  j'ou,  and  Mr.  Shakespeare  of  the  Globe, 

who  came said  he  knewe  hym  not,  onely  he 

hcrde  of  hym  that  he  was  a  roge so  he  was 

glade  we  did  not  lend  him  the  monney Eichard 

Johnes  [went]  to  seekt,  and  inquire  after  the  fellow, 
and  said  he  had  lent  hym  a  horse.  I  feare  me  he 
gulled  hym,  thoughe  he  gulled  not  us.  The  youthe 
was  a  prety  youthe,  and  hansome  in  appayrull :  we 
knowe  not  what  became  of  hym."*  But  although 
Shakespeare  was  in  London  on  the  20th  of  October, 
1603,  it  is  tolerably  clear  that  the  performances  at  the 
public  theatres  were  not  resumed  till  after  the  order 
of  the  9th  of  April,  IGOl.  In  the  Office  Books  of  the 
Treasurer  of  the  Chamber  there  is  an  entry  of  a  pay- 
ment of  thirty-two  pounds  upon  the  Council's  warrant 
dated  at  Hampton  Court,  February  8th,  1604,  "by  way 
of  his  Majesty's  free  gift"  to  Richard  Burbage,  one  of 
his  Maje.sty's  comedians,  "for  the  maintenance  and 
relief  of  himself  and  the  rest  of  his  company,  being 
;irohibited  to  present  any  plays  publicly  in  or  near 
Ijondon,  by  reason  of  gicat  peril  that  might  grow 
'.lirough  the  extraordinary  concourse  and  a,ssembly  of 
people,  to  a  new  increase  of  the  plague,  till  it  shall 
pleriite  God  to  settle  the  city  in  a  more  perfect  health. "f 
But  though  the  public  playhouses  might  be  closed 
through  the  fear  of  an  "  extraordinary  concourse  and 

*  Kroni  tho  pnpors  In  Dalwlch  Collogo,  printed  In  Mr  Colller'0 
Memoirs  of  Edward  Alleyn 
t  CiinDtnghsm'B  'Kovols  at  C->urt,'  p  xxx7. 


assembly  of  people,"  the  King,  a  few  months  previous, 
had  sent  for  his  own  players  to  a  considerable  distance 
to  perform  before  the  Court  at  Wilton.  There  is  an 
entry  in  the  same  Office  Book  of  a  payment  of  thirty 
pounds  to  John  Hemings  "  for  the  pains  and  expenses 
of  himself  and  the  rest  of  his  company  in  coming  from 
Mortlake  in  the  county  of  Surrey  unto  the  Court  afoie- 
said,  and  there  presenting  before  his  Majesty  one  play 
on  the  2nd  of  December  last,  by  way  of  his  Majesty's 
reward."  Wilton  was  the  seat  of  William  Herbert, 
Earl  of  Pembroke,  to  whom  it  has  been  held  that 
Shakespeare's  Sonnets  were  addressed.  We  do  not 
yield  our  assent  to  this  opinion.  But  we  know  from 
good  authority  that  this  nobleman,  "  the  most  uni- 
versally beloved  and  esteemed  of  any  man  of  that  age," 
(according  to  Clarendon,)  befriended  Shakespeare,  and 
that  his  brother  joined  him  in  his  acts  of  kindness. 
The  dedication  by  John  Heminge  and  Henry  Condell, 
prefixed  to  the  first  collected  edition  of  the  works  of 
Shakespeare,  is  addressed  ' '  To  the  most  noble  and  in- 
comparable pair  of  brethren,  William  Earl  of  Pembroke, 
and  Philip  Earl  of  Montgomery."  In  the  submissive 
language  of  poor  players  to  their  "  singular  good  lords" 
they  say,  "When  we  value  the  places  your  Honours 
sustain,  we  cannot  but  know  their  dignity  greater  than 
to  descend  to  the  reading  of  these  trifles ;  and  while 
we  name  them  trifles,  we  have  deprived  ourselves  of 
the  defence  of  our  dedication.  But  since  your  Lord- 
ships have  been  pleased  to  think  these  trifles  some- 
thing, heretofore  ;  and  have  prosecuted  both  them,  and 
their  author  living,  mth  so  much  favour :  we  hope 
that  (they  out  living  him,  and  he  not  baring  the  fate, 
common  with  some,  to  be  executor  to  his  own  writings) 
you  will  use  the  like  indulgence  toward  them  you  have 
done  unto  their  parent."  They  subsequently  speak  of 
their  Loi'dships  liking  the  several  parts  of  the  volume 
when  they  were  acted  ;  but  their  author  was  the  object 
of  their  personal  regard  and  favour.  The  call  to  Wilton 
of  Shakespeare's  company  might  probably  have  arisen 
from  Lord  Pembroke' s  desire  to  testify  this  favour.  It 
would  appear  to  be  the  first  theatrical  performance 
before  James  in  England.  Tlie  favour  of  the  Herberts 
towards  Shakespeare  thus  began  early.  The  testimony 
of  the  player-editors  would  imply  that  it  lasted  during 
the  poet's  life. 

At  the  Christmas  of  the  same  year  the  King  had 
taken  up  his  residence  at  Hampton  Court.  It  was 
here,  a  little  before  the  period  when  the  Conf'jrtncc 
on  Conformity  in  Religion  was  begun,  that  the  Queen 
and  eleven  ladies  of  honour  were  presenting  Iiauiel's 
Masque ;  and  Shakespeare  and  his  fellows  performed 
six  plays  before  the  King  and  Prince,  receiving  twenty 
nobles  for  each  play.*  The  patronage  of  the  new  King 
*  Cunningham's  '  Bevels  at  Court,'  p.  cxxt. 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SH/VKESPEAUE. 


to  his  servants,  players  acting  at  the  Globe,  seems  to 
have  been  constant  and  liberal.  To  Shakespeare  this 
must  liave  been  a  season  of  prosperity  and  of  liononr. 
The  accession  of  tlie  King  gave  liim  somctliing  better. 
His  early  friend  and  patron  Soutlianii)ton  was  released 
from  a  long  imprisonment.  Enjoying  the  friendship 
of  Southampton  and  Pembrolie,  wlio  were  constantly 
about  tlie  King,  their  tastes  may  have  led  the  monarch 
to  a  just  preference  of  tlie  works  of  Shakespeare  before 
those  of  any  other  dramatist.  The  si.\  plays  performed 
before  the  King  and  Prince  in  tlie  Christmas  of  1003^ 
at  Hampton  Court,  were  followed  at  the  succeeding 
Christmas  by  performances  "  at  tlie  Bauqueting-House 
at  Whitehall,"  in  which  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  were 
preferred  above  tliose  of  every  other  competitor.  There 
were  eleven  performances  by  the  King's  players,  of 
which  eight  were  plays  of  Sliakespeare.  Jonson  shared 
this  honour  with  him  in  the  representation  of  'Every 
One  in  his  Humour,'  and  'Every  One  out  of  his  Hu- 
mour.' A  single  play  by  Heywood,  another  by  Chap- 
man, and  a  tragedy  by  an  unknown  author,  completed 
the  list  of  these  revels  at  Whitehall.  It  is  told,  Malone 
Bays,  "upon  authority  wliieh  there  is  no  reason  to 
doubt,  that  Kiiig  James  bestowed  especial  honour  upon 
Shakspere."  The  story  is  told  in  the  Advertisement  to 
Lintot's  edition  of  Sliakespeare's  Poems — "That  most 
learned  Prince,  and  great  patron  of  learning,  King 
James  the  First,  was  pleased  with  his  own  hand  to 
write  an  amicable  letter  to  Mr.  Shakespeai'e  ;  which 
letter,  though  now  lost,  remained  long  in  the  hands  of 
Sir  William  Davenant,  as  a  credible  person  now  living 
can  testify."  Was  the  honour  bestowed  as  a  reward 
for  the  compliment  to  the  King  in  '  Macbeth,'  or  was 
the  compliment  to  the  King  a  tribute  of  gratitude  for 
the  honour  ? 

We  have  seen  that  in  the  year  1602  Shakespeare  was 
investing  the  gains  of  his  profession  in  the  purchase  of 
property  at  Stratford.  It  appears  from  the  original 
Fines  of  the  Court  of  King's  Bench,  preserved  in  the 
Chapter-house,  that  a  little  before  the  accession  of 
James,  in  1603,  Shakespeare  had  also  purchased  a  mes- 
suage at  Stratford,  with  barns,  gardens,  and  orchards, 
of  Hercules  Underbill,  for  the  sum  of  sixty  pounds. 
There  can  be  little  doubt  that  this  continued  acquisition 
of  property  in  his  native  place  had  reference  to  the  ru- 
ling desire  of  the  poet  to  retire  to  his  quiet  fields  and 
the  placid  intercourse  of  society  at  Stratford,  out  of  the 
turmoil  of  his  professional  life  and  tlie  excitement  of 
the  companionship  of  the  gay  and  the  brilliant.  And 
yet  it  appears  highly  probable  that  he  was  encouraged, 
at  this  very  period,  through  the  favour  of  those  who 
rightly  esthnated  )iis  merit,  to  apply  for  an  office  wliich 
would  have  brought  him  even  more  closely  in  con- 


nexion with  the  Court,  that  of  Master  of  the  Queeu'e 
Revels,  to  which  office  Samuel  Daniel  was  appointed 
It  is  not  impossiljle  lliat  Sliakespeare  looked  to  this  ap- 
pointment as  a  compensation  for  liis  retirement  from 
tlie  profession  of  an  actor,  retaining  his  interest,  how- 
ever, as  a  theatrical  propiietor.  Be  that  as  it  may,  he 
still  carried  forward  his  ruling  purpose  of  the  acquisi- 
tion of  property  at  Stratford.  In  IGOii  he  accomplished 
a  purchase  wliich  required  a  larger  outlay  than  any 
previous  investment.  On  the  2)th  of  July,  in  the 
third  year  of  James,  a  conveyance  was  made  by  Ilalpb 
Hubaud,  Esq.,  to  William  Shakespeare,  gentleman,  ol 
a  moiety  of  a  lease  of  the  great  and  small  titles  of  Strat- 
ford, for  the  remainder  of  a  term  of  ninety-two  years, 
and  the  amount  of  the  purchase  was  four  hundred  and 
forty  pounds.  There  can  be  little  doubt  that  he  waH 
the  cultivator  of  his  own  land,  availing  himself  of  the 
assistance  of  his  brother  Gilbert,  and,  in  an  earlier 
period,  probably  of  his  father.  An  account  in  lSt)7  ol 
the  stock  of  malt  in  the  borough  of  Slratforii.  is  said 
to  exhibit  ten  quarters  in  the  possession  of  William 
Shalvespeare,  of  Chapel  Street  Ward.  New  Place  was 
situated  in  Chapel  Street.  The  purchase  of  a  raoietj 
of  the  tithes  of  so  large  a  parish  as  Stratford  might 
require  extensive  arrangements  for  their  collection. 
Tithes  in  those  days  were  more  frequently  collected  h 
kind  than  by  a  modus.  But  even  if  a  modus  was  taker.., 
it  would  require  a  knowledge  of  the  value  of  agricul- 
tural produce  to  farm  the  tithes  with  advantage.  But 
before  the  date  of  this  purchase  it  is  perfectly  clear  that 
William  Shakespeare  was  in  the  exercise  of  the  trading 
part  of  a  fixrmer's  business.  He  bought  the  hundred 
and  seven  acres  of  land  of  John  and  William  Combe  in 
May,  1602.  In  160i  a  declaration  was  entered  in  the 
Borough  Court  of  Stratford,  on  a  plea  of  debt,  William 
Shakespeare  against  Pliilip  Rogers,  for  the  sum  of  thirty- 
five  shillings  and  ten-pence,  for  corn  delivered.  The 
precept  was  issued  in  the  usual  for-m  upon  this  declara- 
tion, the  delivery  of  the  corn  being  stated  to  have 
taken  place  at  several  times  in  the  first  and  secimd 
years  of  James.  There  cannot  be  more  distinct  evi- 
dence that  William  Shakespeare,  at  the  very  ]ieriwl 
when  his  dramas  were  calling  forth  the  rapturous  ap- 
plause of  the  new  Sovereign  and  his  Court,  and  when 
he  himself,  as  it  would  seem,  was  ambitious  of  a  courtly 
office,  did  not  disdain  to  pursue  the  humble  though 
honourable  occupation  of  a  farmer  in  Stratford,  and  to 
exercise  his  just  riglits  of  property  in  connexion  with 
thiit  occupaticra.  We  must  believe  that  he  looked  for- 
ward to  the  calm  and  healthful  employment  of  the 
eve.uiiig  of  his  days,  as  a  tiller  of  the  land  which  his 
father  had  tilled  before  him,  at  the  same  time  woiking 
out  noble  plans  of  poetical  employment  in  his  com- 
parative leisme  as  the  best  scheme  of  life  in  his  do 


xlvi 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


clming  years.  The  exs,ct  period  when  he  commenced 
the  complete  realization  of  these  plans  is  somewhat 
doubtful.  He  had  probably  ceased  to  appear  as  an 
sctor  before  160•5^  If  the  date  1608  be  correctly  as- 
signed to  a  letter  held  to  be  written  by  Lord  Southamp- 
ton, it  is  clear  that  Shakespeare  was  not  then  an  actor, 
for  he  is  there  described  as  "  till  o/'  late  an  actor  of  good 
account  in  the  company,  now  a  sharer  in  the  same." 
His  partial  freedom  from  his  professional  labours  cer- 
tainlj-  preceded  his  final  settlement  at  Stratford. 

In  the  conveyance  by  the  Combes  to  Shakespeare  in 
1602,  he  is  designated  as  William  Shakespeare  of  Strat- 
ford-upon-Avon. The  same  designation  holds  in  sub- 
sequent legal  documents  connected  with  Stratford  ;  but 
there  is  no  doubt  th.at,  at  the  period  of  the  conveyance 
from  the  Combes,  he  was  an  actor  in  the  company  per- 
forming at  the  Blaclcfriars  and  at  the  Globe ;  and  in 
tracing  therefore  the  "  whereabout"  of  Shakespeare, 
from  the  imperfect  records  which  remain  to  us,  we  have 
assumed  that  where  the  fellows  of  Shakespeare  are  to 
be  found,  there  is  he  to  be  also  located.  But  in  the  be- 
lief that  before  1008  he  had  ceased  to  be  an  actor,  we 
are  not  required  to  assume  that  he  was  so  constantly 
with  his  company  as  before  that  partial  retirement.  His 
interest  would  no  doubt  require  his  occasional  presence 
with  them,  for  he  continued  to  be  a  considerable  pro- 
prietor in  theii'  lucrative  concerns.  That  prudence  and 
careful  management  which  could  alone  have  enabled 
him  to  realize  a  large  property  out  of  his  professional 
pursuits,  and  at  the  same  time  not  to  dissipate  it  by  his 
agricultural  occupations,  appears  to  have  been  founded 
npon  an  arrangement  by  which  he  secured  the  assistance 
of  his  family,  and  at  the  same  time  made  a  provision 
for  them.  AVe  have  seen  that  in  1602  his  brother  Gil- 
bert was  his  representative  at  Stratford.  Richard,  who 
was  ten  years  bis  junior,  and  who,  <lying  a  year  before 
him,  was  buried  at  Stratford,  would  also  appear  to  have 
been  resident  there.  His  youngest  brother  Edmund, 
sixteen  years  his  junior,  was,  there  can  be  little  ques- 
tion, associated  with  him  in  the  theatre  ;  and  he  prob- 
ably looked  to  hiin  to  attend  to  the  management  of 
his  property  in  London,  after  he  retired  from  any  active 
attention  to  its  conduct.  But  Edmund  died  early.  He 
lived  in  the  parish  of  St.  Saviour's,  in  all  probability 
at  his  brother's  house  in  the  Hberty  of  the  Clink  ;  and 
the  register  of  burials  of  that  parish  has  the  following 
record  :— "  1607,  December  31st,  Edmond  Shakespeare, 
a  player,  in  the  church."  The  death  of  his  brother 
might  probably  have  had  a  considerable  influence  upon 
the  habits  of  his  life,  and  might  have  induced  him  to 
dispose  of  all  his  theatrical  property,  as  there  is  reason 
to  believe  he  did.  several  yeais  before  his  death.  Tlie 
value  fif  a  portion  of  this  property  has  been  ascertained, 
08  far  as  it  cun  bo,  upon  an  estimate  for  its  sale  ;  and 


by  this  estimate  the  amount  of  his  portion,  as  com 
pared  with  that  of  his  co-proprietors,  i;  ilistinctly 
shown.  In  1608  the  question  of  the  jurisdiction  of  the 
City  in  the  Blackfriars,  and  especially  with  reference  to 
the  playhouse,  was  brought  before  Lord  Ellesmere,  the 
Chancellor.  The  proprietors  of  the'theatre  remained 
in  undisturbed  possession.  Out  of  this  attempt  a  ne- 
gotiation appears  to  have  arisen  for  the  purchase  of  the 
property  by  tlie  City  ;  for  amongst  the  documents  con- 
nected with  tliis  attempt  of  the  Corporation  is  found  a 
paper  headed,  "For  avoiding  of  the  playhouse  in  the 
precinct  of  the  Blackfriars. ' '  The  document  states,  in 
conclusion,  that  "  in  the  whole  it  will  cost  the  Lord 
Mayor  and  the  citizens  at  the  least  7000Z."  Richard 
Burbage  claims  lOOOZ.  for  the  fee,  and  for  his  four 
shares  933Z.  6s.  M.  Laz.  Fletcher  owns  three  shares, 
which  he  rates  at  700Z.,  that  is,  at  seven  years'  pur- 
chase. "  W.  Shakespeai'e  asketh  for  the  wardrobe  and 
properties  of  the  same  playhouse  500" ,  and  for  his  four 
shares  the  same  as  his  fellowes  Burbidge  and  Fletcher, 
viz.  933"  6'  8'*."  Herainge  and  Condell  have  each 
two  shares,  Taylor  and  Lowiu  each  a  share  and  a  half ; 
four  more  players  each  a  half  share  ;  which  they  all 
value  at  the  same  rate.  Tlie  hired  men  of  the  com- 
pany also  claini  recompense  for  their  loss  ;  "  and  tho 
widows  and  orphans  of  players  who  are  paid  by  the 
sharers  at  divers  rates  and  proportions."'  It  thus  ap- 
pears that,  next  to  Richard  Burhage,  Shakespeare  was 
the  largest  proprietor  in  the  theatre  ;  that  Burbage  was 
the  exclusive  owner  of  the  real  property,  and  Shake- 
speare of  the  personal.  If  the  valuation  be  con-t;ct, 
Shakespeare's  annual  income  derived  from  his  shares  in 
the  Blackfriars  alone,  was  IZZl.  6s.  8rf.  His  wardrobe 
and  properties,  being  perishable  matters,  wei'e  probably 
valued  at  five  years'  purchase,  giving  him  an  additional 
income  of  100^  This  income  was  derived  from  the 
Blackfriars  alone.  His  property  in  tlie  Globe  Tlieatre 
was  in  all  likelihood  quite  equal.  He  would,  besides, 
derive  additional  advantages  as  the  author  of  new 
plays.  With  a  professional  income,  then,  of  400Z.  or 
500^  per  annum,  which  may  be  held  to  be  equal  to  six 
times  the  amount  in  our  present  money,  it  is  evident 
that  Shakespeare  possessed  the  means  not  only  of  a 
liberal  expenditure  at  his  houses  in  London  and  at 
Stratford,  but  from  the  same  source  was  enabled  to 
realize  considerable  sums,  which  he  invested  in  real 
property  in  liis  native  jilace.  All  the  records  of  Shake- 
speare's professional  life,  and  the  results  of  his  success 
as  exhibited  in  the  accession  of  property,  indicate  a 
steady  and  regular  advance.  They  show  us  that  per- 
severance and  industry  were  as  much  the  characteristics 
of  the  man  as  the  greatness  of  his  genius ;  that  he 

•This  vslunble  docHincr.t  WM  disoovored  by  Mi.  Oollifr,  and 
pubKsliod  by  hitn  in  his '  New  Facta. 


t 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SUAKESPEARE. 


xtvi) 


held  with  constancy  to  the  course  of  life  which  ho  had 
early  luUiptcd  ;  that  year  by  year  it  affonlcd  him  in- 
creased competence  and  wealth  ;  and  that  if  In;  had 
the  rare  privilege  of  pursuing  an  occupation  which 
callc.I  forth  tlie  highest  exercise  of  his  powers,  ren- 
dering it  in  every  essential  a  pleasurable  occupation,  he 
despised  not  the  means  by  which  he  had  risen  :  he 
lived  in  a  free  and  genial  intercourse  with  his  profes- 
Bion:il  brethren,  and  to  the  last  they  were  his  friends 
and  fellows. 

Aubrey  says  of  Shakespeare,  "  He  was  wont  to  go  to 
his  native  country  once  a-year."  This  statement, 
wliicli  there  is  no  reason  to  disbelieve,  has  reference  to 
tlie  period  when  Shakespeare  was  engaged  as  an  actor. 
Tliere  is  another  account  of  Shakespeare's  mode  of  life, 
whicii  does  not  contradict  Aubrey,  but  brings  down  liis 
tnfoi'mation  to  a  later  period.  In  the  '  Diary  of  the 
Rev.  John  Ward,  Vicar  of  Stratford-upon-Avon,'  the 
manuscript  of  which  was  discovered  in  the  library  of 
the  Medical  Society  of  London,  we  find  the  following 
curious  record  of  Shakespeare's  later  years  : — "  I  have 
heard  that  Mr.  Shakespeare  was  a  natural  wit,  without 
any  art  at  all ;  hee  frequented  the  plays  all  his  younger 
time,  but  in  his  elder  days  lived  at  Stratford,  and  sup- 
[)lied  the  stage  with  two  plays  every  year,  and  for  itt 
had  an  allowance  so  large,  that  hee  spent  att  the  rate  of 
lOOOZ.  a-year,  as  I  have  heard."  The  Diary  of  John 
Ward  extends  from  1648  to  1679  ;  and  it  is  in  many 
respects  interesting,  from  the  circumstance  that  he 
united  the  practice  of  medicine  to  the  performance  of 
liis  duties  as  a  parish  priest.  He  was  appointed  to  the 
vicarage  of  Stratford  in  1662. 

It  is  evident  that,  although  forty-six  years  had 
elapsed  since  the  death  of  Shakespeare,  his  memory 
was  the  leading  association  with  Stratford-upon-Avon. 
After  noticing  that  Shakespeare  had  two  daughter's,  we 
find  the  entry  presented  above.  It  is  just  possible  that 
the  new  vicar  of  Stratford  might  have  seen  Shake- 
speare's younger  daughter  Judith,  who  was  born  in 
1585,  and,  having  married  Thomas  Quiney  in  1616, 
lived  to  the  age  of  seventy-seven,  having  been  buried 
on  the  9th  of  February,  1662.  The  descendants  of 
Shakespeare' s  family  and  of  his  friends  surrounded  tiie 
worthy  vicar  on  every  side  ;  and  he  appears  to  have 
thought  it  absolutely  necessary  to  acquire  such  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  productions  of  the  great  poet  as  might  qual- 
ify him  to  speak  of  them  in  general  society  : — "  He- 
ro fimber  to  peruse  Shakespeare's  plays,  and  bee  much 
versed  in.them,  that  I  may  not  bee  ignorant  in  that 
matter."  The  honest  vicar  was  not  quite  certain 
whether  the  fame  of  Shakespeare  was  only  a  provincial 
one,  for  he  adds — "  Whether  Dr.  Heylin  does  well,  in 
reckoning  up  the  dramatick  poets  which  have  been  fa- 
mous in  England,  to  omit  Shakespeare?"     The  good 


man  is  not  altogether  to  be  blamed  for  having  previously 
to  1GC2  been  "ignorant"  of  Shakespeare's  plays.  He 
was  only  thirty-three  years  of  age  ;  and  his  jouth  had 
been  passed  in  the  stormy  period  when  the  Puritans 
had  weH  nigh  banished  all  literature,  and  especially 
dramatic  literature,  from  the  minds  of  the  people,  in 
tlieir  intolerant  proscription  of  all  pleasure  and  recrea 
tion.  At  any  rate  we  may  accept  the  statements  of  the 
good  vicar  as  founded  upon  the  recollections  of  those 
with  whom  he  was  associated  in  1662.  It  is  wholly 
consistent  with  what  we  otherwise  know  of  Sliake- 
speare's  life,  that  "he  frequented  the  plays  all  hig 
younger  time."  It  is  equally  consistent  that  he  "in 
his  elder  days  lived  at  Stratford."  There  is  nothing  im- 
probable in  the  belief  that  he  "  supplied  the  stage  ■with 
two  plays  every  year."  The  last  clause  <jf  the  sentence 
is  somewhat  startling  : — "  And  for  it  had  an  allowance 
so  large,  that  he  spent  at  the  rate  of  lOOOZ.  a-year,  as  I 
have  heard."  And  yet  the  assertion  must  not  be  con- 
sidered wholly  an  exaggeration.  ' '  He  spent  at  the 
rate  of  lOOOZ.  a-year,"  must  mean  the  rate  of  the  time 
when  Mr.  Ward  is  writing.  During  the  half-ceiitury 
which  had  preceded  the  Restoration  there  had  been  a 
more  important  decrease  in  the  value  of  money  than 
had  even  taken  place  in  the  reign  of  Elizabetli.  Dur- 
ing that  reign  the  prices  of  all  commodities  were  con- 
stantly rising  ;  but  after  the  reduction  of  the  legal  rate 
of  interest  from  ten  per  cent,  to  eight  in  1024,  and 
from  eight  to  six  in  1651,  the  change  was  still  more  re- 
markable. Sir  Josias  Child,  in  1688,  savs  that  five! 
hundretl  pounds  with  a  daughter,  sixty  years  before, 
wc:.s  esteemed  a  larger  portion  than  two  thousand  poun<ls 
now.  It  would  appear,  therefore,  that  the  thousand 
a-year  in  1862  was  not  more  than  one-third  of  the  amount 
in  1612  ;  and  this  sum,  from  3001.  to  400Z. ,  was,  as  near 
as  may  be,  the  amount  which  Shakespeare  appears  to  . 
have  derived  from  his  theatrical  property.  In  all 
probability  he  held  that  property  during  the  greater 
part  of  the  period  when  he  "  s^ipplied  the  stage  with 
two  plays  every  year  ;"  and  this  indirect  remuneration 
for  his  poetical  labours  might  readily  have  been  mis- 
taken, fifty  years  afterwards,  as  "an  allowance  so 
large"  for  authorship  that  the  good  -vicar  records  it  as 
a  memorable  thing. 

It  is  established  that  '  Othello'  was  performed  in 
1602;  'Hamlet,'  greatly  enlarged,  was  published  In 
1604 ;  '  Measure  for  Measure'  was  acted  before  the 
Court  on  St.  Stephen's  night  in  the  same  year.  If  we 
place  Shakespeare's  partial  retirement  from  his  profes- 
sional duties  about  this  period,  and  regard  the  playg 
whose  dates  up  to  this  point  have  not  been  fixed  by  any 
authentic  record,  or  satisfactory  combination  of  circum- 
stances, we  have  abundant  work  in  reserve  for  the  great 
poet  in  the  maturity  of  his  intellect.     'Lear,'   'Moo- 


xh-iii 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEAKE. 


both,'  '  Timon  of  Athens,'  '  rroilusandCiessida,'  '  Cym- 
beline,'  '  The  Winter's  Tale,"  'The  Tempest,'  '  Henry 
Vm.,'  'CoriolaniH,'  '  Julius  Cajsar,'  'Antony  and  Cleo- 
patra,'  eleven  of  the  noblest  productions  of  the  human 
intellect,  so  varied  in  their  character, — the  deepest  pas- 
sion, the  profoundest  philosophy,  the  wildest  romance, 
the  most  comprehensive  history — what  a  glorious  la- 
bour to  fill  the  nine  or  ten  remaining  years  of  the  life 
of  the  man  who  had  left  his  native  fields  twenty  years 
before  to  seek  for  advancement  in  doubtful  and  perilous 
paths, — in  a  profession  which  was  denounced  by  some 
and  despised  by  others, — amongst  companions  full  of 
genius  and  learning,  but  who  had  perished  early  in 
their  pride  and  their  self-abandonment !  And  he  re- 
turns wealthy  and  honoured  to  the  bocom  of  those 
who  are  dearest  to  him — his  wife  and  daughters,  his 
motlier,  his  sisters  and  brothers.  The  companions  of 
bis  boyhood  are  all  around  him.  They  have  been  use- 
ful members  of  society  in  their  native  place.  He  has 
constantly  kept  up  his  intercourse  with  them.  They 
have  looked  to  him  for  assistance  in  their  difficulties. 
He  is  come  to  he  one  of  them,  to  dwell  wholly  amongst 
them,  to  take  a  deeper  interest  in  their  pleasures  and 
in  their  aires,  to  receive  their  s\'mpathy.  He  is  come 
to  walk  amidst  his  own  fields,  to  till  them,  to  sell  their 
produce.  His  labour  will  be  his  recreation.  In  the 
activity  of  his  body  will  the  energy  of  Iiis  intellect 
find  its  support  and  its  rest.  His  nature  is  eminently 
fitted  for  action  as  well  as  contemplation.  Were  it 
otherwise,  he  would  have  "bad  dreams,"  like  his  own 
Hamlet.  Morbid  thoughts  may  have  come  over  him 
"  like  a  passing  cloud  ;"  but  from  this  time  his  mind 
will  be  eminently  healthful.  The  imagination  and  the 
reason  henceforth  will  be  wonderfully  balanced.  Much 
of  this  belongs  to  the  progressive  cliaracter  of  his  under- 
standing ;  something  to  his  favourable  position. 

With  the  exception  of  a  playful  piece  of  ridicule  in 
"The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,'  we  know  not  of  a 
single  personality  which  can  be  alleged  against  Shake- 
speare, in  an  age  when  his  dramatic  contemporaries, 
especially,  bespattered  theiv  rivals  and  their  cricmies  as 
fiercely  as  any  modern  paragraph  writer.  But  vulgar 
opinion,  which  is  too  apt  most  easily  to  recognise  the 
power  of  talent  in  its  ability  to  inflict  pain,  has  assigned 
to  Shakespeare  a  performance  which  lias  the  quality, 
extraordinary  as  regards  himself,  of  possessing  scurrility 
without  wit.  7t  is  something  lower  in  the  moral  scale 
even  than  the  fabricated  ballad  upon  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  ; 
for  it  exhibits  a  wanton  and  unprovoked  outrage  upon 
/in  unoffending  neighbour,  in  the  hour  of  convivial  in- 
tercourse. Kowc  tells  tlie  story  as  if  he  thought  he 
were  doing  lionour  to  the  genius  of  the  man  whose 
good  qualities  he  is  at  the  same  moment  re.-ording : 
"  The  latter  part  of  his  life  was  spent,  as  all  men  of 


good  sense  will  wish  theirs  may  be — in  case,  retirement, 
and  the  conversation  of  his  friends.  He  had  the  good 
fortune  to  gather  an  estate  equal  to  his  occasion,  and, 
in  tliat,  to  his  wish  ;  and  is  said  to  have  spent  some 
years  before  his  death  at  liis  native  Stratford.  His  \ 
pleasurable  wit  and  good  nature  engaged  him  in  the 
acquaintance,  and  entitled  him  to  the  friendship,  of  the 
gentlemen  of  tlie  neighbourhood.  Amongst  them,  it  is 
a  story  still  remembered  in  that  country  that  lie  had  a 
particular  intimacy  with  Mr.  Combe,  an  old  gentlcraar 
noted  thereabouts  for  his  wealth  and  usury :  it  hap 
pened,  that  in  a  pleasant  conversation  amongst  their 
common  friends,  Mr.  Combe  told  Shakespeare,  in  a 
laughing  manner,  that  he  fancied  he  intended  to  write 
his  epitaph,  if  he  happened  to  outlive  him,  and  since  ho 
could  not  know  what  might  be  said  of  him  when  he  was 
dead,  he  desired  it  might  be  done  immediately,  upon 
which  Shakespeare  gave  him  these  four  lines  : — 
'  Ten  In  the  hundred  lies  here  in^cv'd  ; 

'Tis  a  hiHidred  to  ten  his  soi'I  ;s  not  sav'd. 

If  any  man  ask,  Who  lie'-  In  this  tomb? 

Oh  !  Oh  !  qaoLh  the  i\e\V,  'tis  my  John-a-Combe.' 

But  the  sharpness  of  the  satire  is  said  to  have  stung  the 
man  so  severely,  that  he  never  forgave  it."  Certainly 
this  is  an  extraordinarj'  illustration  of  Shakespeare's 
"pleasurable  wit  and  good  nature" — of  those  qualities 
which  won  for  him  the  name  of  the  "gentle  Shake- 
speare;" which  made  Jonson,  stern  enough  to  most 
men,  proclaim — ' '  He  was  honest,  and  of  an  open  and 
free  nature,"  and  that  his  "  mind  and  manners"  were 
reflected  in  bis  "  well-turned  and  true-filed  lines." 
John-a-Combe  never  forgave  the  sharpness  of  the  satire ! 
And  yet  he  bequeathed  by  his  last  ivill  "To  Mr.  Wil- 
liam Shakespeare,  five  pounds. ' '  Aubrey  tells  the  story 
with  a  difference  : — "One  time,  as  he  was  at  the  tavern 
at  Stratfovd-itpou-Avon,  one  Combes,  an  old  rich  usurer, 
was  to  be  buryed,  he  makes  there  this  extemporary 
epitaph  ;"  and  then  he  gives  the  lines  with  a  variation, 
in  which  "  vows"  rhymes  to  "  allows,"  instead  of 
"sav'd"  to  "ingrav'd."  Of  course,  following  out  this 
second  story,  the  family  of  John  Combe  resented  the 
insult  to  the  memory  of  their  parent,  who  died  in  1614  ; 
and  yet  an  intimacy  subsisted  between  them  even  till 
the  death  of  Shakespeare,  for  in  his  own  will  he  be- 
queaths to  the  son  of  the  usurer  a  remarkable  token  of 
personal  regard,  the  badge  of  a  gentleman  : — "  To  Mr. 
Tlioraas  Combe  my  sword."  The  whole  story  is  a  fab- 
rication. Ten  in  the  himdred  was  tlie  old  name  of  op- 
probrium for  one  who  lent  money.  To  receive  interest 
at  all  was  called  usury.  "  That  ten  in  the  hundred  was 
gone  to  the  devil,"  was  an  old  joke,  that  shajied  itseH 
into  epigrams  long  before'the  death  of  John  Combe  ; 
and  in  the  '  Remains  of  Hichard  Bralhwaite,'  printed  in 
1018,  we  have  the  very  epitajjh  assigned  to  Shakespeare, 
with  a  third  set  of  variations,  given  as  a  notable  piodiic 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


xlix 


tion  of  tliis  vohnninous  writer:  "Upon  one  John 
C.imlje,  of  Stratforil-upon-Avon,  a  notable  usurer,  fast- 
ened upon  a  Tombe  that  he  had  caused  to  be  built  in 
his  Lifetime."  The  lie  direct  is  given  by  the  will  of 
John  Combe  to  this  third  version  of  the  lines  against 
him  ;  for  it  directs  that  a  convenient  tomb  shall  be 
erected  one  year  after  his  decease. 

The  register  of  marriages  at  Stratford-upon-Avon  for 
the  year  1G07  contains  the  entry  o^  the  marriage  of 
John  Hall,  gentleman,  and  Susanna  Shakespeare,  on 
the  5th  June.  Susanna,  the  eldest  daughter  of  Wil- 
liam Shakespeare,  was  now  twenty-four  years  of  age. 
John  Hall,  gentleman,  a  physician  settled  at  Stratford, 
was  in  his  thirty-second  year.  This  appears  in  every 
respect  to  have  been  a  propitious  alliance.  Sliake- 
Bpeare  received  into  his  family  a  man  of  learning  and 
talent. 

The  season  at  which  the  marriage  of  Shakespeare's 
elder  daughter  took  place  would  appear  to  give  some 
corroboration  to  the  belief  that,  at  this  period,  he  had 
wholly  ceased  to  be  an  actor.  It  is  not  likely  that  an 
event  to  -him  so  deeply  interesting  would  have  taken 
place  during  his  absence  from  Stratford.  It  was  the 
season  of  performances  at  the  Globe.  It  is  at  this 
period  that  we  can  fix  the  date  of  '  Lear. '  That  wonder- 
ful tragedy  was  firtt  published  in  1G08 ;  and  the  title- 
page  recites  that  "  It  w.as  plaid  before  the  King's  Ma- 
jesty at  Wliite-Hall,  uppon  S.  Stephen's  Night ;  in 
Christmas  Hollidaies."  This  most  extraordinary  pro- 
duction might  well  have  been  the  first  fruits  of  a  period 
of  comparative  leisure  ;  when  the  creative  faculty  was 
wholly  untrammelled  by  petty  cares,  and  the  judgment 
might  be  employed  in  Working  again  and  again  upon 
the  first  conceptions,  so  as  to  produce  such  a  master- 
piece of  consummate  art  without  after  labour.  The  next 
season  of  repose  gave  birth  to  an  effort  of  genius  wholly 
different  in  character  ;  hut  almost  as  wonderful  in  its 
profound  sagacity  and  knowledge  of  the  world,  as  '  Lear' 
is  unequalled  for  its  depth  of  individual  passions. 
'Troll us  and  Cressida'  was  published  in  1609.  We 
may  well  believe  that  the  Sonnets  were  published  in 
1609,  without  the  consent  of  their  author.  That  the 
appeai'ance  of  those  remarkable  lyrics  should  have  an- 
noyed him,  by  exposing,  as  they  now  appear  in  the  eyes 
of  some  to  do,  the  frailties  of  his  natui'e,  we  do  not  for 
a  moment  believe.  They  would  be  received  by  his 
family  and  by  the  world  as  essentially  fictitious  ;  and 
ranked  with  the  productions  of  the  same  class  with 
ivhich  the  age  abounded. 

The  year  1608  brought  its  domestic  joys  and  ca- 
lamities to  Shakespeare.  In  the  same  font  where  he  had 
been  baptized,  forty- three  years  before,  was  baptized, 
on  the  21st  of  February,  Ids  grand-daughter,  "Eliza- 
liflh,  daughter  of  John   Hall.  "     In  the  same  grave 


where  his  father  was  laid  in  1601,  was  buried  his  mother, 
"  Mary  Shakespeare,  widow,"  on  the  9th  of  Sei)tcmber, 
1008.  She  was  the  youngest  daughter  of  Robert  Aidcn, 
who  died  in  1556.  She  was  probably,  therefore,  about 
seventy  years  of  age  when  her  sons  followed  her  to  tho 
"  house  of  all  living." 

Tliere  is  a  memorandum  existing,  by  Thomas  Greene, 
a  contemporary  of  Shakespeare,  residing  at  Stratford, 
which,  under  the  date  of  November  17th,  1014,  has 
this  record  : — "  My  cousin  Shakespeare  coming  yester- 
day to  town,  I  went  to  see  him  how  he  did."  We  cito 
this  memorandum  here,  as  an  indication  of  Shakespeare' « 
habit  of  occasionally  visiting  London :  for  Tliomaa 
Greene  v?as  then  in  the  capital,  with  the  intent  of  op- 
posing the  project  of  an  inclosure  at  Stratford.  The 
frequency  of  Shakespeare' s  visits  to  London  would  essen- 
tially depend  upon  the  nature  of  his  connexion  with  the 
theatres.  He  was  a  permanent  shareholder,  as  we  have 
seen,  at  the  Blackfriars  ;  and  no  doubt  at  the  Globe 
also.  His  interests  as  a  sharer  might  be  diligently 
watched  over  by  his  fellows  ;  and  he  might  only  have 
visited  London  when  he  had  a  new  play  to  bring  for 
ward,  the  fruit  of  his  leisure  in  the  country.  But  until 
he  disposed  of  his  wardrobe  and  other  properties,  more 
frequent  dejnands  might  be  made  upon  his  personal 
attendance  than  if  he  were  totally  free  from  the  respon- 
sibilities belonging  to  the  charge  of  such  an  embarrass- 
ing stock  in  trade.  Mr.  Collier  has  printed  a  memo- 
randum in  the  handwriting  of  Edward  Alleyn,  fljited 
April,  1612,  of  the  payment  of  various  sums  "  for  the 
Blackfryers,"  amounting  to  599^  6s.  8(/.  Mr.  Collier 
adds,  "To  whom  the  money  was  paid  is  nowhere 
stated  ;  but,  for  aught  we  know,  it  was  to  Shakespeare 
himself,  and  just  anterior  to  his  departure  from  Lon- 
don." The  memorandum  is  introduced  with  the 
observation,  "It  seems  very  likely,  from  evidence  now 
for  the  first  time  to  be  adduced,  that  Alleyn  became  the 
purchaser  of  our  great  dramatist's  interest  in  the  thea- 
tre, properties,  wardrobe,  and  stock  of  the  Blackfriars. ' ' 
Certainly  the  document  itself  says  nothing  about  pro- 
perties, wardrobe,  and  stock.    It  is  simply  as  follows  ■  — 

"  1612. 
Money  paid  by  me  E.  A.  for  tlie  Black  fryera    160  11 
More  for  the  Blackfryers        .  .  .     12G  li 

More  againe  for  the  Leasse     .  .  .310  11 

Tbo  writinges  for  the  same,  and  other  small 

charges  .        S  H  68.   Sd." 

More  than  h.alf  of  the  entire  sum  is  paid  "again  for  the 
lease."  If  the  estimate  "For  avoiding  of  the  Play- 
house"'^" be  not  rejected  as  an  authority,  the  conjec- 
ture of  Mr.  Collier,  that  the  property  purchased  by 
Alleyn  belonged  to  Shakespeare,  is  wholly  untenable ; 
for  the  Fee,  val  ued  at  a  thousand  pounds,  was  the  pro 


*  See  page  xlvi. 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEAEE. 


perty  of  Burbage,  and  to  the  owner  of  the  Fee  would 
he  paid  the  sum  for  the  lease.  Subsequent  memoranda 
by  Alleyn  show  that  he  paid  rent  for  the  Blackfriars, 
and  expended  sums  upon  the  building — collateral  proofs 
tliat  it  was  not  Shakespeare's  personal  property  that  he 
bought  in  April,  1612.  There  is  distinct  evidence  fur- 
nished by  another  document  that  Shakespeare  was  not 
a  resident  in  London  in  1613  ;  form  an  indenture  exe- 
cuted by  him  on  the  10th  of  March  in  that  year,  for  the 
purchase  of  a  dwelling-house  in  the  precinct  of  the 
Blackfriars,  he  is  described  as  ' '  William  Shakespeare  of 
Stratforde  Upon  Avon  in  the  countie  of  Warwick  gen- 
tleman ;"  whilst  his  fellow,  John  Hemyng,  who  is  a 
party  to  tlie  same  deed,  is  described  as  "of  London, 
gentleman."  From  the  situation  of  the  property  it 
would  appear  to  have  been  bought  either  as  an  appurte- 
nance to  the  theatre,  or  for  some  protection  of  the  in- 
terests of  the  shaiers.  In  the  deed  of  1602,  Shake- 
speare is  also  described  as  of  Stratford-upon-Avon.  It  is 
natural  that  he  should  be  so  described,  in  a  deed  for  the 
purchase  of  laud  at  Stratford  ;  but  upon  the  same  prin- 
ciple, had  he  been  a  resident  iu  London  in  1610,  he 
would  have  been  described  as  of  London  in  a  deed  for 
the  purchase  of  property  in  London.  Yet  we  also  look 
upon  this  conveyance  as  evidence  that  Shakespeare  had 
in  March,  1013,  not  wholly  severed  himself  from  his  inte- 
rest in  the  theatre.  He  is  in  London  at  the  signing  of 
the  deed,  attending,  probably,  to  the  duties  which  still 
devolved  upon  him  as  a  sharer  in  the  Blackfriars.  He 
is  not  a  resident  in  London  ;  he  has  come  to  town,  as 
Thomas  Greene  describes  in  1614,  But  we  have  no 
evidence  that  he  sold  his  theatrical  property  at  all. 
Certainly  the  evidence  that  he  sold  it  to  Edward  Alleyn 
may  be  laid  aside  in  any  attempt  to  fix  the  date  of 
Shakespeare's  departure  from  London. 

Every  one  agrees  that  during  the  last  three  or  four 
years  of  his  life  Shakespeare  ceased  to  write.  Yet  we 
venture  to  think  that  every  one  is  in  error.  The  opinion 
is  founded  upon  a  belief  that  he  only  finally  loft  London 
towards  the  close  of  1613.  We  have  shown,  from  his 
purcliase  of  a  large  house  at  Stratford,  his  constant  ac- 
quisition of  landed  property  there,  his  active  engage- 
ments in  tlte  business  of  agriculture,  the  interest  which 
he  took  in  matters  connected  with  his  property  in  which 
his  neighbours  had  a  common  interest,  that  he  must 
have  partially  left  London  before  tliis  period.  There 
were  no  circumstances,  as  far  as  we  can  "oollect,  to  have 
prevented  him  fiually  leaving  London  several  years 
before  1613.  But  his  biographers,  having  fi.xcd  a  period 
for  the  termination  of  his  connexion  with  the  active 
business  of  the  theatre,  assume  that  he  became  wholly 
unemployed  ;  that  ho  gave  himself  up,  as  Rowe  has  de- 
scribed, to  "ease,  retirement,  and  the  conversation  of 
his  friends.  '     His  income  was  enough,  they  say,  to  dis- 


pense with  labour ;  and  therefore  he  did  not  labour. 
But  when  the  days  of  leisure  arrived,  is  it  reasonabla 
to  beUeve  that  the  mere  h.abit  of  his  life  would  not 
assert  its  ordinary  control ;  that  the  greatest  of  intel- 
lects would  suddenly  sink  to  the  condition  of  an  every- 
day man — cherishing  no  high  plans  for  the  future,  look- 
ing back  with  no  desire  to  equal  and  excel  the  work  of 
the  past  ?  At  the  period  of  life  when  Chaucer  began  to 
write  the  '  Canterbury  Tales,'  Shakespeare,  according  to 
his  biographers,  was  suddenly  and  utterly  to  cease  to 
write.  We  cannot  believe  it.  Is  tliere  a  parallel  case 
in  the  career  of  any  great  artist  who  had  won  for  him- 
self competence  and  fame  ?  Is  the  mere  applause  of  the 
world,  and  a  sufficiency  of  the  goods  of  life,  "  the  end- 
all  and  the  be-all"  of  the  labours  of  a  mighty  mind? 
These  attained,  is  the  voice  of  his  spiritual  being  to  be 
heard  no  more  ?  If  those  who  reason  thus  could  pre- 
sent a  satisfactory  record  of  the  dates  of  all  Shake- 
speare's works,  and  especially  of  his  later  works,  we 
should  still  cling  to  the  belief  that  some  fruits  of  the 
last  years  of  his  liteiary  industry  had  wholly  peri.shed. 
It  is  unnecessaiy,  as  it  appears  to  us,  to  adopt  any  sucli 
theory.  Without  the  means  of  fixuig  the  precise  date 
of  many  particular  dramas,  we  haveindisputable  traces, 
up  to  this  period,  of  the  appearance  of  at  least  five- 
sixths  of  all  Shakespeare's  undoubted  works.  Are 
there  any  dramas  whose  individual  appearance  is  not 
accounted  for  by  those  who  have  attempted  to  fix  the 
exact  chronology  of  other  plays  ?  There  are  such 
dramas,  and  they  form  a  class.  They  are  the  three 
great  Roman  plays  of  '  Coriolanus,'  '  Julius C;csar,'  and 
'  Autony  and  Cleopatra. ' 

The  happy  quiet  of  Shakespeare's  retreat  was  not 
wholly  undisturbed  by  calamity,  domestic  and  public. 
His  brother  Richard,  who  was  ten  years  his  junior,  was 
buried  at  Stratford  on  the  4th  of  February,  1613.  Of 
his  father's  family,  his  sister  Joan,  who  had  married 
Mr.  William  Hart  of  Stratford,  was  probably  the  only 
other  left.  There  is  no  record  of  the  death  of  his  bro- 
ther Gilbert ;  but  as  he  is  not  mentioned  in  the  will  of 
William,  in  all  likelihood  he  died  before  him.  Oldys, 
in  his  manuscript  notes  upon  Langbaine,  has  a  story 
of  "One  of  Shakespeare's  younger  brothers,  who  lived 
to  a  good  old  age,  even  some  years,  as  I  compute,  after 
the  restoration  of  King  Charles  II."  Gilbert  was  bom 
iu  1566 ;  so  that  if  he  had  lived  some  yeai's  after  the 
restoration  of  Charles  II.  it  is  not  surprising  that  "  his 
memory  was  weakened,"  as  Oldys  reports,  and  that  ho 
could  give  "  the  most  noted  actors"  but  "  little  satis- 
faction in  their  endeavours  to  learn  something  from  hiia 
of  his  hriilber."  Tlie  story  of  Oldys  is  cleai'ly  apocry- 
phal, as  fir  as  regards  any  brother  of  Shakespeare's 
Tlicy  wrvc  a  sluirt-livcd  I'ace.  His  sister,  indeed,  sur- 
vived him  tliirty  years.     The  family  at  New  Place,  at 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


this  period,  would  be  composed  therefore  of  his  wife 
only,  and  his  unmarried  daughter  Judith  ;  unless  his 
elder  daughter  and  his  son-in-law  formed  a  part  of  the 
Kxme  household,  with  their  only  chihl  Elizabeth,  who 
was  bora  in  1G08.  The  public  calamity  to  which  wo 
have  alluded  was  a  great  fire,  which  broke  out  at  Strat- 
ford on  the  0th  of  July,  1614.  That  Shakespeare  as- 
sisted with  all  the  energy  of  his  character  in  alleviating 
the  miseries  of  this  calamity,  and  in  the  restoration  of 
his  town,  we  cannot  doubt.  In  the  same  year  we  find 
him  taking  some  interest  in  the  project  of  an  inclosure 
of  the  common-fields  of  Stratford.  The  inclosure  would 
probably  l.ave  improved  his  property,  and  especially 
have  incrci-sed  the  value  of  the  tithes,  of  the  moiety  of 
which  he  held  a  lease.  The  Corporation  of  Stratford 
were  opposed  to  the  inclosure.  They  held  that  it  would 
be  injurious  to  the  poorer  inhabitants,  who  were  then 
deeply  suffering  from  the  desolation  of  the  fire ;  and 
they  appear  to  have  been  solicitous  that  Sliakespcare 
should  take  the  same  view  of  the  matter  as  theiusolvcs. 
His  friend  William  Comlie,  then  high  sheriff  of  the 
comity,  was  a  principal  person  engaged  in  forwarding 
the  inclosure.  The  Corporation  sent  their  common 
clerk,  Thomas  Greene,  to  London  to  oppose  the  project ; 
and  a  meniorandum  in  his  handwriting,  which  still 
remains,  exhibits  the  business-like  manner  in  which 
Shakespeare  informed  himself  of  the  details  of  the  plan. 
The  first  memorandum  is  dated  the  17  th  of  November, 
1G14,  and  is  as  follows: — "My  Cosen  Shakspeare 
corayng  yesterday  to  town,  I  went  to  see  how  he  did. 
He  told  me  that  they  assured  him  they  ment  to  inclose 
DO  further  than  to  Gospel  Bush,  and  so  npp  straight 
(leaving  ont  pt.  of  the  Dyngles  to  the  field)  to  the  gate 
in  Clopton  hedg,  and  take  in  Salisbury's  peece  ;  and 
that  they  mean  in  Aprill  to  svey.  the  land  and  then  to 
gyve  s;itisfaccion,  and  not  before  :  and  ho  and  Mr.  Hall 
say  they  think  yr.  will  be  nothyng  done  at  all."  Mr. 
Greene  appears  to  have  returned  to  Stratford  in  .about 
a  fortnight  after  the  date  of  this  memorandum,  and 
Shakespeare  seems  to  have  remained  in  London  ;  for  ac- 
cording to  a  second  memorandum,  which  Is  damaged 
and  partly  illegible,  an  official  letter  was  written  to 
Shakespeare  by  the-Corporation,  accompanied  by  a  pri- 
vate letter  from  Mr.  Greene,  moving  him  to  exert  his 
influence  against  this  plan  of  the  inclosure  : — "  23  Dec. 
A.  Hall,  Lres.  wrytten,  one  to  Mr.  Manyring — another 
to  Mr.  Shakspeare,  with  almost  all  tlie  company's 
hands  to  eyther.     I  also  vrrytte  myself  to  my  Csn.  Shak- 

Bpoar,  the  coppyes  of  all  our then  also  a  note 

of  the  inconvenyences  wold  ...  by  the  inclosure." 
Arthur  Mannering,  to  whom  one  of  these  letters  was 
written  by  the  Corporation,  was  officially  connected 
with  the  Lord  Chancellor,  and  then  residing  at  his 
house  ;  and  from  the  letter  to  him,  which  has  been  pre- 


served, "  it  appears  that  he  was  appr''"'d  of  the  injury 
to  be  expected  from  the  intended  inclosure  ;  reminded 
of  the  damage  that  Stratford,  then  '  lying  in  the  ashes 
of  desolation,'  hiul  sustained  from  recent  fires;  and  en 
treated  to  forbear  the  inclosure."  The  letter  to  Shako 
spearc  has  not  been  discovered.  The  fact  of  its  h.aving 
been  written  leaves  no  doubt  of  the  importance  which 
was  attached  to  his  opinion  by  his  neighbours.  Truly 
in  his  later  years  he  had 

"  Honour,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  frlen<j8." 

The  younger  daughter  of  Shakespeare  was  married  on 
the  10th  of  February,  1616,  to  Thomas  Quiney,  as  the 
register  of  Stratford  shows.  Thomas  Quiney  was  the 
son  of  Richard  Quiney  of  Stratford,  whom  we  have 
seen  in  1.59S  soliciting  the  kind  offices  of  his  loving 
CQuntryman  Shakespeare.  Thomas,  who  was  horn  in 
1588,  was  probably  a  well-educated  man.  The  l.ast 
will  of  Shakespeare  would  appear  to  have  been  prepared 
in  some  degree  vnth  reference  to  this  marriage.  It  is 
dated  the  2.5th  of  March,  1616 ;  but  the  word  "  Janu- 
arii  "  seems  to  have  been  first  written  and  afterwards 
struck  out,  "  Martii"  having  been  written  above  it.  It 
is  not  unlikely,  and  indeed  it  appears  most  probable, 
that  the  document  was  prepared  before  the  marriage  of 
Judith  ;  for  the  elder  daughter  is  mentioned  as  Susanna 
Hall, — the  younger  simply  as  Judith.  To  her,  one 
hundred  pounds  is  bequeathed,  and  fifty  pounds  con- 
ditionally. The  life-interest  of  a  further  sum  of  one 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  is  also  bequeathed  to  her, 
with  remainder  to  her  children  ;  but  if  she  died  without 
issue  within  three  years  after  the  date  of  the  will,  the 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  was  to  be  otherwise  appro- 
priated. We  pass  over  the  various  legacies  to  relations 
and  friends  to  come  to  the  bequest  of  the  great  bulk  of 
the  property.  All  the  real  estate  is  devised  to  his 
daughter  Susanna  Hall,  for  and  during  the  term  of 
her  natural  life.  It  is  then  entailed  upon  her  first  son 
and  his  heirs  male ;  and  in  default  of  such  issue,  to 
her  second  son  and  his  heirs  male  ;  and  so  on  :  in  de- 
fault of  such  issue,  to  his  gi'anddaughter  Elizabeth  Hall 
(called  in  the  language  of  the  time  his  "niece") :  and 
in  default  of  such  issue,  to  his  daughter  Judith  and  her 
heirs  male.  By  this  strict  entailment  it  was  manifestly 
the  object  of  Shakespeare  to  found  a  fiimily.  Like 
many  other  such  purposes  of  short-sighted  humanity, 
the  object  was  not  accomplished.  His  elder  d.aughter 
had  no  issue  but  Elizabeth,  .and  she  died  childless. 
The  heirs  male  of  Judith  died  before  her.  Tlie  estates 
were  scattered  after  the  second  generation,  and  the  de- 
scendants of  his  sister  were  the  only  transmitters  to 
posterity  of  his  blood  and  lineage. 

"  Item,  I  give  unto  my  wife  my  seccnd-best  bed, 
with  the  furniture."  This  is  the  clause  of  the  will 
upon  which,  for  half  a  century,  all  men  believed  that 


Ui 


LIFE  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


Shakespeare  recollected  his  wife  only  to  mark  how  little 
he  esteemed  her, — to  "cut  her  off,  not  indeed  with  a 
shilling,  hut  with  an  old  bed."*  We  had  the  satisfac- 
tion of  first  showing  the  utter  groundlessness  of  this 
opinion ;  and  we  here  briefly  repeat  the  statement 
which  we  made  in  our  Postscript  to  "Twelfth  Night," 
that  the  wife  of  Shakespeare  was  unquestionably  pro- 
vided for  by  the  natural  operation  of  the  law  of  England. 
His  estates,  with  the  exception  of  a  copyhold  tenement, 
expressly  mentioned  in  his  will,  were/rceAoW.  Jlis  vAfe 
was  entitled  to  dower.  She  was  provided  for  amply,  by  the 
dear  and  undeniable  operation  of  the  English  law.  Of  the 
houses  and  gardens  which  Shakespeare  inherited  from 
his  father,  she  was  assured  of  the  life-interest  of  a  tliird, 
should  she  sur\'ive  her  husband,  the  instant  that  old 
John  Shakespeare  died.  Of  the  capital  messuage  called 
New  Place,  the  best  house  in  Stratford,  which  Shake- 
speare purchased  in  1597,  she  was  assured  of  the  same 
life-interest,  from  the  moment  of  the  conveyance,  pro- 
vided it  was  a  direct  conveyance  to  her  husband.  That 
it  was  so  conveyed  we  may  infer  from  the  terms  of  the 
conveyance  of  the  lands  in  Old  Stratford,  and  other 
places,  which  were  purchased  by  Shakespeare  in  1002, 
and  were  then  conveyed  "to  the  onlye  proper  use  and 
behoofe  of  the  saide  William  Shakspere,  his  heires  and 
assignes,  for  ever. "  Of  a  life-interest  in  a  third  of  these 
lands  also  was  she  assured.  The  tenement  in  Black- 
friars,  i)urchased  in  1 614,  was  conveyed  to  Shakespeare 
and  three  other  persons ;  and  after  his  death  was  recon- 
veyed  hy  those  persons  to  the  uses  of  his  will,  "for 
and  in  performance  of  the  confidence  and  trust  in  them 
reposed  by  William  Shakespeare  deceased."  In  this 
estate,  certainly,  the  widow  of  our  poet  had  not  dower. 
It  has  been  remarked  to  us  that  even  the  express  men- 
tion of  the  second-best  bed  was  anything  b>it  unkind- 
ness  and  insult ;  that  the  best  bed  was  in  all  probabi- 
lity an  heir-loom  :  it  might  have  descended  to  Shake- 
speare himself  from  his  father  as  an  heir-loom,  and, 
as  such,  was  tlie  property  of  his  own  heirs.  The  best 
bed  was  considered  amongst  the  most  important  of 
those  chattels  which  went  to  the  heir  by  custom  with 
the  house.f 
The  will  of  Shakespeare  thus  commences  : — "I,  Wil- 


•  Malone. 

t  "  .\Tid  note  tfcftt  in  6ome  places  chnltela  as  hcir-Iooins  (as  the 
beat  bed,  table,  pot,  pan.  rart,  and  other  dead  clialtcls  mi»veable) 
may  po  to  the  hcii,  and  the  heir  in  that  caj^e  may  have  an  action 
tyt  *-hcin  at  the  common  law,  and  shall  not  .sue  for  theni  in  tbo 


liam  Shakespeare,  of  Stratford-upon-Avon,  in  the  county 
of  Warwick,  gent.,  in  perfect  health  and  memoiy,  (G'^'d 
be  praised !)  do  make  and  ordain  this  my  last  will  and 
testament. ' '  And  yet  within  one  month  of  this  declara- 
tion William  Shakespeare  is  no  more  : 

OBUT  ANO.  Doi.  1616.  ^T.Mis  53.  die  23.  ap. 

Such  is  the  inscription  on  his  tomb.  It  is  corroborated 
by  the  register  of  his  burial : — "  April  25.  Will  Shak- 
spere gent."  Writing  forty-six  years  after  the  event, 
the  vicar  of  Stratford  says,  "Shakspere,  Drayton,  and 
Ben  Jonson  had  a  merry  meeting,  and,  it  seems,  drank 
too  hard,  for  Shakspere  died  of  a  fever  there  contract- 
ed." A  tradition  of  this  nature,  surviving  its  object 
nearly  half  a  century,  is  not  much  to  be  relied  on.  But 
if  it  were  absolutely  true,  our  reverence  for  Shakespeare 
would  not  be  diminished  hy  the  fact  that  he  accelerated 
his  end  in  the  exercise  of  hospitality,  according  to  the 
manner  of  his  age,  towards  two  of  the  most  illustrious 
of  his  friends.  The  ' '  merry-meeting,  "the  last  of  many 
social  hours  spent  with  the  full-hearted  Jonson  and  the 
elegant  Drayton,  may  be  contemplated  without  a  pain- 
ful feeling.  Shakespeare  possessed  a  mind  eminently 
social — "he  was  of  a  free  and  generous  nature."  But, 
says  the  tradition  of  half  a  century,  "he  drank  too 
hard"  at  this  "merry  meeting."  We  believe  that  this 
is  the  vulgar  colouring  of  a  common  incident.  He 
"died  of  a  fever  there  contracted."  The  fever  that  is 
too  often  the  attendant  upon  a  hot  spring,  when  the 
low  grounds  upon  a  river  bank  have  been  recently  in- 
undated, is  a  fever  that  the  good  people  of  Stratford 
did  not  well  understand  at  that  day.  The  "  merry 
meeting' '  rounded  off  a  tradition  much  more  effectively. 
Whatever  was  the  immediate  cause  of  his  last  illness, 
we  may  well  believe  that  the  closing  scene  was  full  of 
tranquillity  and  hope ;  and  that  he  who  had  sought, 
perhaps  more  than  any  man,  to  look  beyond  the  mate- 
rial and  finite  things  of  the  world,  should  rest  at  last 
in  the  "peace  which  passeth  all  understanding" — in 
that  assured  belief  which  the  opening  of  his  will  has 
expressed  with  far  more  than  formal  solemnity: — "1 
commend  my  soul  into  the  hands  of  God  my  creator, 
hoping,  and  assuredly  believing,  through  the  only 
meiits  of  Jesus  Christ,  my  Saviour,  to  be  madr  par- 
taker of  life  everlasting." 


ecclesiastical  court;  hot  the  hoir-loom  Is  due  t/  cratom,  and  not 

by  the  common  \tt\v."—Cok6  upon  Littlettyn,  18  b. 


r»in«,"jT.-.r,M,-M.y.vi«l 


SHAKESPEARE'S  WILL, 

FROM  THE  ORIGINAL 

m   THE    OFFICE   OF   TUB    PKEKOOATIVE   COURT   OF   CANTKKBnEI. 

Vicesimo  qairda  die  Mariii,  Anno  Regni  Domini  noslri  Jacobi  nunc  Regis  AnglicB,  S(c,  dtcimo  quarto,  el  Sexico 
quadragesimo  nono.     Anno  Domini  1616. 

In  the  name  of  God,  Amen.  I  William  Sbaliespeare  of  Stratford-upon-Avon,  in  the  county  of  Warwick,  gent.. 
In  perfect  healtli  and  memory,  (God  be  praised  !)  do  make  and  ordain  this  my  last  will  and  testament  in  mtimci 
and  form  following  ;  that  is  to  say  : 

First,  I  commend  my  soul  into  the  hands  of  God  my  creator,  hoping,  and  assuredly  believing,  through  the 
only  merits  of  Jesus  Christ  my  Saviour,  to  be  made  partaker  of  live  everlasting  ;  and  my  body  to  the  earth 
whereof  it  is  made. 

Item,  I  give  and  bequeath  unto  my  daughter  Judith,  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  lawful  English  money, 
to  be  paid  unto  her  in  manner  and  form  following  ;  that  is  to  say,  one  hundred  pounds  in  discbarge  of  her 
marriage  portion  within  one  year  after  my  decease,  with  consideration  after  the  rate  of  two  shillings  in  the 
pound  for  so  long  time  as  the  same  shall  be  unpaid  unto  her  after  my  decease  ;  and  the  fifty  pounds  residue 
thereof,  upon  her  surrendering  of,  or  giving  of  such  sufficient  security  as  the  overseers  of  tliis  my  will  shall  liko 
of,  to  surrender  or  grant,  all  her  estate  and  right  that  shall  descend  or  come  unto  her  after  my  decease,  or  that 
fihe  now  hath,  of,  in,  or  to,  one  copyheld  tenement,  with  the  appurtenances,  lying  and  being  in  Stratford-\ipon- 
Avon  aforesaid,  in  the  said  county  of  Warwick,  being  parcel  or  holden  of  the  manor  of  Rowingtou,  unto  my 
daughter  Susanna  Hall,  and  her  heirs  for  ever. 

Item,  I  give  and  bequeath  unto  my  said  daughter  Judith  one  hundred  and  tifty  pounds  more,  ii'  she,  or  any 
issue  of  her  body,  be  living  at  the  end  of  three  years  next  ensuing  the  day  of  the  date  of  this  my  will,  during 
which  time  my  executors  to  pay  her  consideration  from  my  decease  according  to  the  rate  aforesaid  .  and  if  she 
die  within  the  said  term  without  issue  of  her  body,  then  my  will  is,  and  I  do  give  and  bequeath  one  himdrcd 
pounds  thereof  to  my  niece  Elizabeth  Hall,  and  the  fifty  pounds  to  be  set  forth  by  my  executors  during  the 
life  of  my  sister  Joan  Hart,  and  the  use  and  profit  thereof  coming,  shall  be  paid  to  my  »aia  sister  Joan,  and 
after  her  decease  the  said  fifty  pounds  shall  remain  amongst  the  children  of  my  said  sister,  equally  to  be  divided 
amongst  them  ;  but  if  my  said  daughter  Judith  be  living  at  the  end  of  the  said  three  yenrs,  or  any  issue  of  her 
body,  then  my  will  is,  and  so  I  devise  and  bequeath  the  said  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  to  be  set  out  by  my 
executors  and  overseers  for  the  best  benefit  of  her  and  her  issue,  and  the  stock  not  lO  De  paid  unto  her  so  long 
OS  she  sh.all  be  married  and  covert  baron  ;  but  my  will  is,  that  she  shall  have  the  consideration  yearly  paid  unto 
her  during  her  life,  and  after  her  decease  the  said  stock  and  consiileratiou  to  be  paid  to  her  children,  if  she 
have  any,  and  if  not,  to  her  executors  or  assigns,  she  living  the  said  term  after  my  decease  :  provided  that  if 
such  husband  as  she  shall  at  the  end  of  the  said  three  years  be  married  unto,  or  at  any  [time]  after,  do  sutfi- 
ciently  assure  unto  her,  and  the  issue  of  her  body,  lands  answerable  to  the  portion  by  this  my  will  given  unto 
her,  and  tt'  be  adjudged  so  by  my  executors  and  overseers,  then  ray  will  is,  that  the  said  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  shall  be  paid  to  such  husband  as  shall  make  such  assurance,  to  his  own  use. 

Item,  I  give  and  bequeath  unto  my  said  sister  Joan  twenty  pounds,  and  all  my  wearing  apparel,  to  be  paid 
and  delivered  within  one  year  after  my  decease  ;  and  I  do  will  and  devise  unto  her  the  house,  with  the  appni- 
tenances,  in  Stratford, .wherein  she  dwelleth,  for  her  natural  life,  under  the  yearly  rent  of  twelve-pence. 

Item,  I  give  and  bequeath  unto  her  three  sons,  William  Hart, Hart,  and  Michael  Hart,  five  pounds 

apiece,  to  be  paid  within  one  year  after  my  decease. 

Item,  I  give  imd  bequeath  unto  the  said  Elizabeth  Hall  all  my  plate,  (except  my  broad  silver  and  gilt  bowl, J 
that  I  now  have  at  the  date  of  this  my  will. 

Item,  I  give  and  bequeath  unto  the  poor  of  Stratford  aforesaid  ten  pounds  ;  to  Mr.  Tliomas  Combe  my 
Bword  ;  to  Thomas  Russel,  esq.,  five  pounds  ;  and  to  Francis  Collins  of  the  borough  of  Warwick,  in  the  county 
of  Warwick,  gent.,  thirteen  pounds  six  shillings  and  eight-pence,  to  be  paid  within  one  year  after  my  decease. 

Item,  I  give  and  bequeath  to  Hamlet  [Ihmnel]  Sadler  tv.-enty-six  shillings  eight-pence,  to  buy  him  a  ring  : 
to  William  Reynolds,  gent.,  twenty-six  shillings  eight-pence,  to  buy  him  a  ring  ;  to  my  godson  William  Walk- 
er, twenty  shillings  in  gold  ;  to  Anthony  Nash,  gent.,  twenty-six  shillings  eight-pence  ;  and  to  Mr.  John  Nash, 
twenty-six  shillings  eight-pence  ;  and  to  my  fellows,  John  Hemynge,  Richard  Burbage,  and  Henry  CuniloU, 
twenty-six  shillings  eight-pence  apiece,  to  buy  them  rings. 


SHAKESPEARE'S  WILL. 


/ton,  I  give,  will,  bcqueatli,  and  devise,  unto  my  daughter  Susanna  Hal'i,  fcr  better  enabling  of  her  to 
perfomi  this  my  will,  and  towards  the  performance  thereof,  all  that  capital  messuage  or  tenement,  with  the 
appurtenances,  in  Stratford  aforesaid,  called  The  New  Place,  wherein  I  now  dwell,  and  two  messuages  or  tene- 
ments, with  the  appurtenances,  situate,  lying,  and  being  in  Henley-street,  within  the  borough  of  Stratford 
aforesaid ;  and  all  my  barns,  stables,  orchards,  gardens,  lands,  tenements,  and  hereditaments  whatsoever, 
situate,  lying,  and  being,  or  to  be  had,  received,  perceived,  or  taken,  within  the  towns,  hamlets,  villages,  iieldr., 
and  grounds  of  Stratford-upon-Avon,  Old  Stratford,  Bishopton,  and  Welcombe,  or  in  any  of  them,  in  the  said 
county  of  Warwick  ;  and  also  all  that  messuage  or  tenement,  with  the  appurtenances,  wherein  one  .lohn  Robin- 
son dwelleth,  situate,  lying  and  being,  in  the  Blackfriars  in  London  near  the  Wardrobe ;  and  all  other  my 
lands,  tenements,  and  hereditaments  whatsoever  ;  to  have  and  to  bold  all  and  singular  the  said  premises,  with 
tlieir  appurtenances,  unto  the  said  Susanna  Hall,  for  and  during  the  term  of  her  natural  life  ;  and  after  her 
decease  to  the  first  son  of  her  body  lawfully  issuing,  and  to  the  heirs  males  of  the  body  of  the  said  first  son 
lawfully  issuing  ;  and  for  default  of  such  issue,  to  the  second  son  of  her  body  lawfully  issuing,  and  to  the  heirs 
males  of  the  body  of  the  said  second  son  lawfully  issuing  ;  and  for  default  of  such  heirs,  to  the  third  son  o! 
the  bo'ly  of  tiie  saii  Susanna  la^vfully  issuing,  and  to  the  heirs  males  of  the  body  of  the  said  third  son  lawfully 
issuing  ;  and  for  default  of  such  issue,  the  same  so  to  be  and  remain  to  the  fourth,  fifth,  sixth,  and  seventh 
sous  of  her  body,  lawfully  issuing  one  after  another,  and  to  the  heirs  males  of  the  bodies  of  the  said  fourth, 
fifth,  sixth,  and  seventh  sons  lawfully  issuing,  in  such  manner  as  it  is  before  limited  to  he  and  remain  to  the 
first,  second,  and  third  sons  of  her  body,  and  to  their  heirs  males ;  and  for  default  of  such  issue,  the  said 
premises  to  be  and  remain  to  my  said  niece  Hall,  and  the  heirs  males  of  her  body  lawfully  issuing;  and  foi 
default  of  such  issue,  to  my  daughter  Judith,  and  the  heirs  males  of  her  body  lawfully  issuing  ;  and  for  default 
of  such  issue,  to  the  right  heirs  of  me  the  said  William  Shakespeare  for  ever. 
Item,  I  give  unto  my  wife  my  second  best  bed,  with  the  furniture. 

Item,  I  give  and  bequeath  to  my  said  daughter  Judith  my  broad  silver  gilt  bowl.  All  the  rest  of  my  goods, 
chattels,  leases,  plate,  jewels,  and  household  stuff  whatsoever,  after  my  debts  and  legacies  paid,  and  my  funeral 
expenses  discharged,  I  give,  devise,  and  bequeath  to  my  son-in-law,  John  Hall,  gent.,  and  my  daughter  Susanna 
his  wife,  whom  I  ordain  and  make  executors  of  this  my  last  will  and  testament.  And  I  do  entreat  and  appoint 
the  said  Thomas  Eussel,  esq.,  and  Francis  Collins,  gent.,  to  be  overseers  hereof.  And  do  revoke  all  former 
wills,  and  publish  this  to  be  my  last  will  and  testament.  In  witness  whereof  I  have  hereunto  put  my  hand, 
the  day  and  year  first  above  written. 

By  me  WUiLIAM  SHAKESPEAEE. 
Witness  to  the  publishing  hereof,  * 

Fea.  Collyns, 

Julius  Shaw, 

Jons  KoiiiNsoN, 

Hajiset  Sadler, 

KOBEET  WhAITCOTT. 

Frdbalum  fuU  iestammlum  mpraacrijptum  apud  London,  coram  Maijistro  William  Bijrde,  Lequm  Dodore,  Sfc.  vicfsant 
sramdo  die  mensit  Junii,  Anno  Domini  1C16  ;  Juramaito  Johaymis  Hall  vnius  «x.  aii,  Sfc.  de  bene,  Sfc  Jut  ^, 
7f/(TvaUi  poicstate,  Sfc,  Sti3ann(e  Hall,  alt  a.  S(c.  c<im  cum  vincrit.  S:c.  petitur.  Sec. 


CONTENTS. 


« 

I'AGS 

LIFE  OF  SHAKESPEARE yii 

SHAKESPEARE'S  WILL liiJ 


Conuirifs. 


1  ilH    liJiiMl  Jlibl • .••••••»»oso«*6e<»«3  0oeo««  1 

THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA 43 

THE  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR 81 

MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE 137 

THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS 187 

MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING i 221 

LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST 267 

MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM 31f 

MERCHANT  OF  VENICE 357 

AS  YOU  LIKE  IT 403 

TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW 447 

ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL 493 

TWELFTH  NIGHT ;  OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL 637 

WIN']  ER'S  TALE 677 


i 


€\)['  €eiiitiej5i. 


The  stomi  which  vanish'd  on  the  neighb'ring  shore, 
Was  taught  by  Shakeiipcare's  Temiiest  first  to  roar. 

Dbyben. 

XYHfc-M  the  friends  and  fellow-players  of  Shakespeare,  a  few  years  after  his  untimely  death,  coUecte 
his  works  into  a  folio  volume,  they  commenced  vath  the  romantic  drama  of  the  Tempest.  Th 
reasons  which  guided  them  in  this  arrangement  are  unkno^^-n;  but,  unless  we  imagine  they  followed  no 
particular  order,  printing  the  dramas  somewhat  capriciously  after  they  had  once  determined  on  the 
three  grand  divisions  of  Comedies,  Histories,  and  Tragedies, — we  may  perhaps  conclude  the  Tempest 
occupies  its  prominent  position  from  a  superior  degree  of  royal  favour  bestowed  upon  it,  for  it  is  well 
kno'n-n  to  have  been  acted  before  the  court,  and  its  pecular  construction  would  have  adapted  it  to  the 
scenic  contrivances  of  the  masques  which  were  produced  so  elaborately  diu'uig  the  reign  of  the  first 
James  and  his  successor. 

Internal  eridcncc,  as  far  as  can  be  judged  from  the  imperfect  history  of  Shakespeare's  genius, 
wotdd  lead  to  the  conclusion  that  the  Tempest  is  one  of  his  late  works,  or  at  least  written  at  a  somewhat 
advanced  period  of  life.  The  external  evidence  may  be  stated  in  a  veiy  few  words.  It  appears 
from  the  original  account-book  still  preserved  at  the  Audit  Office,  Somerset  House,  that  it  was 
performed  before  James  I.  at  "WTiitohaU  on  the  first  of  November,  1611: — "  HaUomas  nyght  was 
presented  att  "Wliithall  before  the  Kinges  Ma""  a  play  called  the  Tempest."  A  marginal  note  informs 
us  that  it  was  acted  "by  the  King's  players."  This  is  the  earliest  notice  of  the  play  that  has  yet  been 
discovered,  but  it  proves  nothing  beyond  that  it  was  in  existence  at  that  time,  the  entry  of  its 
perfoiTuance  in  no  way  distinguisliing  it  as  a  new  production.  It  was  also  played  with  success  at  the 
Blnclrfriars"  Tlieatre,*  and  it  was  again  performed  at  Court  early  in  the  year  1613,  before  Prince  Charles, 
the  Lady  EKzabeth,  and  the  Prince  Palatine  Elector,  as  appears  from  the  MS.  accounts  of  Lord 
Harrington,  Treasurer  of  the  Chamber  to  .James  I.,  preserved  in  the  Bodleian  Library. 

This  species  of  negative  e\'idence  is  extremely  valuable,  saving  us  the  necessity  of  producing 
serious  argument  to  controvert  the  specious  reasoning  of  Chalmers  and  others,  who  would  prove  that 
Shakespeare  had  a  real  storm  in  his  mind  when  he  wrote  the  play,  and  that  a  great  tempest  in  England 
in  1612  occasioned  the  selection  of  the  title.  Malone,  a  far  more  able  critic  than  Chalmers,  was  yet 
prejudiced  in  fiivoiu-  of  the  received  idea  that  an  actual  event  was  rcfcn-ed  to,  and  wiotc  a  pamphlet  to  show 
that  the  storm  which  dispersed  the  fleet  of  Sir  George  Somers  and  Sir  Thomas  Gates  in  July,  1 609,  on  their 
passage  with  a  large  supply  of  provisions  and  men  for  the  infant  colony  in  Virginia,  suggested  this 
etherial  drama ;   and  this  opinion,  solely  grounded  on  a  few  trifling  similarities  which  the  accounts  of 

*  This  intcrc"!tmg  fnct  is  obtained  from  Diyden's  preface  to  the  Tempest,  IC70.  It  nas  escaped  the  notiee  cf  Knight 
and  Collier.  -i 


THE  TEMPEST. 


any  two  shipwrecks  miglit  possess,  is  re-echoed  by  so  recent  a  writer  as  Mr.  Collier.  But  even  Ihc 
notice  of  "  the  still -vexed  Eennoothes,"  which  of  itself  renders  it  quite  certain  that  the  Bermudas 
ne.ver  suggested  the  scene  of  the  play,*  might  have  been  derived  fi-om  many  an  ear'icr  autliority  tluin 
Joui'dain,  who  wrote  an  account  of  Somers"  shipwreck  pubhshod  in  1610.  Chalmers  and  Hunter  insist 
upon  it  that  the  information  was  deriveJ  from  llalcigh's  Discoverie  of  Guiana,  1596;  but  sm'cly,  in  an 
age  when  maritime  adventures  of  every  description  were  so  popukffly  interesting  and  so  univer.sally 
read,  there  can  be  no  necessity  for  fixing  on  a  particular  book,  for  manj-  others  can  be  found  which 
mention  the  Bermudas  as  -being  surrounded  by  stormy  seas,  and  inhabited  with  spirits.  Jourdain"s 
account  is  entitled,  "  A  Discovery  of  the  Bermudas,  otherwise  called  the  Isle  of  Devils,''  and  he  says 
that  the  "islands  of  the  Bermudas;  cs  every  man  hwweth  that  hath  hmrd  or  read  of  them,  were  never 
inhabited  by  any  Christian  or  tieathen  people,  but  ever  esteemed  and  reputed  a  most  prodigious  and 
enchanted  place,  affording  nothing  but  gusts,  stoi'ms,  and  foul  weather ;  which  made  every  navigator 
and  marinsr  to  avoid  them  as  Scylla  and  Charybdis,  or  as  they  would  shun  the  devil  himself."  Joordain 
does  not  write  as  if  this  were  a  piece  of  recondite  information,  only  to  be  met  with  in  one  other  work. 

The  Briti.^h  Museum  contains  a  relic  of  Shakespeare,  the  only  book  with  his  autograph  known  to 
Dsisi;,  at  least  the  only  one  of  established  aiitheuticitj^,  wliich  must  ever  be  quoted  in  any  enquii'y 
relating  to  the  date  of  the  Tempest.  This  precious  volume  is  a  copy  of  Florio's  translation  of 
Montaigne's  Essays,,  fol.  1603,  and  the  poet's  autograph  is  -WTitten  on  the  fly-leaf  opposite  the  titic  in 
clear  bold  characters.  "We  have  indubitable  proof  that  this  work  was  read  by  Shakespeare,  for  there  is 
contained,  at  p.  102,  Gonzalo's  scheme  for  government  in  nearly  the  same  w  ords  used  in  the  play  : — "  It  is 
a  nation,  would  I  answere  Plato,  that  hath  no  kiudc  of  traflike,  no  knowledge  of  letters,  no 
intelligence  of  numbers,  no  name  of  magistrate,  nor  of  politilve  superioritie;  no  use  of  service,  of 
riches,  or  of  poverty ;  no  contracts,  no  successions,  no  dindcnees,  no  occupation,  but  idle ;  no  respect 
of  kindred,  but  common  ;  no  apparell,  but  naturall ;  no  maniuing  of  lands ;  no  use  of  tvine,  come,  or 
inetUe.  The  very  words  that  import  lying,  falshood,  ta'eason,  dissimulation,  covetousnes,  envio, 
deti-afltion  and  pardon,  were  never  heard  amongst  them."  This  is  undoubtedly  more  than  acridentu, 
similarity,  Shalcespeare  having  done  little  more  than  rewrite  the  passage  in  verse  :  and  we  may, 
therefore,  conclude  with  great  safety  that  the  play  was  ivi'itten  in  or  after  1603,  the  year  this  workwa.': 
published.  One  critic,  and  one  critic  only,  without  attempting  to  deny  the  source  of  Gonziilo's  speech, 
anxious  to  establish  an  early  date  for  the  Tempest,  says  that  Florio's  work  might  have  been  seen  by 
Shakespeare  in  manuscript.  But  to  reason  on  mere  possibilities  of  this  Idnd  without  evidence  would 
render  mo.5t  literary  discu.ssions  nugatory,  and  facts  lilce  the  above  are  too  rare  vrith  reference  to 
Shakespeare's  dramas  to  be  dismissed  without  the  strongest  reasons. 

Ben  Jonson,  in  the  Prologue  to  Every  Man  in  his  Humour,  acted  in  1598,  ridicules  Uic  old  plays  of 
tlie  sbdccnti  century  in  a  passage  which  has  been  supposed  to  aim  at  the  Tempest, — 

He  rather  prays  you  \vill  be  picas' d  to  see 
One  such  to  day,  as  other  plays  should  he ; 
Where  neither  chorus  wafts  you  o'er  the  seas. 
Nor  creaking  throne  comes  doxra  the  hoys  t«  please : 
Nor  nimble  squib  is  seen  to  mal<o  aieard 
The  gentlewomen ;  nor  roll'd  bullet  heard 
To  say,  it  thunders ;  nor  tempestuous  drum 
Bumbles  to  tell  you  when  the  storm  doth  come. 

But  the  allusions  are  not  suffic.'^ntly  minute  to  mark  one  particular  play,  and  that  only.  Even  tlis 
descent  of  a  throne,  the  most  marked  indication,  is  foimd  in  anothcrf  drama.  "Hare  Ben,"  however, 
has  something  more  definite  iu  liis  Bartholomew  Fair,  1614  : — "  If  there  be  never  a  servant- monster  i 


•  This  mistake  has  been,  however,  committed  by  two  or  three  critics,  and  I  am  told  it  would  now  be  worac  tlian 
Heresy  in  the  Bennudas  to  doubt  that  they  wore  not  the  scone  of  the  play.     Hut  the  only  notice  of  these  islands  in  t)ie 
Irama    is   when   Ariel   tells  Prospero    ho  once  called   him   up    at   midni.^ht    to    fetcii    dew    "from     llie    slill-ve-^'d 
Bermoolhcs ;"  and  the  enchanted  island,  therefore,  could  not  possibly  liave  been  the  same  locality. 
i  This  fact,  unlcnown  to  Mr.  Knight,  is  derived  from  Lovelace's  Liicaata- 
2 


THE   TEMPEST. 


Ihc  fail-,  who  can  h(,'lp  it.  he  says,  nor  a  nest  of  antics  ?  He  is  loth  to  make  Nature  afraid  in  his  phys, 
like  those  that  hrgct  Tales,  Tempests,  and  sucli  like  drolleries."  Wo  can  scarcely  doubt  that  Calibau  is 
intended  by  the  servant-monster,  tlic  fille  by  which  he  is  adtbesscd  by  Stcphano  in  Shakespeare's  play; 
and  the  whole  passage  is  strikingly  applicable  to  the  'Tempest,  if  wo  sirppose  it  to  be  jocuhirly  sOuded 
(o  by  Jonson,  not  necessarily  with  an  ill  feeling,  as  assumed  by  the  commentators.  At  the  same  tiino 
wliile  wcprcssing  this  belief,  it  must  be  recollected  there  were  no  doubt  drolleries  or  puppet-shows 
exhibited  in  Jonson's  time  at  Bartliolomcw  Fair  of  the  kind  here  indicated.  In  connexion  mth  tlua 
subject,  I  may  mention  that  a  curious  early  original  bill  describing  a  ■■'new  droU,  called  the  Tempest," 
is  preserved  in  the  British  Museum,  and  as  it  has  neyer  heen  noticed  by  any  of  the  critics,  a  copy  of  it 
will  probably  not  be  unacceptable  to  the  reader : — 

"  Never  acted  before.  At  Miller's  Booth,  over  against  tlie  Cross-daggers  near  the  Crorni  Tavern,  during  the  tijno  oi 
Bartholomew  Fair,  will  he  presented  an  excellent  new  droll,  call'd  The  Tempest,  or  the  Di.itresseil  Lovers,  with  'ho 
Ei\glish  hero,  and  the  Island  Princess,  ^rith  the  comical  Inimours  of  flie  inchanted  St;otchman,  or  Jockey  and  the  three 
witches :  She^\-ing  how  a  n«bleman  of  England  was  east  away  npon  the  Indian  shore,  and  in  his  travel  found  the  princess 
of  the  country,  with  whom  he  fell  in  love,  and  after  many  dangers  and  perils,  was  manned  to  her :  and  his  faithfiJ 
Scotchman,  who  was  saved  with  him,  travelling  thorow  woods,  fell  in  among  witches,  where  betiveen  'em  is  abundance  oi 
comical  diversion.  There  in  the  Tempest  is  Neptiuic,  with  his  tritons,  in  his  chariot  drawn  with  sca-hoi'ses,  and  mermaids 
tinging.  With  variety  of  entertainments  performed  by  the  best  masters :  the  particulars  would  be  too  tedious  to  be 
inserted  here." 

StiU  more  uncertain,  as  a  criterion  for  cstalilishing  a  date,  must  be  considered  the  notice  of  the 
"  (lead  Indian"  in  act  ii,  sc.  2,  for  although  Shakespeare  alludes  most  probably  to  some  celebrated 
cxliibition  of  the  day,  yet  as  far  as  our  research  enables  us  to  judge,  there  were  several  shows  to  which 
his  slight  notice  might  possibly  apply.  I  am  induced  to  quote  here  at  considerable  length  a  remarkable 
account  of  the  sights  of  England  in  the  year  1600,  wiitton  by  Homy  reachara,  not  only  because  it  ia 
an  interesting  piece  and  unnoticed  by  all  editors,  (even  by  Gifford,  who  woiild  have  found  much  iu  i 
to  illustrate  Jonson),  but  also  as  possibly  containing  a  notice  of  the  exliibition  to  which  Shakespearo 
alludes : — 

■WTiy  doe  the  rude  ■^^llgar  so  hastily  post  in  a  madnesse, 
To  gaze  at  trifles  and  toycs  not  worthy  the  viewing, 
And  thiuke  them  happy ;  when  may  bo  shew'd  for  a  penny 
The  Fleet-streete  Mandrakes,  that  heavenly  Motion  of  Eltbam, 
Westminster  monuments,  and  Guild-hall  huge  Corinceus, 
That  horae  of  Windsor  (of  an  Uniconie  very  likely) 
The  cave  of  Merlin,  the  skirts  of  old  Tom  a  Lincobie 
King  Johns  sword  at  Linne,  ^^-ith  the  cup  the  Fraternity  drinke  in, 
The  Tombc  of  Beauckampe,  and  sword  of  Sir  Giij/  a  Warwicke : 
The  great  long  Dutchman,  and  roaring  Marget  a  Bar\vicke, 
The   Mummied  Princtji,  and  Cxsars  wine  yet  i*  Dover, 
Saint  James  his  Ginney  Hens,  the  Cassawarway  moreover, 
The  Beaver  i'  the  Parke  (strange  beast  as  er'e  any  man  saw) 
Downe-shearing  willowes  with  teeth  as  sharpe  as  a  hand-eaw. 
The  Lance  of  John  a  Gaunt,  and  Brandons  still  i'  the  Towor : 
The  fall  of  Ninive,  with  Norwich  built  in  an  hower. 
King  Henries  slip-shoes,  the  sword  of  valiant  Edward ; 
The  Convetry  Boares-shield,  and  fire-workes  seen  but  to  bedward- 
Draies  ship  at  Detford,  King  Kichards  hed-sted  i'  Leyster, 
The  White  Hall  whale-bones,  the  silver  Bason  i'  Chester ; 
The  live-caught  Dog-fish,  the  Wolfe  and  Harry  the  Lyon, 
*  Hunks  of  the  Beare-garden,  to  be  feared,  if  he  be  nigh  on. 

In  the  time  of  Shakespeare,  the  knowledge  of  distant  ootmtries  and  their  history  was  but  in  its 
iiiftincy ;  so  tliat  a  "  mummied  prince"  might  be,  or  pass  for,  a  "  dead  Indian"  with  the  sight-seers.  At 
all  events,  the  conjecture  is  more  probable  (this  is  not  saying  much)  than  any  produced  by  the 
tommentators.   From  the  records  of  Lewes,  co.  Sussex  it  appears  that  a  company  of  vagrant  showmoQ 

3 


THE   TEMPEST. 


Exhibited  something  of  the  kind  in  that  town,  in  1 694,  but  whether  dead  or  alive  is  not  stated ; 
"  Expenses  in  playing  the  Indian  t^vice,  and  in  cleansing  the  rome  ■n'lioar  hee  stands,  in  all  3.s.  f>rl." 

The  notice  uf  the  "  strange  nsh"'  is  stiH  more  vague.  Scarcely  a  year  passed  without  soraetlmig 
of  the  land  being  exhibited,  and  the  satire  is  therefore  too  general  to  be  reduced  to  any  particulal 
appUcation.  In  1068  appeared,  "  A  most  true  and  marvellous  sti-aimge  wonder,  the  lyke  hath  sel  iom 
been  scene,  of  seventeen  monstrous  fisshes  taken  in  SulTolke  at  Downam  Brydge ;"  and  on  the  licgistera 
of  the  Stationers'  Company,  for  1595,  is  entered  an  account  of  "a  strange  and  hughe  fishe  dj-jn-en  on 
the  sandes  at  Outhome  in  Holdemes  in  Februarye."  Wolfe,  also,  in  1586,  printed  a  broadside 
containing  an  account  of  a  monster  fish  found  in  the  heart  of  a  horse !  The  custom  of  exhibiting 
strange  fishes  was  afterwards  ridiculed  by  Maine,  in  his  comedy  of  the  City  Match,  ed.  1639,  p.  23; 
and  many  other  allusions  to  the  practice  could  no  doubt  be  collected.  "We  do  not  attempt,  then,  to 
draw  any  conclusion  from  such  notices,  and  at  present  must  be  contented  with  the  certainty  that  the 
Tempest  was  written  between  the  years  1603  and  1611,  probably  at  a  period  inclining  towards  the 
former  date. 

No  one  has  yet  discovered  the  romance  on  which  the  Tempest  was  founded,  although  that  such  a 
tale  exists  either  in  Italian  or  Spanish  can  scarcely  be  doubted.  Warton  was  informed  by  Collins  that 
it  was  to  be  found  in  an  Italian  novel,  and  a  similar  intimation  was  made  to  Boswell,  but  the  name  of 
the  work  cannot  now  be  ascertained.  In  the  absence  of  this  evidence,  Malone  has  advanced  the 
pretensions  of  the  sixth  tragical  tale  of  Tm-bervile,  and  Greene's  comedy  of  Alphonsus,  king  of 
Arragon,  as  having  suggested  part  of  the  plot ;  but  the  similarities  he  has  pointed  out  are  extremely 
slender  and  tri'^-ial.  I  have  scarcely  any  doubt,  if,  by  any  fortunate  accident,  the  novel  mentioned  by 
Collins  should  ever  be  recovered,  we  should  discover  in  it  most  of  the  broad  chcumstances  of  the  plot 
of  the  Tempest,  and  find  that  the  poet  has  etherialized  an  ancient  necromantic  story.  Prospero  is  a  far 
more  virtuous  magician  than  any  we  read  of  elsewhere ;  and  Ariel,  in  the  original  tale,  more  likely 
resembled  Mephistophilus  than  the  delicate  spirit  represented  in  the  play.  As,  in  A  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream,  Shakespeare  has  made  our  pretty  national  i\iiry  m}'thology  more  fanciful  and  more 
poetical,  so  in  the  Tempest  he  has  clothed  necromancy  ^rith  the  robes  of  virtue,*  and  made  us 
reverence  a  magician. 

A  German  di-ama  by  Ayrer,  published  in  1618,  entitled  the  'Beautiful  Sidea,' — Sidea  correspond- 
ing to  Shakespeare's  Miranda — is  foimded  on  a  tale  containing  striking  similarities  to  the  Tempest ; 
but  we  cannot  agree  -ndth  Mr.  Thoms,  who  introduced  this  subject  to  English  readers,  in  considering 
it  a  version  of  an  earlier  di'ama  on  which  Shakespeare  founded  his  play.  It  is  a  well  ascertained 
fact  that  English  actors  perfonned  in  Germany  in  Shakespeare's  time,  and  it  is  not  unlikely  Ayrer  thus 
borrowed  in  some  measure  from  tlie  plays  they  performed. f  In  addition  to  this  German  production, 
an  English  ballad,  called  the  '  Enchanted  Island,'  has  also  been  brought  forward  as  a  claimant  for  the 
honour  of  contributing  to  the  tale  of  the  Tempest ;  but  it  is  now  generally  acknowledged  to  bo  a  later 
production,  and  founded  on  the  play.  In  this  ballad,  the  names  and  localities  are  changed,  and  tho 
verbal  similaiities  to  Shakespeare  ai-e  very  few.  Mii'anda's  smile  is  transferred  from  the  sea  to 
the  isljind, — 


When  landed  on  th'  Enchanted  Isle, 
His  little  Ida's  morning  smile 

Made  liim  forget  his  woe , 
And  thus,  within  a  cavern  drear, 
They  lived  for  many  a  year  i-fere, 

For  Heaven  had  will'd  it  so. 


•  It  is  for  this  reason  we  find  old  treatises  on  necromancy  and  mngic  afford  fewer  illustrations  of  this  play  than 
night  otherwise  have  been  expected. 

t  Shakespeare  was  very  little  known  in  Germany  in  the  seventeenth  centtiry,  except  in  this  way ;  and  Eschenhur.; 
quotes  tho  earliest  notice  of  him  in  that  country  from  a  book  printed  in  1682,  and  the  second  Irom  Bonthem,  who, 
Lowevor,  merely  copies  an  earlier  English  writer. 
4 


THE  TEMPEST. 


Ueraldo,  the  Prospcro  of  tho  ballad,  burns  his  book,  breaks  his  "  magic  wand,"  and  forsweare  the  art 
of  magic : — 

From  that  day  t'oitli  the  islo  has  been 
By  wandering  sailors  never  seen — 

Some  say  'tis  biuied  dvop 
Beneath  the  sea,  wliich  breaks  and  roars 
Above  its  savage  rocky  shores, 

Nor  ere  is  known  to  sleep. 

This  accouiit  of  the  fate  of  Prosporo's  isUind  is  not  unpoetical,  and  may  safely  be  accepted  Ly  tbe 
readers  of  Shakespeare.  Mr.  Hunter,  however,  tells  a  very  ditfereut  story.  He  says  that  if  j'ou  take 
a  m.ip  (^reading  the  Tempest  with  a  map !),  and,  tracing  the  line  of  Alonso's  track,  speculate  on  the 
island  on  which  Prospcro  and  Mii-anda  may  be  supposed  to  have  been  cast,  you  will  soon  be  persuaded 
that  island  was  Lampedusa.  Mr.  Hunter  pursues  the  argument  through  many  pag'CS;  but  our  space 
will  not  permit  an  estraot,  and  the  reader  will  not  reqidre  one ;  for  he  who  reads  tlie  '  Tempest' 
in  a  congenial  spirit  vnll  scarcely  be  willing  to  have  his  imagination  fettered  by  realities 
Lampedusa  may  very  possibly  have  been  the  scene  of  the  original  novel,  but  the  management  of 
Shakespeare's  di'ama  leads  us  to  believe  the  author  himself  intended  an  undefined  vagueness 
inconsistent  with  the  introduction  of  any  jjarticular  island. 

Soon  after  the  Eestovation,  Dryden  produced  an  alteration  of  the  Tempest,  in  whio!  he  introduced 
a  man  who  had  never  seen  a  woman,  as  a  contrast  to  Miranda,  who  had  never  seen  a  man,  and 
famished  Caliban  with  a  sister- monster.  He  acknowledges  to  have  received  the  assistance  of 
Davenant  in  this  work,  which  was  extremely  successful ;  but  the  puritj-  of  tlio  original  is  entirely  lost, 
and  the  simple  but  noble-minded  Miranda  is  converted  into  a  character  usuig  language  which  bordera 
on  indelicacy. 

Like  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  with  which  it  has  been  classed,  tlie  Tempest  is  one  of  those 

romantic  dramas  wliich  defy  analytical  criticism,  and  would  lose  in  effect  by  being  subjected  to  a  rigid 

examination  of  realities.     Although  the  unities  are  preserved,  perhaps  accidentallj-,  not  by  design,  no 

play  owes  less  allegiance  to  the  exact  sciences ;  and  the  interest  is  not  weakened  by  trivial  incongniilies 

in  the  author's  conduct  of  time  and  space.     A  hag-born  monster,  a  3"oimg  lady  educated  by  a  magiciiui 

prince  in  a  desolate  island,  and  an  attendant  spmt,  capable  of  the  assumption  of  any  form,  who  not 

only  treads  the  ooze  of  the  salt  deep,  rtuis  on  the  sharp  -nind  of  the  Iforth,  works  in  the  frosted  earth, 

and  rides  on  the  curled  clouds,  but  in  his  lighter  moods,  rides  on  the  bat's  back  or  reposes  in  a 

cowslip' s-bell,   are  singular  materials  for  a  di'ama,   the  simplicity  of  whose  construction  exhibits  in 

strong  outline  the  boundless  skill  by  whicli  it  is  made  so  irresistibly  attractive.    It  required  the  genius 

of  Shakespeare   to  reconcile  these  apparently  discordant  elements,   and   construct   out   of  them   an 

harmonious  stnieture.     If,  however,  the  reader  imagines  a  defect  exists,  and  agreeing  with  some  critics 

in  the  opinion   that  Ariel  was  not  an  "  etherial  featm-cless  angel,"  observes  an  inconsistency  in  the 

development  of  his  character,  let  us  entreat  him  to  merge  it  into  the  romantic  conduct  of  the  plot,  and 

regard  the  whole  di'ama  as  a  pm-ely  imaginative  construction  foi-med  on  the  idea  of  retributive  justice, 

to  which  no  one  biit  Shakespeare  has  made  necromancy  subservient  without  in  some  degree  injuring 

lihe  cause  of  viituc. 

5 


PEKSONS     REPRESENTED, 


AiGJTSO,  King  of  Naples. 

Avptars,  Act  I.  so.  1.    Act  II.  sc  1.    Act  III.  ac.  3. 
Act  V.  ac.  1. 

SEDASTiAJf,  hk  brother. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.     Act  II.  sc.  I.     Act  III.  sc.  3. 
Act  V.  sc.  I. 

Peospeeo,  the  rightful  Duke  of  Milan. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.  Act  III.   sc.  1;  sc.  3.  Act  Vi.  sc.  1. 
Act  V   EC.  1. ;  and  Epilogue. 

AirroNio,  the  usurping  Dul:e  of  Milan,  brother  to 

Prosporo. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.     Act  II.  sc.  I.     Act  III.  sc.  3. 
Act  V.  ec.  1. 

Ferbin-and,  son  to  the  King  of  Naples. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1;  sc.  2.  Act  III.  sc.  1.  Act  IV.  sc.  1. 
ActV.  sc.  1. 

GoNZALO,  an  honest  old  counsellor  of  Naples. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.     Act  II.  sc.  1.     Act  III.  sc.  3. 
Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Adbian,  a  lord. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1.     Act  III.  sc.  3.    Act  V.  Bc.  1. 

Francisco,  a  lord. 
Appears,  Act  II.  so.  1.    Act  III.  sc.  3.    Act  V.  ec.  1. 

Caudah,  a  savage  and  deformed  slave. 

Appeartt,  Act  I.  sc.  2.     Act  II.  bc.  2.     Act  III.  BC  2. 
4ctlV.  BO.  1.    ActV.  80.  1. 


Trtncuio,  a  jester. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  2.     Act  III    sc.  2.     Act  (V,  6C  1 

Act  V.  sc.  1. 

SiEPHANO,  a  drunken  butler. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  2.     Act  III.  sc.  2.     Act  IV.  so.  1. 
Act  V.  sc.  1. 

A  ship-master,  Boats^vain,  ayid  ilaiincrs. 

Appear,  Act  I.  sc.  1.     Act  V.  sc.  1. 

MrRAJTDA,  daughter  to  Prospero. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.     Act  III.  sc.  1.     Act  IV.  sc.  1. 
Act  V.  sc.  1. 

AroEL,  an  airy  spirit. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.    Act  II.  sc.  1.   Act  III.  so.  2;  ec  3 
Act  IV.  BC.  1.    Act  V.  80.  1. 

Iris,  a  spirit. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  1. 

Ceees,  a  spirit. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  1. 

Jiuro,  a  spirit. 
Appeals,  Act  IV.  sc.  1. 

Nymphs. 
Appear,  Act  IV.  so.  1. 

Iveapcrs. 

Appear,  Act  IV.  sc.  1. 

Other  spirits  attending  on  Prospero. 

SCENE, — Tnu  Sea,  wrrn  a  Suip;  iftebwa 
AN  Island. 


€\)t  €nii|jf0l 


ACT  L 


SCENE  I. —  Oil  a  Ship  at  Sea.    A  Storm,  with 
Thunder  and  Liffhininff. 

Enter  a  Ship-master  and  a  BoatswaiE. 
Master.  Boatswaiu ! 
Boats.  Here,  master :  What  cheer  ? 
Master.  Good,  speak  to  the  mariners  :'  fall  to  't 
j-orely,  or  we  rim  ouj'selvcs  aground :  bestir,  besiir. 

•  [Exit. 

Enter  Mariners. 

Boats.  Heigh,  my  hearts !  cheerly,  cheerlj-,  my 

hearts ;  yare,  yai-e !  Take  in  the  topsail :  Tend  to 

the  master's  whistle. — Blow,   till  thou  bm'st  thy 

wind,  if  room  enough  ! 

Enter  AlONSO,  SEBASTIAIf,  AnTOMO,  FEKDEfAND/ 

GoNZALO,  and  others. 

Alon.  Good  boatswain,  have  a  care.  "VMiere  's 
the  master .'     Play  the  men.^ 

Boats.  I  pray  now,  keep  below. 

Ant.  AMierc  is  the  master,  boatswain  ?* 

Boats.  Do  you  not  hear  him  ?  You  mar  our 
labour :  Keep  your-  cabins :  You  do  assist  the 
stonn, 

Gon.  Nay,  good,  be  patient. 

Boats.  WTien  the  sea  is.  Hence !  What  care 
these  roarers  for  the  name  of  king  ?  To  cabin  : 
silence !  trouble  us  not. 

fron.  Good,  yet  remember  whom  thou  hast 
aboard. 

Boats.  None  that  I  more  love  than  myself. 
Yiu  are  a  counsellor ;  if  you  can  command  these 


elements  to  silence,  and  work  the  peace  of  the 

present,'  we  will  not  hand  a  rope  more ;  use  your 
authority-  If  you  cannot,  give  thanks  you  have 
liv'd  so  long,  and  make  youi'self  ready  in  your 
cabin  for  the  mischance  of  the  horn-,  if  it  so  hap. — 
Cheerly,  good  hearts! — Out  of  our  way,  I  say.  [Exit. 
Gon.  I  have  great  comfort  from  this  fellow: 
methinks  he  hath  no  drowning  mai-k  upon  him; 
his  complexion  is  perfect  gallows.  Stand  fa.st, 
good  fate,  to  his  hanging !  make  the  rope  of  his 
destiny  om-  cable,  for  om-  own  doth  little  advan- 
tage !  If  he  be  not  bom  to  be  hang'd,  our  case  is 
miserable.  [Exeunt. 

Re-enter  Boatswain. 
Boats.   Down  with  the  topmast;  yare;  lower, 
lower ;   bring  her  to  try  with  main-course.'   [^4 
cry  within.~\   A  plague  upon  tliis  howling !  they 
are  louder  than  the  weather,  or  our  office. — 

Re-enter  Sebastian,  AKioino,  and  Gokzaio. 

Y''et  again  ?   what  do  you  here  ?     Shall  wo  give 
o'er,  and  drown  r     Have  you  a  mind  to  sink  ? 

Seh.  A  pox  o'  yoiu-  throat !  you  bawling,  blas- 
phemous, incharitable  dog  ! 

Boats.  Work  you,  then. 

Ant.  Hang,  cur,  hang !  you  whoreson,  insolent 
noise-maker,  we  are  less  afraid  to  be  drown'd  than 
thou  art. 

Gon.  I  '11  warrant  him  for  drowning,'  ihoiigL 
the  ship  were  no  stronger  th;m  a  nut-sheU,  and  a 
leaky  as  an  unstanched  wenoh. 


THE    TEMPEST. 


Boats.  Lay  her  a-hold,  a-hold  :*  set  lier  two 
courses ;'  off  to  sea  again ;  lay  her  off. 

Elder  Mariners,  icet. 

Mar.  All  lost !  to  prayers,  to  prayers !  all  lost ! 

\Excunt. 

Boats.  TVTiat !  must  our  mouths  be  cold  ? 

Gon.    The  king  and  prince  at  prayers ! 
Let  's  assist  them,  for  our  case  is  as  theirs. 

Seh.  I  am  out  of  patience. 

Ant.  We  are  merely'"  cheated  of  our  lives  by 
drunkai'ds. — 
This  -wide-chapp'd  rascal; — '"Would  thou  mightst 

lie  drowning 
The  washing  of  tcu  tides ! 

Go;i.  He  'U  be  hang'd  5'et, 

Though  every  drop  of  water  swear  against  it. 
And  gape  at  wid'st  to  glut"  him. 

^^A  confused  noise  uifhin. — 'Mercy  on  us! 
We  si^lit,  ive  sj)Iit ! — Farewell,  my  icife  and  cliildren! 
— Farewell,  Irother! — We  split,  ive  split,  we  split .''] 

Ant.  Let 's  all  sink  ivith  th'  king.  \_E.i:it. 

Seh.  Let 's  take  leave  of  him.  [^Exit. 

Gon.  Now  would  I  give  a  thousand  fiu-longs  of 
sea  for  an  acre  of  baiTen  ground;  long  heath, 
brown  furze,  anything :  The  wills  above  be  done ! 
but  I  woidd  faiu  die  a  dry  death.  [_Exit. 

SCEKE  II. — The  Enchanted  Island,  near  the 
Cell  of  Prospero. 

Enter  Peospeeo  and  Mihanda. 

Mira.  If  by  your  art,  my  dearest  father,  you 
have 
Put  the  wild  waters  in  this  roar,  allay  them : 
The  sky,  it  seems,  would  pour  down  stinking  pitch. 
But  that  the  sea,  mounting  to  th'  welkin's  cheek. 
Dashes  the  fire  out.     0,  I  have  suiFered 
With  those  that  I  saw  suffer !  a  brave  vessel, 
Who  had  no  doubt  some  noble  creature  in  her, 
Dash'd  all  to  piet  js.     0,  the  cry  did  knock 
Against  my  vcrj-  heart !    Poor  souls  !  they  perish'd. 
Had  I  been  any  gc  J  of  poy.-cr,  I  would 
Have  simk  the  sea  wdtliin  the  earth,  or  ere 
It  should  the  good  ship  so  have  swaUow'd,  and 
The  freighting'-  souls  within  her. 

Fro.  lie  collected; 

No  more  amazement :  teU  your  piteous  heart, 
There  '3  no  harm  doue. 

Mira.  0,  woe  the  day ! 

Fn.  No  harm. 

T  have  done  nothiug  but  iu  care  of  thee. 


(Of  thee,  my  dear  one !  thee,  my  daughter !)  wbc 
Art  ignorant  of  what  thou  art,  Qought  knowing 
Of  whence  I  am ;  nor  that  I  am  more  better'* 
Than  Prospero,  master  of  a  fidl  poor  cell. 
And  thy  no  greater  fiither. 

Mira.  More  to  Imow 

Did  never  meddle  wth  my  thoughts. 

Fro.  'T  is  time 

I  should  inform  thee  further.     Lend  thy  h;md, 
And  pluck  my  magic  garment  from  me.— So : 

\_Lays  down  his  mantle. 
Lie  there,  my  art. — Wipe  thou  thine  c)-es ;  have 

comfort. 
Tlie  direful  spectacle  of  the  wreck,  which  touoh'd 
The  very  virtue  of  compassion  in  thoe, 
I  have  with  such  pro^-ision  in  mine  iu-t 
So  safel)^  ordered,  that  there  is  no  soul" — 
No,  not  so  much  perdition  as  an  hair 
Betid  to  any  creature  in  the  vessel, 
'Wliich  thou  heard' st  cry,  which  thou  saw'st  sink 
Sit  down ;  for  thou  must  now  know  liuthcr. 

Mira.  You  have  often 

Begun  to  tell  me  what  I  am ;  but  stopp'd, 
And  left  me  to  a  bootless  inquisition,'* 
Concluding,   "Stay;  not  yet." — 

Fro.  The  horn-  's  now  come ; 

The  veiy  minute  bids  thee  ope  thine  ear ; 
Obey,  and  he  attentive.     Canst  thou  remember 
A  time  before  we  came  unto  this  cell? 
I  do  not  think  thou  canst,  for  then  thou  wast  noi 
Out  tlu-ee  yeai-s  old." 

Mira.  Certainly,  su-,  I  can. 

Pro.  By  what  ?  by  any  other  house,  or  person  ? 
Of  anything  the  image  teU  me,  that 
Hath  kept  nith  thy  remembrance. 

Mira.  'T  is  far  off; 

And  rather  lilce  a  dream,  than  an  assurance 
That  my  remembrance  warrants  :  Had  I  not 
Fom-  or  livo  women  once,  that  tended  mc  ? 

Fro.  Thou  hadst,  and  more,  Mu'iUida :  But  how 
is  it 
That  tliis  lives  in  thy  mind  ?     Wiat  see'st  tliou 

else 
In  the  dark  backward  and  ab3-sm"  of  time  ? 
If  thou  remember'st  aught  ere  thou  cam'st  here, 
How  thou  cam'st  here  thou  may'st. 
Mira.  But  that  I  do  not. 

Fr»    Twelve  year  since,  Mu'anda,  twelve  year 
since 
Thy  father  was  the  duke  of  Miiim,  and 
A  prince  of  power. 

Mira.  Sir,  are  not  you  my  father 


TU.K  TKMPEST. 


SCENE    II. 


Pro.  Thy  mother  ■was  a  piece  of  virtue,  and 
She  siiiJ  thou  wast  my  daughter,    and  thy  father 
Was  fluke  of  Milan  ;    and  his  only  heir 
A.  princess, — no  worse  issued.'" 

Mini.  0,  the  heavens 

^lial  foul  play  had  we,  tliat  we  came  from  thence  ? 
Or  lik'sscd  was  't  we  did?" 

J'ro.  Both,  both,  my  girl ; 

By  foul   play,    as  thou  say'st,  were    we   heav'd 

thence. 
But  blosaedly  holp  hither. 

Mira.  O,  my  hc;n  t  hleeds 

To  think  o'  th'  teen'"  that  I  have  turn'd  you  to, 
WTiich  is  fi-om  my   remembrance  !     Please  you, 
further. 

Fro.  My  brother,  and  thy  imcle,  ealUd  ^Vntonio, — 
I  pray  thee,  mark  me, — that  a  brother  should 
Be  so  perfidious  ! — he  whom,  next  thyself, 
Of  all  the  world  I  lov'd,  and  to  him  put 
The  manage  of  my  state  ; — as,  at  that  time, 
Throufjh  all  the  signories  it  was  the  fu'st. 
And  Prospero  the  prime  didie,  being  so  reputed 
In  dignity  ;  and  for  the  liberal  arts 
Without  a  pandlcl :  those  being  all  my  study, 
The  government  1  east  upon  my  brother. 
And  to  my  state  grew  stranger,  being  traniported 
And  rapt  in  secret  studies.     Thy  false  uncle — 
Dost  them  attend  me  ? 

Mira.  Sir,  most  heodfully. 

Pro.  Being  once  perfected  how  to  grant  suits, 
How  to  deny  them  ;  who  t'  advance,-'  and  who 
To  trash"  for  overtopping  ;  new  created 
The  creatures  that  were  mine,  I  say,  or  chang'd 

them, 
Or  else  new  form'd  them  ;  having  both  the  key 
Of  officer  and  office,  set  all  hearts  i'  the  state 
To  what  tune  plcas'd  his  ear ;  that  now  he  was 
The  i^•}'  which  had  hid  my  }/rincely  tnink, 
And  suck'd  my  verdm'c  out  on  't. — Thou  attend'st 
not. 

llira.  0,  good  sii-,  I  do  ! 

Pro.  I  pray  thee,  mark  me. 

I  thus  neglecting  worldly  ends,  all  dedicated 
To  closeness,  and  the  bettering  of  my  mind 
With  that,  which,  but  by  being  so  retir'd, 
O'erpriz'd  all  popular  rate,  in  my  false  brother 
Awak'd  an  evil  nature  :  and  my  tiaist, 
Like  a  good  parent,^  did  beget  of  him 
A  falsehood,  in  its  contrar)'  as  great 
As  my  trust  was, — which  had,  indeed,  no  limit, 
A  confidence  sans  boimd.     He  being  thus  lorded, 
Not  only  with  what  my  revenue  yielded, 


But  what  my  power  might  eke  e.xact, — like  one 
Who  having  unto  truth,  by  telling  of  it,^ 
Made  such  a  sinner  of  his  memory, 
To  credit  his  own  he, — he  did  believe 
He  was  indeed  the  duke,  out  o'  th'  sulistitution, 
And  executing  th'  outward  face  of  royalty 
Witli  all  prerogative  : — Hence  his  ambition  grow- 
in"^  ^— 
Dost  thou  hear  ? 

Mira.        Your  tale,  sir,  would  cure  deafness. 

Pro.  To  have  no  screen-'  between  this  part  he 
play'd, 
And  him  he  play'd  it  for,  ho  needs  wiU  be 
Absolute  MUan.     Me,  poor  man  !  my  Hbriuy 
Was  dukedom  lai'ge  enough  ;  of  temponJ  roj-alties 
He  thinks  me  now  incapable  :  confederates 
(So  dry  he  was  for  sway-")  with  tli'  king  of  Xapies 
To  give  him  annual  tribute,  do  him  homage, 
Subject  his  coronet  to  his  ci-own,  and  bend 
The  dukedom,  yet  imbow'd,  (alas,  poor  MUim!) 
To  most  ignoble  stooping. 

Mira.  0  the  heavens  ! 

Pro.  Mark  his  condition,  and  th'  event ;  then 
tell  me. 
If  this  might  be  a  brother. 

M/ra.  I  shoidd  sin 

To  think  but  nobly  of  my  graU'lmother : 
Good  wombs  have  borne  bad  .sons. 

Pro.  Now  the  condition 

This  king  of  Naples,  being  an  enemy 
To  me  inveterate,  hearkens  my  brother's  suit , 
'Which  was,  that  he,  in  Ueu"  o'  th'  premises 
Of  homage,  and  I  Icjiow  not  how  ranch  tribute, 
Should  presently  extii-pate  me  and  mine 
Out  of  the  dukedom,  and  confer  fail-  MUan, 
With  all  the  honours,  on  my  brother  :  Whereon, 
A  treacherous  army  levied,  one  midnight, 
Fated  to  the  purpose,  did  .Antonio  open 
The  gates  of  MUan ;  and,  i'  th'  dead  of  dai'knesB 
The  ministers  for  the  purpose  himied  thence 
Me,  and  thy  ciying  self. 

Mira.  Alack,  for  pity ! 

I,  not  rememb'ring  how  I  ci-y'd  o-at  tlicn, 
WiU  cry  it  o'er  again :  it  is  a  hint  * 

That  wrings  mine  eyes  to  't. 

Pro.  Hear  a  little  further, 

And  then  I  'U  bring  thee  to  the  present  business 
Which  now  's  upon  's;    without  the  wiiich  this 

stoiy 
Were  most  impertinent. 

Mira.  A^Tierefore  did  they  not 

That  hour  destroy  us  ? 


THK   TEMPEST. 


8CE>i:    13. 


Pro.  Well  demanded,  wench ; 

My  tale  provokes  that  question.    Dear,  they  diirst 

not, — 
So  dear  the  love  my  people  bore  me, — nor  set 
A  mark  so  bloody  on  the  business ;  but 
Witli  ooloui-s  fairer  painted  theii-  foul  ends. 
In  few,  they  hunied  us  aboard  a  bark ; 
Bore  us  some  leagues  to  sea ;  where  they  prepar'd 
A  rotten  carcass  of  a  boat,^  not  rigg'd, 
tCor  tackle,  sail,  nor  mast ;  the  very  rats 
Instinctively  have  quit  it  -P  there  they  hoist  us. 
To  cry  to  th'  sea  that  rear'd  to  us ;  to  sigh 
To  the  winds,  whose  pity,  sighing  back  again. 
Did  us  but  loving  wi'ong. 

Mira.  Alack !  what  trouble 

Was  I  then  to  you  ! 

Pro.  0  !  a  cherubim 

Thou  wast  that   did   preserve  me  !     Thou  didst 

smile. 
Infused  with  a  fortitude  from  heaven, 
(AVlien  I  have  deck'd*  the  sea  with  drops  fuU  salt ; 
Under  my  biu-then  groan'd;)  which  rais'd  in  me 
All  uudergiiing  stomach,"  to  bear  up 
.\ffainst  what  sliould  ensue. 

Mira.  How  came  we  ashore  ? 

Pro.  By  Providence  "divine.^- 
Some  food  we  had,  and  some  fi-esh  water,  that 
A  noble  Xeapolitan,  Gonzalo, 
Out  of  liis  charity  (wh»)  being  then  appointed 
Master  of  this  design)  did  give,  us ;  with 
Rich  garments,  linens,  stuffs,  and  necessaries. 
Which  since  have  steaded  much.    So,  of  his  gentle- 
ness, 
Kno\ving  I  lov'd  my  books,  he  fumish'd  me, 
From  mine  own  library,  with  volumes  that 
I  prize  above  my  dukedom. 

Mira.  Would  I  might 

But  ever  see  that  man ! 

Pro.  Now  I  aiise : — 

Sit  still,  and  he;u'  the  last  of  our  sea-soiTow. 
Here  in  tliis  island  we  arriv'd;  and  here 
Have  I,  tlty  schoolmaster,  made  thee  more  profit 
Than  other  princess  can,  that  have  more  time 
Fur  .vainer  houm,  and  tutors  not  so  careful. 

Mira.  Heavens  thank  you  for  't !    And  now,  I 
pray  you,  sir, 
(For  still  't  is  beating  in  my  mind,)  your  reason 
For  niising  this  sea-storm  ? 

Pro.  Know  thus  far-forth." 

By  accident  most  Btrange,  boimtiful  Fortune, 
Now  my  dear  lady,'"  liath  mine  enemies 
liroiigbt  to  this  shore  :  and,  by  my  prescience, 

JO 


I  find  my  zenith  doth  depend  upon 
A  most  auspicious  star;  whose  influence 
If  now  I  court  not,  but  omit,  my  fortunes 
WUl  ever  after  droop. — Here  cease  more  qucsiions : 
Thou  ai-t  incKn'd  to  sleep ;  't  is  a  good  dulncs?, 
And  give  it  way; — I  know  thou  canst  not  chouse. 

[MiEiiKDA  sleeps 
Come  away,  servant,  come  !    I  am  ready  now ; 
Approach,  my  Aiiel.     Come  ! 

Enter  Aklel, 

Ari.  AH  haU,  great  master !   grave  sir,  hail !    1 
come 
To  answer  thy  best  pleasure  ;  be  't  to  fly, 
To  swim,  to  dive  into  the  fire,  to  ride 
On  the  ciu'ld  clouds;  to  thy  strong  bidding  task 
Ariel,  and  aU  his  quaUty. 

Pro.  Hast  thou,  spirit, 

Perfoi-m'd  to  point  ^  the  tempest  that  I  bade  thee :' 

Ari.  To  eveiy  article. 
I  boarded  the  king's  ship  :  now  on  the  beak,'^ 
Now  in  the  waist,  the  deck,  in  every  cabin, 
I  flam'd  amazement :  Sometime  I  'd  divide, 
And  burn  in  manj'  places ;  on  the  topmast. 
The  }-ards  and  bowsprit,  would  I  flame  distinctly, 
Then  meet  and  join.     Jove's  lightnings,  the  pre- 
cursors 
0'  the  dreadfid  tlumder-claps,  more  momentary 
And  sight-outrunning  were   not.     The   file   and 

cracks 
Of  sidphiu'ous  roaring  the  most  mighty  Neptime 
Seem  to  besiege,  and  malie  his  bold  waves  tr-mble 
Yea,  liis  ch'ead  trident  shake  ! 

Pro.  My  brave  spirit ! 

Who  was  so  fii'm,  so  constant,  th.it  tliis  coU 
Would  not  infect  his  reason  ? 

Ari.  Kot  a  sold 

But  felt  a  fever  of  the  mad,  and  play'd 
Some  tricks  of  d'«peration  :  AU  but  th'  mariners 
Pluug'd  ill  the  foaming  brine,  and  quit  the  vessel. 
Then  all  a-fire  with  me  :  tlio  king's  son,   Ferdi- 
nand, 
With  hair  up-stiu'ing,  (then  like  reeds,  not  hair  ) 
Was  the  fiast  man  that  lenp'd;  ciy'd,   'HeU    s 

empty. 
And  aU  the  devils  are  here. 

Pro.  Wliy,  that 's  my  spirit ! 

But  was  not  this  nigh  shore  ? 

Ari.  Close  by,  my  master. 

Pro.  But  are  they,  Ariel,  safe? 

Ari.  No't  a  hair  pcrish'd ; 

Oil  their  suetaining  ganncnts"  not  a  Hoinitih, 


THE  TEMPEST. 


SCENK    11. 


But  freslier  than  before !  and,  as  thou  bad'st  mc, 
In  troops  I  liavo  dispers'd  thom  'bout  the  isle  : 
riie  king's  son  have  I  landed  by  himself, 
NSlioni  I  left  cooling  of  the  air  with  sighs, 
in  an  odd  angle  of  the  isle,  and  sitting, 
His  arms  in  this  sad  knot.-'" 

Pro.  Of  the  king's  sliip 

The  m-ai'iners,  say  lunv  thou  hast  dispos'd, 
And  all  the  rest  o'  the  fleet. 

Ari.  Safely  in  harbour 

[s  the  king's  ship ;  in  tlio  deep  nook,  -where  once 
Thou  eidl'dst  mc  up  at  midnight  to  fetch  dew 
From  the  still-vex'd  Bermoothcs,™  there  she's  hid : 
The  mariners  all  under  hatches  stowed ; 
Wio,  \\'itli  a  chaiTii  join'd  to  theii-  sufFer'd  laboiu', 
I  have  loft  asleep :  and  for  the  rest  o'  the  fleet, 
WTiioIi  I  dispers'd,  they  all  haye  met'  again. 
And  are  upon  the  Mediterranean  flote. 
Bound  sadly  home  for  Naples  ; 
Supposing  that  they  saw  the  king's  shifi  wrcck'd. 
And  liis  gi'eat  person  perish. 

Pro.  Ariid,  thy  ohai'ge 

Exactly  is  pcrlbrm'd ;  but  there  's  more  work : 
What  is  the  time  o'  the  day  ? 
Ari.  Past  the  mid  season. 

Pro.  At  least  two  glasses.    The  time  "twist  six 
and  now 
Must  by  us  both  be  spent  most  preciously. 
Ari.  Is  there  more  toil  ?     Since  thou  dost  give 
me  pains, 
Let  me  remember  thee  what  thou  hast  promis'd, 
\Mnch  is  not  yet  pcrform'd  me. 

Pro.  How  now,  moody? 

^^'hat  is  't  thou  canst  demand  ? 
Ai'i.  My  libertj-. 

Pro.  Before  the  time  be  out  ?  no  more  i 
Ari.  I  prithee 

Remember  I  have  done  thee  worthy  scr^dce. 
Told  thee  no  lies,  made  thee  no  mistakings,  serv'd 
Without   or  grudge,  or  grumbhugs :    thou    didst 

promise ' 
To  bate  me  a  full  year. 

Pro.  Dost  thou  forget 

From  \\-liat  a  torment  I  did  free  thee  ? 
Jri.  No. 

Pro.  Thou  dost !  and  think'st  it  jnueh  to  tread 
t'ne  ooze 
(If  the  s;ilt  deep; 

To  run  upon  the  sliai-p  wind  of  the  north  ; 
To  do  me  business  in  the  veins  o'  th'  earth, 
WTien  it  is  hrJc'd  with  frost. 
Ari.  I  do  uot,  sir. 


Pro.  Thou  liest,  malignant  thing !     Hast  thor 
forgot 
The  foul  witch  Sycorax,  wlio,  with  age  and  envy 
Was  grown  into  a  hoop  ?  hast  thou  forgot  her  ? 

Ari.  No,  sir. 

Pro.  Thou  hast :  Wlierc  was  she  bom  i  Speak 
tcU  me. 

Ari.  Sir,  in  iVr'gicr." 

Pro.  0  !  was  she  so  ?  I  must, 

Once  in  a  month,  recoimt  what  thqu  hast  been, 
AVTiich  thou  forget' st.     This  damned   witch,  Sy- 
corax, 
For  mischiefs  inanifold,  and  sorceries  terrible 
To  enter  himian  hearing,  from  Argier, 
Tliou  know'st,  was  biuiish'd  ;  for  one  thing  she  did, 
Tliey  woidd  not  take  her  hfe.     Is  not  this  ti-ue  ? 

Ari.  Ay,  sir. 

Pro.  This  blue-ey'd   hag  was   hither   brought 
with  child. 
And  here  was  left  by  the  sailors  :   Tliou,  my  slave, 
As  tliou  report' st  thyself,  wast  then  her  servant : 
And,  for  thou  wast  a  spirit  too  delicate 
To  act  her  earthy  and  abhorr"d  commands,         ^ 
Tlelusiug  her  grand  bests,  she  did  confine  thee. 
By  help  of  her  more  potent  ministers, 
And  in  her  most  unmitigable  rage. 
Into  a  cloven  pine ;  \Wthin  which  rift 
Imprison'd,  thou  didst  painfully  remain 
A  dozen  years ;  within  wliich  space  she  dy'd. 
And  left  thee  there ;   where  thou  didst  vent  thy 

groans. 
As  fast  as  mill-wheels   strike.     Then   was   this 

island 
(Save  for  the  son  that  she  did  litter  here, 
A  freclded  whcln,  hag-born)  not  honom''d  with 
A  human  shape. 

Ari.  Yes;  Caliban,  her  son. 

Pro.  Dull  thing,  I  say  so, — he,  that  Caliban. 
Whom  now  I  keep  in  service.    Thou  best  know'st 
A\1iat  torment  I  did  find  thee  in :  thy  groans 
Did  make  wolves  howl,  and  penetrate  the  breasts 
Of  ever-angrj'  bears :  it  was  a  torment 
To  lay  upon  the  damn'd,  w^hieh  Sycorax 
Could  not  again  imdo ;  it  was  mine  art. 
When  I  an-iv'd,  and  heard  thee,  that  made  gajK! 
Tlie  pine,  and  let  thee  out. 

Ari.  I  thank  thee,  master. 

Pro.  If  thou  more  miirmur'st,   I  wall  rend  sn 
oak. 
And  peg  thee  in  his  knotty  entrails,  till 
Thou  hast  liowl'd  away  twelve  winters. 

•An.  Pardon,  master! 

U 


THE  TEMPEST. 


[  will  lie  correspondent  to  command, 
And  do  my  spriting  gently. 

Pro.  Do  so ;  and  after  two  days 

I  ivill  dischar'ge  thee. 

Ari.  That  's  my  noble  master  ! 

^^^lat  shall  I  do  ?  sa)'  what, — what  shall  I  do  ? 

Pro.  Go  make  thyself  like  a  npnph  o'  the  sea ; 
Be  subject  to  no  siglit  but  tliiuc  and  mine ;  iml- 

sible 
T(.  creiT  eyeball  else.     Go,  talce  this  shape, 
.ind  liither  come  in  't.    Go  ;  hence,  with  diligence  ! 

\ Exit  Ariel. 
Awake,  dear  heart,  awake  !  thou  liast  slept  well ; 
Awake ! 

Jiira.  Tlie  strangeness  of  3-our  story  put 
Heaviness  in  me. 

Pro.  Shake  it  off :  Come  on  ; 

\\c  "U  risit  CaUban,  my  slave,  who  never 
Yields  us  kind  answer. 

JJ/iVo.  'T  is  a  viUain,  sir, 

I  do  not  love  to  look  on. 

Pro.  But,  as  't  is, 

We  cannot  miss  him :"  he  does  rai.ke  our  fire, 
Fetch  in  our  wood,  and  serves  in  oflices 
That  profit  us.     ^^'nat  ho  !  slave  !  Caliban ! 
Thou  earth,  thou  !  speak. 

Cal.  [  Within.']  There  's  wood  enough  \\'itlun. 

Pro.  Come  forth,  I  say ;  there  's  other  buainoss 
for  thee  : 
Come,  thou  tortoise  !  when  ':*' 

Re-enter  AjiitL,  like  a  ivater-nymph. 
Fine  apparition  !    My  quaint*''  Ariel, 
Hark  in  thine  ear. 

Ari.  My  lord,  '..'j  sliaU  be  done.    \_Exit. 

Pro.  Thou  poisonous  slave,   got   by  the  dc\dl 
himself 
(Jpon  thy  wiCKcd  dam,  come  forth  ! 

Enter  Calibak. 
Cul.  As  wicked**  dew  as  e'er  my  mother  hnish'd 
With  raven's  feather  from  unwholesome  fen, 
Drop  on  you  both  I  a  south-west  blow  on  ye. 
And  blister  you  all  o'er! 

Pro.  For  this,  be  sure,  to-night  thou  shalt  have 
cramps, 
Side-stitches  that  shall  pen  thy  breath  up ;  m-chins*' 
Shall,  for  that  vast  of  night  that  they  may  work. 
All  exercise  on  thee  :  thou  shalt  be  pinch'd 
As  thick  as  honeycrmb,  each  ])iii(  li  more  stinging 
Than  bees  that  made  them. 

Cal.  1  must  cat  my  dinner. 

12 


This  island  's  mine,  bj'  Sycorax  my  mother, 
WTiich  thou  tak'st  from  me.     Wlien  thou  cam's! 

first. 
Thou  strok'dst  me,  and  mad'st  much  of  me ;  wouldst 

give  me 
Water  with  berries  in  't ;  and  teach  me  how 
To  name  the  bigger  light,  and  how  the  loss, 
That  bum  by  day  and  night :  and  then  I  lov'd 

thee. 
And  shpw'd  thee  all  the  qualities  0'  the  isle, 
The  fresh  springs,  brine-pits, — baiTCii  place,  and 

fertile ; 
Curs'd  be  I  that  did  so ! — AU  the  chai-ms 
Of  Sycorax,  toads,  beetles,  bats,  light  on  you ! 
For  I  am  all  tlie  subjects  that  you  have, 
'^Hiich  first  was  mine  ovra  king :  and  here  you 

sty  me 
In  this  hard  rock,  wliilos  you  de  keep  from  mc 
The  rest  o'  the  island. 

Pro.  Thou  most  lying  slave, 

"WTiom  stripes  may  move,  not  kindness :   I  have 

us'd  thee, 
Filth  as  thou  art,   \\'ith  human  care ;  and  lodg'd 

thee 
In  mine  own  cell,  till  thou  diast  seek  to  violatf) 
The  honour  of  my  cluld. 

Cal.  0  ho !  0  ho  1 — 'would  't  had  l)ecn  done  i 
Thou  didst  prevent  me ;  I  had  peopled  else 
T'nis  isle  with  Calibans.' 

Pro.  A'ohoiTcd  slave, 

Which  any  print  of  goodness  wilt  not  take, 
Being  capable  of  all  iU !  I  pitied  thee. 
Took  pains  to  make  thee  speak,  taught  tlice  racli 

hour 
One  thing  or  other  :*when  thou  didst  not,  savage, 
Know  thine  own  meaning,  but  wouldst  gabble  Hkc 
A  thing  most  brutisli,  I  endow'd  thy  pui-poscs 
With   words   that  made   them   known :    But   thy 

".■iW"  race, 
Thougli  thou   didst  Icani,    had  that  in  't  which 

good  natures 
Could  not  abide  to  be  with  ;  therefore  wast  thou 
Deservedly  eoulin'd  into  this  I'ock, 
AMio  hadst  deserv'fl  more  than  a  prison. 

Cal.  You  taught  me  language,   imd  my  profit 

on  't 
Is,  I  know  how  to  curse  !  the  red  plague  rid  yc:.," 
For  learning  me  your  language  ! 

Pro.  Hag-seed,  lu'nce  I 

Fetch  us  in  fuel;  and  bo  (juick,  thou  'ert  best, 
To  answer  other  business.    Shi-ugg'st  thou,  in:dico 
Jf  tliou  neglccfst,  or  dost  unwillingly 


THE    TExMPEST. 


WTiat  I  comrnand,  I'll  rack  theo  witli  old  cramps ; 
I'^ill  all  thy  bones  with  aches ;"  make  thee  roar, 
That  beasts  shidl  tremble  at  thy  dm. 

Cal.  No,  'pray  thee  ! — 

I  itv  st  obey :  his  art  is  of  such  pow'r,         \_Astdc. 
It  would  control  my  dam's  god,  Setebos," 
A  nd  make  a  vassal  of  him. 

Vro.  So,  slave ;  hence !  \_Exit  Cai. 

Re-enief  Amei.  invisible,  playing  and  singing; 

Ferdinaud  following  him. 
AsrEL's  Song. 

Come  unto  these  yeUow  sands, 

And  then  take  hands : 
Conrtsicd  when  yon  have,  and  Uss'd, 

The  'w-ild  waves  wliist,™ 
Foot  it  fcatly  here  and  there ; 

And,  sweet  sprites,  the  burthen  bear. 

Bur.  \_dispersedly.^^']  Hark,  hark !  Bowgh,  wowgh. 
The  watch-dogs  bark  ; 
Bowgh,  wowgh. 

Ari.   Hai-k,  hark!  I  hear 

The  strain  of  strutting  Chaniicleer 
Cry,  cock-a-diddle-dow.^- 

Fcr    "WTiere  should  this  music  bo?   i"  the  air, 
or  the  earth  ? 
It  sounds  no  more  : — and,  sure,  it  waits  upon 
Rome  god  o'  the  island.     Sitting  on  a  b;ink. 
Weeping  again  the  king  my  father's  wi'eck. 
This  music  crept  by  me  upon  the  waters, 
Allaying  both  thc-ir  fuiy,  and  my  passion. 
With  its  sweet  air :  thence  I  have  follow'd  it, 
Or  it  hath  drawn  me  rather  : — But  't  is  gone  ! 
Nn,  it  begins  again. 

Arjxl  sings. 
Full  fadom"'  five  thy  father  lies ; 

Of  his  bonea  lu'e  c:.ral  made ; 
Those  fire  pearls  that  were  his  eyes : 

Nothing  of  idin,  that  doth  fade, 
Tiut  doth  suffer  a  sca-ch^nge 
Into  somet]iinj7  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  kneU  : 

[Burthen,  ding-dong. 
Hirk!  now  I  hear  them, — ding-dong,  bell. 

FfT.    The   ditty   does   remember   my   drown'd 
father : — 
This  is  no  mortal  business,  nor  no  sound 
That  the  earth  owes  :" — I  hear  it  now  above  me. 

Pro.  The  fringed  curtains  of  thine  eye  advance, 
Ajid  say  vi'hat  thou  seest  yond. 

Ifira.  What  is 't?  a  spirit? 

Lord,  how  it  looks  about!  Believe  me,  sir, 
It  carries  a  brave  form  : — IJut  't  is  a  spirit. 


Pro.  No,  wench ;  it  eats,  and  sleeps,  and  hatl 

such  senses 

As  we  have,  such.    This  gallant,  which  thou  seest, 

Was  in  the  -(vi-eck ;  and  but  he  's  something  stain'd 

With  grief,  that 's  beauty's  canker,  thou  mightst 

call  him 
A  goodly  person.     He  hath  lost  his  fellows, 
And  strays  about  to  find  them. 

3fira.  I  might  call  him 

A  thing  divine  ;  for  nothing  natural 
I  ever  saw  so  noble. 

Fro.  It  goes  on,  I  see,  ^Aside 

As  my  soul  prompts  it : — Spirit,  fine  spirit !  I  'U 

free  thee 
Within  two  days  for  this. 

Fsr.  Most  sure,  the  goddess 

On  whom  these  airs  attend ! — Vouchsafe  my  pra/r 
May  know  if  you  remain  upon  tl;is  island ; 
And  that  you  wiU  some  good  instruction  give, 
How  I  may  bear  me  here  :  My  prime  request, 
'V\luch  I  do  last  pronotmce,  is,  0  you  wonder ! 
If  you  be  maid  or  no  ?'''^ 

Mira.  No  wonder,  sir, 

But  certainly  a  maid. 

Ft^r.  My  language  !  heavens ! — 

I  am  the  best  of  them  that  speak  this  speech, 
Were  I  but  where  't  is  spoken. 

Pro.  How !  the  best  ? 

'What  wcrt  thou,  if  the  kmg  of  Naples  heard  thee  ? 
Fer.  A  single  thing,^"  as  I  am  now,  that  wonders 
To  hear  thee  speak  of  Naples.     He  does  hear  mc ; 
And,  that  he  does,  I  weep :  myself  am  Naples, 
Wlio,  with  mine  eyes,  never  since  at  ebb,  beheld 
The  Icing,  my  father,  wreck'd. 
Mira.  .Alack,  for  mercy  : 

Fer.  Yes,  faith,  and  all  liis  lords;  the  duke  of 
Milan, 
Arid  his  brave  son,"  being  twain. 

Pro.  The  duke  of  Milan, 

And  his  more  braver  daughter,  could  control  thee.'* 
If  now  't  were  fit  to  do  't : — At  the  fii'st  sight 

[Jsid,: 
They  have  chang'd  eyes  : — Delicate  ii-iel, 
I  '11  set  thee  free  for  this! — A  word,  good  sir; 
I  fear  you  have  done  yourseK  some  wrong     -a 
word! 
Mira    Wliy  speaks  my  father  so  ungently  •    ITiia 
Is  the  third  man  that  e'er  I  saw ;  the  firs' 
That  e'er  I  sigh'd  for.    Pity  move  my  faO^er 
To  be  inclin'd  my  way ! 

Fer.  0,  if  a  virgin, 

And  your  afifection  not  gone  forth,  l  '11  make  yon 

13 


ACT  I. 


THE  TEMPEST. 


SCENE   IL 


Die  queen  of  Naples. 

Pro.  Soft,  sir !  one  word  more. — 

Tliey  are  both,  in  cither's  pow'rs;   but  this  s\\'ift 

business 
I  must  uneasy  make,  lest  too  light  -winning  [Aside. 
Make  the  prize  light. — One  word  more ;  I  charge 

thee 
That  thou  attend  me  :  thoii  dost  here  usurp 
The  name  thou  ow'st  not,  and  hast  put  thyself 
Upon  this  island,  as  a  spy,  to  win  it 
From  me,  the  lord  on  't. 

Fer.  No,  as  I  am  a  man  ! 

Mira.  There  's  nothing  ill  can  dwell  in  such  a 
temple : 
If  the  ill  spirit  have  so  fiiir  a  house, 
Good  things  will  sb-ive  to  dwell  with  't. 

Pro.  Follow  me.~-  \_To  Feed. 

Speak  not  you. for  him ;  he  's  a  traitor. — Come. 
I  '11  manacle^*  thy  neck  and  feet  together : 
Sea- water  shalt  thou  diiok;  thy  food  shall  be 
The  fi-esh-brook  muscles,  wither'd  roots,  and  husks 
Wherein  the  acorn  cradled :  .Follow. 

For.  No; 

I  will  resist  such  entertainment,  till 
Mine  enemy  has  more  power. 

[Sc  draws,  and  is  charmed  from  moving. 

Mira.  0  dear  father. 

Make  not  too  rash  a  trial  of  him,  for 
He  's  gentle,  and  not  fearful."" 

Pro.  "What!  I  say; 

My  foot  my  tutor  1°'  Put  thy  sn-ord  up,  ti-aitor ! 
^Tio  mak'st  a  show,  but  dar'st  not  sti-ike, — thy 

conscience 
Ts  so  possess'd  with  guilt :  come  from  thy  ward,^ 
For  I  can  hero  disarm  thee  with  this  stick, 
A.nd  make  thy  weapon  drop. 

Mira.  Beseech  you,  father ! 

Pro .  Hence '.  liarig  not  on  my  garments. 


Mira.  Sir,  have  pity; 

I  '11  be  his  surety. 

Pro.  Silence  !  one  word  moro 

Shall  make  me  chide  thee,  if  not  hate  thee.  What ! 
An  advocate  for  an  impostor !  husk ! 
Thou  thuik'st  there  ai'c  no  more  such  shapes  as  he, 
Having  seen  but  him  and  Caliban :  Foolish  wench ' 
To  the  most  of  men  this  is  a  Caliban, 
And  they  to  him  are  angels. 

Mira.  My  affections 

Are  then  most  humble ;  I  have  no  ambition 
To  see  a  goodlier  man. 

Pro.  Come  on;  obey:  [Tb  Fekd 

Thy  neiTes  are  in  their  infancy  again, 
And  have  no  vigour  in  them. 

Fer.  So  they  are  : 

My  spirits,  as  in  a  di-eam,  are  all  bound  up. 
My  father's  loss,  the  wcalcness  which  I  feel. 
The  wreck  of  all  my  fiicnds,  nor  this  man's  threats, 
To  whom  I  am  subdu'd,  are  but  light  to  me, 
Might  I  but  thi'ough  my  prison  once  a  day 
Behold  tills  maid :  all  comers  else  o'  tlie  eart.h 
Let  liberty  make  use  of;  space  enough 
Have  I  in  such  a  prison. 

Pro.  It  works : — Come  on. — 

Thou  hast  done  well,  fine  Ariel ! — Follow  me. — 

[To  Feed,  and  Mm. 
Hark,  what  thou  else  shalt  do  me.         [_lh  Aktel, 

Mira.  Be  of  comfort; 

My  father  's  of  a  better  nature,  sir, 
Than  he  appears  by  speech  ;  this  is  imwontod, 
"Wliich  now  came  fi-om  him. 

Pro.  \_To  Akiel.]  Thou  shalt  be  as  free 
As  mountain  winds :  but  then  exactly  do 
All  points  of  my  command. 

Art.  To  the  syUable ! 

Pro.  Come,  follow:  speak  not  for  him. 

[Exeunt. 


14 


ACT  n. 


THE  TEMPEST. 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  I. — Another  part  of  the  Island. 

Eule)    AioNso,    Sebastias,    Antonio,    Gonzaio, 
Adrian,  Fkancisco,  and  others. 

Gon.  'Beseech  you,  sir,  be  merry:  you  have  cause 
(So  have  we  all)  of  joy;  for  our  escape 
Is  much  beyonii  our  loss.     Our  hint  of  woe™ 
Ts  common :  every  day,  some  sailor's  wife, 
The  masters  of  some  merchant,"  and  the  merchant. 
Have  just  oxir  theme  of  woe :  but  for  the  miracle, 
I  mean  our  preservation,  few  in  millions 
Can  speak  like  us  :  then  wisely,  good  sir,  weigh 
Our  sorrow  with  our  comfort. 

Alon.  Prithee,  peace. 

Seh.  He  receives  comfort  like  cold  porridge. 

Ant.  The  visitor  wUl  not  give  liim  o'er  so.^° 

Sfh.  Look;  he's  winding  up  the  watch  of  his 
wit ;  by  and  by  it  -noil  sti-ike. 

Gon.  Sir, — 

Seh.  One:— TeU. 

Oon.  When  every  grief  is  entertain'd  that  's 
offer'd. 
Comes  to  the  entertainer — 

Seb.  A  dollar. 

Gon.  Dolour  comes  to  him,  indeed;    you  have 
spoken  truer  than  you  purpos'd. 

Seh.  Tou  have  taken  it  wiselier  than  I  meant 
you  sho;ild. 

Gon.  Therefore,  my  lord, — 

A7if.  Fie,  what  a  Ependthrift  is  he  of  his  tongue ! 

Alon.  I  prithee,  spai'o. 

Gon.  Well,  I  have  done :  But  yet  — 

Seh.  He  wiU  be  talking. 

Ani.  YvTiich  of  them,  ho  or  Adrian,  for  a  good 
P'ager,  first  begins  to  crow  ? 

Seh.  The  old  cock. 

Atit.  The  cockrel. 

Seh.  Done !  the  wagor  ? 

Ant.  A  laughter. 

Seh.  A.  match. 

Adr    Though  this  island  seem  to  be  desert, — 

Sii.  Ha,  ha,  l.a! — So,  you  're  paid."" 

Adr.  Uninhabitable,  and  almost  inaccessible, — 


Seh.  Yet,— 

Adr.  Yet, — 

Ant.  Ho  could  not  miss  it. 

Adr.  It  must  needs  be  of  subtle,  tender,  aal 
delicate  temperance."' 

Ant.  Temperance  was  a  delicate  wench. 

Seh.  Ay,  and  a  subtle;  as  he  most  learnedly 
deliver' d. 

Adr.  The  air  breathes  upon  us  here  most  sweetly. 

Seh.  As  if  it  had  lungs,  and  rotten  ones. 

Ant.  Or  as  't  were  perfum'd  by  a  fen. 

Go7i.  Here  is  everything  advantageous  to  life. 

Ant.  True ;  save  means  to  Uve. 

Seh.  Of  that  there  's  none,  or  little. 

Gon.  How  lush  and  lusty*'  the  grass  looks 
how  gi'cen ! 

Ant.  The  ground,  indeed,  is  tawny. 

Seh.  With  an  eye  of  green  in  't. 

Ant.  He  misses  not  much. 

Seh.  No;  he  doth  but  mistake  the  tiiith  totally. 

Gon.  But  the  rarity  of  it  is,  which  is  indeed 
almost  beyond  credit, — 

Seh.  As  many  vouch'd  rarities  are. 

Gon.  That  our  garments,  being,  as  they  were, 
di-enoh'd  in  the  sea,  hold,  notwithstanding,  theii 
freshness  and  glosses;  being  rather  new  dy'd, 
than  stain'd  with  salt  water. 

Ant.  If  but  one  of  his  pockets  could  speak, 
would  it  not  say,  he  lies  ? 

Seh.  Ay,  or  very  falsel}'  pocket  up  his  report 
Go7i.  Methinks  our  garments  are  now  as  fresh 
as  when  we  put  them  on  first  in  Afric,  at  the 
marriage  of  the  king's  fair   daughter  Clarib;-!  to 
the  king  of  Tunis. 

Seh.  'T  was  a  sweet  marriage,  and  we  prospei 
well  in  our  return. 

Adr.  Tunis  was  never  grac'd  before  with  such 
a  paragon  to  their  queen. 

Gon.  Not  since  widow  Dido's  time.'^^ 

Ant.  Widow  ?  a  pox  o'  that !  How  came  that 
widow  in  ?   Widow  Dido ! 

Seh.  "What  if  he  had  said,  \vidower  /Eneaa 
too  r  good  lord,  how  you  tak-r  it  I 

15 


THE  TEMPEST 


Jdr  Widow  I)ido,  &aui  you?  you  make  me 
study  of  that :   She  was  of  Carthago,  not  of  Tunis. 

Gon.  This  Tunis,  sn-,  wab  Carthage. 

Adr.  Cartha£,(?? 

Gon.  I  assTire  you,  Carthage. 

diit.  His  vrosi  is  more  than  the  miracxilous 
haq).™ 

Seb.  He  hatl  i  rais'd  the  -n-aU  and  houses  too. 

Ant.  ^Vllat  impossible  matter  mil  he  make 
easy  next  ? 

Seb.  I  thimt  he  will  carry  tliis  island  home  in 
his  pocket,  a.'-A  give  it  his  son  for  an  apple. 

Ani.  And,  sowing  the  kernels  of  it  in  the  sea, 
bring  forth  '/^ore  islands. 

Oon.  Ay. 

Ani.  Why,  in  good  time. 

Gon.  Sir,  we  were  talking  that  our  garments 
Bcem  now  as  fi-esh  as  when  we  were  at  Timis  at 
(-lie  marriage  of  your  daughter,  who  is  now  queen. 

Ant.  And  the  rarest  that  ere  came  there. 

Seb.  Bate,  I  beseech  you,  widow  Dido. 

Ant.  0,  widow  Dido  !  ay,  widow  Dido  ! 

Gon.  Is  not,  sir,  my  doiiblet  as  fi"esh  as  the 
first  day  I  wore  it  ?     I  mean,  in  a  sort. 

Ant.  That  sort  was  well  fish'd  for. 

Go)i.  When  I  wore  it  at  your  daughter's 
marriage  ? 

Alon.  You  cram  these  words  into  mine  cars, 
against 
ITie  stomach  of  my  sense."     Would  I  had  never 
Married  my  daughter  there  !  for,  coming  thence, 
My  son  is  lost ;  and,  in  my  rate,  she  too, 
Wlio  is  so  far  from  Italy  removed, 
I  ne'er  again  shall  see  her      0  thou  mine  heir 
Of  ifaples  and  of  Milan,  what  sti'ange  fish 
TIath  made  his  meal  on  thee  ? 

Fran.  Sir,  he  may  live : 

I  saw  him  beat  the  siu'ges  imder  him. 
And  ride  upon  their  barks;  he  trod  the  water, 
A\Tiose  enmity  he  flung  aside,  and  breasted 
The  STU'ge  most  swoln  that  met  him ;  his  bold 

head 
'Bovo  the  contentious  waves  he  kept,  and  oar'd 
Himself  with  his  good  anus  in  lusty  stroke 
To  the  shore,  that  o'er  his  wave-wom  basis  bowed, 
As  stooping  to  relieve  him ;  I  not  doubt, 
lie  came  alive  to  land. 

Alon.  'No,  no,  he  's  gone. 

Sch.  Sir,  you  may  thank  yourself  for  this  great 
loss, 
That   wo\ild   not    bless   our    Europe   with   your 
daughter, 
IC 


But  rather  lose  her  to  an  African ; 
^\^lere  she,  at  least,  is  banish'd  from  your  eye, 
Who  hath  cause  to  wet  the  giief  on  't." 
Ahn.  Prithee,  peace. 

Seb.  You  were  kneel'd  to,  and  imporlim'd  oth' 
wise. 
By  aU.  of  us  ;  and  the  fair  soul  herself 
Weigh' d,  between  loatlmess  and  obedience,  at 
Which  end  the  beam  should  bow.'^     We  ha^ c  lost 

your  son, 
I  fear,  for  ever  :  MUan  and  Naples  have 
More  widows  in  them  of  this  business'  making, 
Than  we  bring  men  to  comfort  them  :" 
The  fault  "s  your  own. 

Ahn.  So  is  the  dear'st  o'  the  loss. 
Go7t.  Mj'  lord  Sebastian, 

The  truth  you  speak  doth  lack  some  gentleness, 
And  time  to  speak  it  in ;  you  i-ub  the  sore, 
Wlien  you  should  bring  the  plaster. 
Seb.  Very  well. 

Ant.  And  most  chimrgeonly. 
Gon.  It  is  fotil  weather  in  us  aU,  good  sir, 
Wlien  you  ai'e  cloudy. 

Seb.  Foui  weather? 

Ant.  Very  foul. 

Gon.  Had  I  plantation  of  this  isle,  my  lord,-        / 

Atit.  He  'd  sow  't  with  nettle-seed. 

Seh.  Or  docks,  or  mallows. 

Goji.  — and  were  the  king  on  "t,   Wliat   woul 

I  do? 
Seb.  Scape  being  di-unk,  for  want  of  wine. 
Gon.  X'  the  commonwealth  I   woiud  by   con- 
traiies 
Execute  aU  things ;  for  no  kind  of  traffic 
Would  I  admit ;  no  name  of  magisti'ate ; 
Letters  should  not  be  known :  riches,  poverty,  ■ 
And  use  of  sendee,  none ;  contract,  succession, 
Boum,  boimd  of  land,  tilth,  A-iney;u-d,  nonp: 
No  use  of  metal,  corn,  or  wine,  or  oil : 
No  occupation ;  all  men  idle,  all, — 
And  women  too  ;  but  iimocent  and  pure  : 
No  sovereignty : — 

Seb.  Yet  he  would  be  Icing  on  't. 

Ant.  The  latter  end  of  his  commonwealth  for- 
gets the  beginning. 

Gon.  AU  tilings  in  common  nature  should  fir; 
duce 
Without  sweat  or  endeavour:  treason,  felony. 
Sword,  pike,  knife,  gun,  or  need  of  any  engiu»;, 
Would    J    not   have ;    but    nature    should   bring 

forth. 
Of  its  o-mi  kind,  all  foison,"'  aU  abundance. 


THE    TEMPEST. 


BCITRE  I. 


To  foed  my  innocent  people. 

Seh.  No  ruiirryiEg  'mong  his  subjects? 

Ant.  None,  man;  all  idle;  whores  and  knaves. 

Gon.  I  wodld  with  such  perfection  govern,  sir, 
r  c»cel  the  golden  age. 

Sib.  Save  his  majesty  ! 

Ant.  Long  live  Gonzalo  ! 

Gon.  And,  do  you  mark  me,  sir  ? — 

Aloti.  Prithee,  no  more :  thou  dost  talk  nothing 
to  me. 

Gon.  I  do  well  believe  your  higlmcss ;  and  did 
it  to  minister  occasion  to  these  gentlemen,  who 
arc  of  such  sensible  and  nimble  lungs,  that  they 
alwa3-s  use  to  laugh  at  nothing 

Ant.  'Twas  you  we  laugh'd  at. 

Gon.  Wlio,  in  this  kind  of  merry  fooling,  am 
nothing  to  you  :  so  you  may  continue,  and  laugh 
at  nothing  still. 

Ant.  Wliat  a  blow  was  there  given ! 

tSeb.  Aa  it  had  not  ftill'n  flat-long. 

Goti.  You  are  gentlemen  of  brave  metal ;''  you 
woxild  lift  the  moon  out  of  her  sphere,  if  .she  would 
continue  in  it  five  weeks  without  changing. 

Enter  Aeiel  (invisible)  playing  solemn  music. 

Seh.  We  would   so,   and   then  go  a  bat-fowl- 
ing. 
Ant.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  be  not  angry. 
Gon.  No,  I  wan-ant  you,  I  will  not  adventure 
ray  discretion  so  weakly.      WiU  you  laugh   mo 
asleep,  for  I  am  very  heavy  ? 
Ant.  Go,  sleep,  and  hear  us. 

[All  sleep  but  Alon.,  Seb.,  and  Ant. 
Alon.  "What,  all  so  soon  asleep !     I  -wish  mine 
eyes 
Would  with  themselves  shut  up   my  thoughts; 

I  find 
They  are  inclin'd  to  do  so. 

Heh.  Please  you,  sir, 

Do  not  omit  the  heavy  offer  of  it :" 
It  seldom  visits  sorrow ;  when  it  doth, 
It  is  a  comforter. 

Ant.  We  two,  my  lord. 

Win  guard  your  person,    while   you   take   your 

rest, 
And  watch  your  safety. 
Ahn.  Thank  you  :  wondrous  heavy. 

[AiON.  sleeps.     Exit  Abiel. 
Seh.  What  a  strange  drowsiness  possesses  them ' 
Ant.  It  is  the  quality  o'  the  climate. 
Seb.  Why 

Doth  it  not  then  our  eyelids  sink?     I  find  not 


Myself  dispos'd  to  sleep. 

Ant.  Nor  1 ;  my  spirits  are  nimbJe. 

They  fell  together  all,  as  by  consent ; 
They   dropp'd,    as  by  a  thunder-stroke.      Whst 

might 
Worthy  Sebastian — 0,  what  might — No  more:— 
And  yet,  methinks,  I  see  it  in  thy  face, 
What  thou  shouldst  be :  th'  occasion  speaks  thee  ; 

and 
My  strong  imagination  sees  a  crown 
Dropping  upon  thy  head. 

Seb.  What !  art  thou  waking  ? 

A7it.  D'",  you  not  hear  me  speak  ? 

Seh.  I  do;  and,  surely, 

It  is  a  sleepy  language  ;  and  thou  speak' st 
Out  of  thy  sleep  :  What  is  it  thou  didst  say  ? 
This  is  a  strange  repose,  to  be  asleep 
With  eyes  wide  open  ;  standing,  speaking,  moving, 
And  yet  so  fast  asleep. 

Ant.  Noble  Sebastian, 

Thou  lett'st    thy   fortune    sleep, — die    rather; 

wLnk'st 
Whiles  thou  art  waking. 

Seb.  Thou  dost  snore  distinctly ; 

There's  meaning  in  thy  snores. 

Ant.  I  am  more  serious  than  my  custom :  ytm 
Must  be  so  too,  if  heed  me ;    which  to  do, 
Trebles  thee  o'er. 

Seb.  Well,  I  am  standing  water. 

Ant.  I  '11  teach  you  how  to  flow. 

Seb.  Do  so  :  to  ebb 

Hereditary  sloth  instructs  me. 

Ant.  0, 

If  you  but  knew  how  you  the  purpose  cherish. 
AMiilcs  thus  you  mock  it !  how,  in  stripping  it 
Tou  more  Ln-^est  it!     Ebbing  men,  indeed, 
Most  often  do  so  near  the  bottom  run. 
By  their  OAvn  fear,  or  sloth. 

Seb.  Prithee  say  on : 

The  setting  of  thine  eye,  and  cheek,  proclaim 
A  matter  from  thee;  and  a  birth,  indeed, 
"Which  throes  thee  much  to  yield. 

Ant.  Thus,  sir  : 

Although  this  lord  of  weak  remembrance,  this. 
("Who  shall  be  of  as  little  memory, 
"When  he  is  earth'd)  hath  here  almost  persuaded 
(For  he  's  a  spirit  of  persuasion,  only" 
Professes  to  persuade)  the  king  his  son 's  alive, — 
'T  is  as  impossible  that  he  's  imdrown'd. 
As  he,  that  sleeps  here,  swims. 
Seb.  I  have  no  hope 

That  he  's  imdrown'd, 

17 


r~ 


THE  TEMPEST. 


Ant.  0.  out  of  that  no  hope, 

What  great  hope  have  you  !  no  hope  that  way,  is 
Another  way  so  high  a  hope,  that  even 
Ambition  cannot  pierce  a  wink  beyond, 
iiut  doubts  discovery  there.     Will  you  grant  with 

me. 
That  Ferdinand  is  drown'd  ? 

Seb.  He  's  gone. 

Ant.  Then,  tell  me. 

Who  's  the  next  heir  of  Naples  r 

Seb.  Claribel. 

Ant.  She   that  is   queen  of  Tunis  :    she  that 
dwells 
Ten  leagues  beyond  man's  life;"    she  that  from 

Naples 
Can  have  no  note,  unless  the  8\in  were  post, 
(The  man  i'  the  moon's  too  slow,) — till  new-bom 

chins 
Be  rough  and  ruzorable :  she  that  from  whom 
We    all   were  sea-swaUow'd,   though   some  cast 

again, 
(And  by  that  destiny)™  to  perform  an  act 
Whereof  what  's  past  is  prologue ;  what  to  come 
In  yours  and  my  discharge. 

Si^b.  "What  stuff  is  this  ? — How  say  you  ? 

'T  is  true,    my    brother's   daughter  's    queen    of 

Tunis, — 
So  is  she  heir  of  Naples ;  'twixt  which  regions 
There  is  some  space. 

Ant.  A  space  whose  ev'ry  cubit 

Seems  to  cry  out,  "How  shall  that  Claribel 
Measure  us  back  to  Naples?" — Keep  in  Tunis, 
And  let  Sebastian  wake ! — Say,  this  were  death 
That  now  hath  seiz'd  them ;  why,  they  were  no 

worse 
Than  now  they  are :    There   be   that  can   rule 

Naples 
As  well  as  he  that  sleeps ;  lords  that  can  prate 
As  amply  and  unnecessarily 
As  this  Gonzalo  ;  I  myself  could  make 
A  chough*'  of  as  deep  chat.     0,  that  you  bore 
The  mind  that  I  do  !  what  a  sleep  were  this 
For  your  advancement !     Do  you  understand  me  ? 

Seb.  Metliinks  I  do. 

Ant.  And  how  does  your  content 

Tender  your  own  good  fortune  ? 

Seb.  I  remember. 

You  did  supplant  your  brother  Prospero. 

Ant.  Tnie : 

And  look  Iiow  well  my  garments  sit  upon  me. 
Much  feater  than  before.     My  brother's  Bor\-ants 
Were  then  my  fellowo ;  now  they  are  my  men. 
18 


Seb.  But,  for  your  conscience — 

Ant.  Ay,   sir ;    where  lies   that  ?   if  '(,  were  a 

kybe, 
'T  would  put  me  to  my  slipper :  But  1  feel  not 
This  deity  in  my  bosom ;  twenty  consciences. 
That  stand  'twixt  me  and  Milan,  candied  be  the\ 
And    melt    ere    they  molest !      Here    lies  voi;i 

brother. 
No  better  than  the  earth  he  lies  upon,-  — 
If  he  were  that  which  now  he  's  like,  that  's 

dead. 
Whom  I,  with  this  obedient  steel,  three  inches 

of  it. 
Can  lay  to  Ijed  for  ever  :  whiles  yoa,  doing  thus,     ' 
To  the  perpetual  wink  for  aye  might  put 
This  ancient  morsel,*-  this  sir  Prudence,  who 
Should  not  upbraid  our  course.     For  all  the  rest. 
They  'U  take  suggestion,  as  a  cat  laps  milk  ; 
They  'U  teU  the  clock  to  any  business  that 
We  say  befits  the  hour. 

Seb.  Thy  case,  dear  friend. 

Shall  be  my  precedent ;  as  thou  gott'st  Milan, 
I  '11  come  by  Naples.      Draw  thy   sword :    one 

stroke 
Shall   free    thee   from    the   tribute   which  then 

pay'st ; 
And  I  the  king  shall  love  thee. 

Ant.  Draw  together : 

And  when  I  rear  my  hand,  do  you  the  like, 
To  fall  it  on  Gonzalo. 

Sei.  0,  but  one  word. 

[2^«y  converse  apart. 

Music.     Re-enter  AurBL,  invisible. 

An.  My  master  through   his  art  foresees  the 
danger 
That  you,  his  friend,  are  in ;  and  sends  me  forth, 
(For  else  his  project  dies,)  to  keep  them  living.^' 
\_Sinffs  in  Gonzalo's  ear 

While  you  here  do  snoring  lie, 
Open-ey'd  Conspiracy 

His  time  doth  take  : 
If  of  Ufe  you  keep  a  care, 
Shake  oil' slumber,  and  beware: 

Awake !  awake ! 

Ant.  Then  let  us  botii  be  sudden. 

Go7i.  Now,  good  angels,  preserve  tlie  king  ! 

{_27tty  airako. 
A  Ion.  Wliy,  how  now,  ho  !  awake !  Why  are 
you  (ira^^T^  ?"* 
Wlierefore  this  ghastly  looking  ? 
Gon.  What's  the  matter? 


THE   TEMPKST. 


BCENK   IL 


Scb.  "WTulss  we  stood  here  securing  your  repose, 
Even  now,  wo  heard  a  hollow  burst  of  bcUowing 
Like  bulls,  or  rather  lions ;  did  it  not  wake  you  ? 
It  struok  mine  ear  most  terribly. 

Alon.  I  heard  notliing. 

Ant.  0,  't  w  as  a  din  to  fright  a  monster's  ear ; 
To  make  an  earthquake !  sure,  it  was  the  roar 
Of  a  whole  herd  of  lions. 

Alon.  Heard  you  this,  Gonzalo  ? 

Gon.  Upon  mine  honour,  sir,  I  heard  a  hum- 
ming, 
And  that  a  strange  one  too,  which  did  awake  me  : 
I  ahak'd  you,  sir,  and  cry'd ;  as  mine  eyes  open'd, 
T  saw  their  weapons  drawn : — there  was  a  noise, 
That  's    verity :    'T  is    best    we    stand  upon  our 

guard, 
Or    that   we    quit   this    place :    let 's  draw  our 
weapons. 

Alon.  Lead  off  this  ground;    and  let 's  make 
further  search 
For  my  poor  son. 

Gon.  Heavens  keep  him  from  these  beasts ! 

For  he  is,  sure,  i'  the  island. 

Alon.  Lead  away. 

An.  Prospero  (my  lord)  shall  know  what  T  have 

done :  [Aside. 

So,  king,  go  safely  on  to  seek  thy  son.      {JUxeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Another  part  of  the  Island. 

Enter  Calibak  with  a  hurthen  of  wood.     A  jioise 
of  thunder  /ward. 

Cat.  A4I  the  infections  that  the  sun  sucks  up 
From  bogs,  fens,  flats,  on  Prosper  fall,  and  make  him 
By  inch-meal  a  disease  !  His  spirits  hear  me. 
And  yet  I  needs  must  curse.  But  they  'U  nor  pinch, 
Fright  me  with  urchin  shows,  pitch  me  i'  the  mire, 
Nor  lead  me,  like  a  firebrand,  in  the  dark 
Out  of  my  way,  unless  he  bid  them ;  but 
For  every  trifle  are  they  set  upon  me : 
Sometime  like  apes',  that  moo"-'  and  chatter  at  me. 
And  after,  bite  me  ;  then  like  hedgehogs,  which 
Lie  tumbling  in  my  barefoot  way,  and  moimt 
Their  pricks™  at  my  footfall ;  sometime  am  I 
All  wo'ind  with  adders,  who,  with  cloven  tongues. 
Do  hiaa  me  into  madness  : — Lo !  now  !  lo ! 

Enter  Tbinctoo. 

Here  comes  a  spirit  of  his,  and  to  torment  mc, 
For  bringing  wood  in  slowly :  I'U  faU  flat ; 
Perchance,  he  will  not  mind  me. 


Trin.  Here  's  neither  bush  nor  slirub,  to  beai 
oft'  any  weather  at  all,  and  another  stonn  bre'vving; 
I  hear  it  sing  i'  tlie  wind  :  yond  same  black  cloud, 
yond  huge  one,  looks  like  a  foul  bumbard"  tliui 
would  shed  his  liquor.  If  it  should  thunder  as  't 
did  before,  I  know  not  wliero  to  hide  my  head : 
yond  same  cloud  cannot  choose  but  fall  by  pad- 
fulls. — What  have  we  here, — a  man  or  a  fish?  Dead 
or  alive }  A  fish :  he  smells  like  a  fish ;  a  very  ancient 
and  fish-like  smell ;  a  kind  of  Cnot  of  the  newest) 
Poor  John;  a  strange  fish  1  Were  1  in  England  now, 
(as  once  I  was, )  and  had  but  this  fish  painted,  not  a 
holiday  fool  there  but  would  give  a  piece  of  silver : 
there  would  this  monster  make  a  man;*®  any  strange 
beast  there  makes  a  man :  when  they  will  not 
give  a  doit  to  relieve  a  lame  beggar,  they  will  lay 
out  ten  to  see  a  dead  Indian.  Lcgg'd  like  a  man ! 
and  his  fins  like  arms !  Warm,  o'  my  troth  !  I  do 
now  let  loose  my  opinion,  hold  it  no  longer, — this 
is  no  fish,  but  an  islander,  that  hath  latclj-  sufficred 
by  a  thunder-bolt.  [Thunder.^  Alas  !  the  storm 
is  come  again :  my  best  way  is  to  creep  jmdcr  his 
gaberdine;*'  there  is  no  other  shelter  hereabouts 
Misery  acquaints  a  man  with  strange  bedfellows. 
I  will  here  shroud  till  the  dregs  of  the  storm  be 


Enter  Stephauo,  singing  ;  a  bottle  in  his  hand. 

Ste.  I  shall  no  more  to  sea,  to  sea. 

Here  shall  I  die  ashore ; — 

This  is  a  very  scurvy  tune  to  sing  at  a  man's  fimera! : 
Well,  here  's  my  comfort. 

\_Drinlcs  and  singi. 

The  master,  the  swabher,  the  boatswain,  and  I, 

The  gimncr,  and  his  mate, 
Lov'd  Mall,  lleg,  and  Marian,  and  Margery, 

But  none  of  us  car'd  for  Kate : 

For  she  had  a  tongue  with  a  tang. 

Would  cry  to  a  sailor,  "  Go  hang ;" 
She  lov'd  not  the  savour  of  tar  nor  of  pitch. 
Yet  a  tailor  might  scratch  her  where' ere  she  did  itch: 

Then  to  sea,  boys,  and  let  her  go  hang ! 

This  is  a  scurvy  tune  too  :  But  here 's  my  comfort' 

[Drinks. 

Col.  Do  not  torment  me  :  0  ! 

Ste.  What 's  the  matter  ?  Have  we  devils  here  ? 
Do  you  put  tricks  upon  's  with  salvages,'"  and 
men  of  Inde  ?  Ha !  I  have  not  scap'd  drowning, 
to  be  afeard  now  of  your  four  legs  ;  for  it  hath  been 
said.  As  proper  a  man  as  ever  went  on  four  legs 
cannot  make  him  give  groimd  :  and  it  shall  be  said 
BO  again,  while  Stephano  breathes  at  'nostrils." 

19 


THE    TKMPEST. 


SCENE  U. 


Cal.  The  spirit  torments  me  :   0  ! 

Sle.  Tliis  is  some  monster  of  the  isle,  with  four 
legs,  who  hath  got,  as  I  take  it,  an  ague.  WTiere 
the  devil  should  he  learn  our  language  ?  I  will 
g;ive  him  some  relief,  if  it  be  hut  for  that :  If  I 
can  recover  him,  and  keep  him  tame,  and  get  to 
Naples  with  him,  he  's  a  present  for  any  emperor 
that  ever  trod  on  neat's  leather. 

Cal.  Do  not  torment  me,  prithee ;  I  '11  bring 
my  wood  home  faster. 

Ste.  He  's  in  his  fit  now,  and  does  not  talk  after 
the  wisest.  He  shall  taste  of  my  bottle :  if  he 
have  never  drimk  wine  afore,  it  will  go  near  to 
remove  his  fit:  if  I  can  recover  him,  and  keep 
him  tame,  I  will  not  take  too  much  fer  him:'- 
he  shall  pay  for  hiui  that  hath  him,  and  that 
soundly. 

Cal.  Thou  dost  me  yet  but  little  hurt;'^  thou 
wilt  anon ;  I  know  it,  by  thy  trembling  :  Now 
Prosper  works  upon  thee. 

Ste.  Come  on  your  ways ;  open  your  mouth  : 
here  is  that  which  ^vUl  give  language  to  you,  cat ; 
open  your  mouth  :  this  will  shake  your  shaking, 
I  can  tell  you,  and  that  soundly :  you  cannot  tell 
who  's  your  friend :  open  your  chaps  agaia. 

TVin.  I  should  know  that  voice  :  it  should  be — 
but  he  is  drown'd ;  and  these  are  devils :  0  ! 
defend  me  I — 

Ste.  Foiu-  legs,  and  two  voices ;  a  most  delicate 
monster  !  His  forward  voice,  now,  is  to  speak  well 
of  his  fiiend ;  his  backward  voice  is  to  utter  foul 
speeches,  and  to  detract.  If  all  the  wine  in  my 
bottle  win  recover  him,  I  will  help  his  ague. 
Come, — Amen  !  I  Tvill  pour  some  in  thy  other 
mouth. 

Trin.  Stephano ! — 

Ste.  Doth  thy  other  mouth  call  me  ?  Mercy ! 
Mercy  !  This  is  a  devil,  and  no  monster :  I  will 
leave  him ;  I  have  no  long  spoon.'* 

Trin.  Stephano ! — if  thou  beest  Stephano,  touch 
me,  and  speak  to  me ;  for  I  am  Trinculo; — be  not 
afeard,- — thy  good  friend  Trinc\ilo. 

Ste.  If  thou  beest  Trinculo,  come  forth ;  I  '11 
pull  thee  by  the  lesser  legs :  if  any  be  Trinculo's 
legs,  these  are  they.  Thou  art  very  Trinculo,  in- 
deed !  How  cam'st  thou  to  be  the  siege  of  this 
moon-calf  ?'^  Can  he  vent  Trinoulos  ? 

Trin.  I  took  him  to  be  Idll'd  with  a  thunder- 
stroke : — But  art  thou  not  drown'd,  Stephano  ?  I 
hepe,  now,  thou  art  not  dro\vu"d.  Is  tlie  stonn 
overblown  ?  1  hid  me  under  tlie  dead  moon-calf  b 
gaberdine,  for  fear  of  the  storm  :  And  art  thou 
20 


living,  Stephano?    0   Stephano,  two  Neapolitan! 
scap'd ! 

Ste.  Prithee,  do  not  turn  me  about;  my  stomach 
is  not  constant. 

Cal.  These  be  fine  things,  an  if  they  be  nr! 
sprites. 
That 's  a  brave  god,  and  bears  celestial  liquor : 
I  will  kneel  to  him ! 

Ste.  How  didst  thou  'scape  ?  How  cam'st  thou 
nithcr?  swear,  by  this  bottle,  how  thou  cam'st 
hither.  I  escap'd  upon  a  butt  of  sack,  which  the 
sailors  heaved  o'erboard,  by  this  bottle !  which  I 
made  of  the  bai'k  of  a  tree,  with  mine  own  hands, 
since  I  was  cast  ashore. 

Cal.  I  'U  swear,  upon  that  bottle,  to  be  thy  true 
subject ;  for  the  liquor  is  not  earthly. 

Ste.  Here ;  swear,  then,  how  thou  escap'dst. 

Trin.  Swam  ashore,  man,  like  a  duck;  I  can 
swim  like  a  duck,  I  '11  be  sworn. 

Ste.  Here,  kiss  the  book :  Though  thou  canst 
Ewijn  like  a  duck,  thou  art  made  like  a  goose. 

D'in.  0  Stephano,  hast  any  more  of  this  ? 

Ste.  The  whole  butt,  man ;  my  eeUar  is  in  a 
rock  by  the  sea-side,  where  mj^  wine  is  hid.  How 
now,  moon-calf  ?  how  does  thine  ague  ? 

Cal.  Hast  thou  not  dropp'd  fi'om  heaven  ? 

Ste.  Out  o'  the  moon,  I  do  assui'e  thee  :  I  was 
the  man  i'  the  moon,  when  time  was. 

Cal.  I  have  seen  thee  in  her,  and  I  do  adore 
thee ;  my  mistress  show'd  me  thee,  and  thy  dog, 
and  thy  bush. 

Ste.  Come,  swear  to  that ;  kiss  the  book :  I  will 
furnish  it  anon  with  new  contents :  swear. 

Trin.  By  this  good  light,  this  is  a  very  shallow 
monster ! — I  afeai'd  of  him  !  a  very  weak  monster: 
— The  man  i'  the  moon! — a  most  poor  credidous 
monster :  Well  di'awn,  monster,  in  good  sooth. 

Cal.  I  '11  show  thee  every  fertile  inch  o'  the 
island  ;  and  I  wiU  kiss  thy  foot :  I  prithee  be  my 
god! 

Trin.  By  this  light,  a  most  perfidious  and  drun- 
ken monster !  when  's  god  's  asleep,  he  '11  rob  hia 
bottle. 

Cal.  I  'U  kiss  thy  foot :  I  'U  swear  myself  thy 
subject. 

Ste.  Come  on,  then ;  down,  and  swear. 

Trin.  I  shall  laugh  myself  to  death  at  this 
puppy-headed  monster:  a  most  scurvy  monster! 
I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  beat  him,  — 

Ste.  Come,  kiss. 

IVin.  — but  that  the  poor  monster  's  in  drink ; 
An  abominable  monster ! 


/,CT   lU. 


THE  TEMPEST 


SCENH    I. 


Cal.  I  '11  show  thee  the  best  springs ;  I  '11  pluck 

thee  berries  ; 
r  'II  fish  for  thee,  and  get  thee  wood  enough. 
A  plague  upon  the  tyrant  that  I  sen'e ! 
\  'II  bear  him  no  more  sticks,  but  follow  thee, 
Thou  wondrous  man ! 

Trin.  A  most  ridiculous  monster!    to  make  a 
wonder  of  a  poor  dnmkard. 

Cal.  I  prithee  let  me  bring  thee  where  crabs 
grow, 
Ajid  I  with  my  long  nails  will  dig  thee  pig-nuts, 
Show  thee  a  jay's  nest,  and  instruct  thee  how 
To  snare  the  nimble  marmozet;  I  "U  bring  thee 
To  clust'ring  filberts,  and  sometimes  I  'II  get  thee 
Young  scamels''  from  the  rock  :  Wilt  thou  go  with 
me? 

Ste.  I  prithee,  now,  lead  the  way  without  any 


more  talking. — Trinculo,  the  king  ani  all  oui 
company  else  being  drown'd,  we  wiU  inherit  here, 
Here;  bear  my  bottle.  Fellow  Trinculo,  we  'U 
fill  him  by  and  by  again. 

Cal.   [^Sings  Anmlcenhj.']  Farewell,  master ;  farewell 
farewell ! 

Trin.  A  howling  monster ;  a  drunken  monster  1 

Cal.      No  more  dams  I  '11  make  for  fish ; 
Nor  fetch  in  firing 
At  requiring. 
Nor  scrape  trencher,^'  nor  wash  dish : 
'Ban,  'Ban,  Ca — Caliban 
Has  a  new  master — Get  a  new  man! 

Freedom,  hey-day!   hey-day,  freedom!   freedom, 
hey-day,  freedom  I 
Stc.  0  brave  monster,  lead  the  way  !    \^Exmmt 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  1.— Before  Prospero's  Cell. 

Enter  Feediuand,  bearing  a  log. 

Fer.  There  be  some  sports  ai'o  painful,  and  their 

labour 
Delight  in  them  sets  off :   some  kinds  of  baseness 
Are  nobly  undergone ;  and  most  poor  matters 
Point  to  rich  ends.     This  my  mean  task 
Would  be  as  heavy  to  me  as  odious ;  but 
The  mistress  wliich  I  serve  quickens  what 's  dead. 
And  makes  my  labours  pleasures  :   0,  she  is 
Ten  times  more  gentle  than  her  father  's  crabbed ; 
And  he  's  compas]d  of  harshness.     I  must  remove 
Some  thousands  of  these  logs,  and  pUe  them  up. 
Upon  a  sore  injunction.     My  sweet  mistress 
Weeps,  when  she  sees  me  work ;  and  says,  such 

baseness 
Had  never  like  executor.     I  forget : 
But   these    sweet   thoughts  do  even   refresh  my 

labours. 
Most  busy-less'*  when.  I  do  it. 

JSnUr  MiBANDA,  and  Prospeeo  at  a  distance. 
Mira.  Alas,  now  !  pray  you 


Woik  not  BO  hard ;  I  would  the  lightning  had 
Burnt  up  those  logs  that  you  are  cnjoiu'd  to  pile ! 
Pray  set  it  do^mi,  ;md  rest  you :  when  this  bums, 
'T  will  weep  for  having  wearied  you."    My  fathei 
Is  hard  at  study  :  pray,  now,  rest  yourself ; 
He  's  safe  for  these  three  hours. 

Fer.  0  most  dear  mistress ! 

The  sun  will     :,  before  I  shall  dischai'ge 
Ttliat  I  must  strive  to  do. 

Mira.  If  you  'U  sit  down, 

I  'U  bear  your   logs   the   while  :    Pray  give  mo 

that ; 
I  'U  carry  it  to  the  pUe. 

Fer.  No,  precious  creature  ! 

I  had  rather  crack  my  sinews,  break  my  back, 
Than  you  should  such  dishonour  undergo. 
While  I  sit  lazy  by. 

Mira.  It  would  become  me 

As  well  as  it  does  you  :  and  I  should  do  it 
With  much  more  ease ;  for  my  good  will  is  to  it, 
And  yours  it  is  against. 

Pro.  Poor  worm  !  thou  art  infected; 

This  visitation  shows  it. 

Mira.  You  look  wearily. 

21 


THE  TEMPEST. 


SCENE  n. 


Fer.  No,  noble  jnistress ;    't  is  fresh  moming 
with  me, 
WTien  you  are  by  at  night.     I  do  beseech  you, 
(Chiefly,  that  I  might  set  it  in  my  prayers,) 
"yhat  is  your  name  ? 

Mira.  Miranda  : — 0  my  father, 

I  have  broke  your  hest""  to  say  so  ! 

Fer.  Admir'd  Miranda ! 

Indeed  the  top  of  admiration  ;  worth 
What  's  dearest  to  the  world  !  Full  many  a  lady 
I  have  ey'd  with  best  regard,  and  many  a  time 
Th'  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  into  bondage 
Brought  my  too  diligent  ear :  for  several  virtues 
Have  I  lik'd  several  women ;  never  any 
With  so  full  soiil,  but  some  defect  in  her 
Did  quarrel  wdth  the  noblest  grace  she  ow'd. 
And  put  it  to  the  foil :  But  you,  0  you ! 
So  perfect,  and  so  peerless,  are  created 
Of  every  creature's  best. 

Mira.  I  do  not  know 

One  of  my  sex ;  no  woman's  face  remember, 
Save,  from  my  glass,  mine  own ;  nor  have  I  seen 
More  that  I  may  call  men,  than  you,  good  friend, 
And  my  dear  father :  how  features  are  abroad, 
I  am  skill-lees  of;  but,  by  my  modesty, 
(The  jewel  in  my  dower,)  I  would  not  wish 
Any  companion  in  the  world  but  you ; 
Nor  can  imagination  form  a  shape, 
Besides  yourself,  to  like  of.     But  I  prattle 
Something  too  wildly,  and  my  father's  precepts 
I  therein  do  forget. 

Fer.  T  am,  in  my  condition, 

A  prince,  Miranda ;  I  do  think,  a  king, — 
(I  would  not  so  !) — and  would  no  more  endure 
This  wooden  slaveiy,  than  to  suffer 
The   flesh-fly  blow   my   mouth. — Hear  my  soul 

speak : — 
The  very  instant  that  I  saw  you,  did 
My  heart  fly  to  your  service  ;  there  resides. 
To  make  me  slave  to  it ;  and  for  your  sake 
Am  I  this  patient  log-man. 

Mira.  Do  you  love  me  ? 

Fer.  0  heaven  !  0  earth  !  bear  witness  to  this 
.  sound. 
And  crown  what  I  profess  with  kind  event, 
If  I  speak  true  ;  if  hollowly,  invert 
What  best  is  boded  me,  to  mischief :  I, 
Bcy^ond  all  limit  of  what  else""  i'  the  world, 
Do  love,  prize,  honour  you. 

Mira.  I  am  a  fool, 

To  weep  at  what  I  am  glad  of. 

Pro.  Fair  encounter 

22 


Of  two  most  rare  affections !     Heavens  rain  grace 
On  that  which  breeds  between  them  ! 

Fer.  Wherefore  weep  you  ? 

Mira.   At   mine  unworthiness,    that  dare  no' 
oflfer 
What  I  desire  to  give ;  and  much  less  take 
What  I  shall  die  to  want.     But  this  is  trifling ; 
And  all  the  more  it  seeks'"*  to  hide  itself. 
The  bigger  bulk  it  shows.     Hence,  bashful  cun- 
ning! 
And  prompt  me,  plain  and  holy  innocence ! 
I  am  your  wife,  if  you  will  marry  me  ; 
If  not,  I  'U  die  your  maid  :  to  be  your  fellow 
You  may  deny  me ;  but  I  '11  be  your  servant, 
Whether  you  will  or  no. 

Fer.  My  mistress,  dearest, 

And  I  thus  humble  ever. 

Mira.  My  husband,  then  ? 

Fer.  Ay,  with  a  heart  as  willing 
As  bondage  ere  of  freedom :  here's  my  hand. 

Mira.  And  mine,    with   my  heart  in  't :   An3 
now,  farewell. 
Tin  half  an  hour  hence. 

Fer.  A  thousand,  thousand  !"" 

\_Fxeunt  Fer.  and  Mnt 

Pro.  So  glad  of  this  as  they  I  cannot  be. 
Who  are  surpris'd  with  ail ;  but  my  rejoicing 
At  nothing  can  be  more.     I  'U  to  my  book; 
For  yet,  ere  supper-time,  must  I  perform 
Much  business  appertaining.  \_Exit 

SCENE  II.— Another  part  of  tJic  Island. 

Enter  Siephano  and  Tbinculo  ;  GkLTBKS  following 
with  a  bottle. 

Ste.  TeU  not  me ; — when  the  butt  is  out,  wo 
wiU  drink  water ;  not  a  drop  before :  therefore 
bear  up,  and  board  'em :  Servant-monster,  drink 
to  me. 

Trin.  Servant-monster?  the  folly  of  this  island! 
They  say  there  's  but  five  upon  this  isle :  we  are 
three  of  them ;  if  th'  other  two  be  brain'd  like  us, 
the  state  totters. 

Ste.  Drink,  servant-monster,  when  I  bid  thee  ; 
thy  eyes  arc  almost  set  in  thy  liead. 

Trin. .  Where  should  they  be  set  else  ?  he  were  a 
brave  monster  indeed,  if  they  were  set  in  his  tail. 

Ste.  My  mau-monstor  hath  (hown'd  his  tongue 
in  sack  :  for  my  part,  the  sea  cannot  drown  me :  I 
swam,  ere  I  could  recover  the  shore,  five-and- 
thirty  leagues,  oflf  and  on, — by  this  light!  Thou 
shalt  be  my  lieutenant,  monster,  or  my  standard."" 


ACT  ni. 


THE  TEMPEST. 


dCENE   n. 


Tiin.  Tour  lieutenant,  if  you  list ;  he  's  no 
Btandard. 

Ste.  Wo  'U  not  run,  monsieur  monster. 

Trin.  Nor  go  noither :  but  you  '11  lie  like  dogs, 
and  yet  say  nothing  neither. 

Ste.  Moon-calf,  speak  once  in  thy  life,  if  thou 
beost  a  good  moon-calf. 

Cal.  How  does  thy  honour  ?  Let  me  lick  thy 
shoe  :  I  '11  not  serve  him,  he  is  not  valiant. 

TVin.  Thou  liest,  most  ignorant  monster  ;  I  am 
in  case  to  justle  a  constable  :  why,  thou  dobosh'd'"' 
fish  thou,  was  there  ever  man  a  coward  that  hath 
drunk  so  much  sack  as  I  to-day  ?  WQt  thou  tell  a 
monstrous  lie,  being  but  half  a  fish,  and  lialf  a 
monster  ? 

Cal.  Lo,  how  he  mocks  me  !  wilt  thou  let  him, 
my  lord  ? 

TVin.  Lord,  quoth  he ! — that  a  monster  should 
be  such  a  natural ! 

Cal.  Lo,  lo,  again  !  bite  him  to  death,  I  prithee. 

Ste.  Trinculo,  keep  a  good  tongue  in  your  head  ; 
if  you  prove  a  mutineer,  the  next  tree — The  poor 
monster  's  my  subject,  and  he  shall  not  suffer 
indignity. 

Cal.  I  thank  my  noble  lord.  WUt  thou  be  pleas'd 
'  0  hearken  once  again  to  the  suit  I  made  to  thee  ? 
Ste.  Marry  will  I :  kneel  and  repeat  it ;  I  -o-iU 
stand,  and  so  shall  Trinculo. 

Enter  Ariel,  invisible. 

Cal.  As  I  told  thee  before,  I  am  subject  to  a 
tyrant;    a   sorcerer,    that   by   his   cunning   hath 
cheated  mo  of  the  island. 
Ari.  Thou  liest ! 

Cal.  Thou  liest,  thou  jesting  monkey  thou ; 
I  would  my  valiant  master  would  destroy  thee  : 
I  do  not  lie. 

Sie.  Trinculo,  if  you  trouble  him  any  more  in  's 
tale,  by  this  hand,  I  will  supplant  some  of  your  teeth. 

Trin.  AVhy,  I  said  nothing. 

Ste.  Mum  then,  -and  no  more. — \_To  CAUBAif. 
Proceed. 

Cal.  I  say,  by  Korcery  he  got  this  isle ; 
From  me  he  got  it.     If  thy  greatness  will 
Revenge  it  on  him — (for  I  know  thou  dar'st ; 
Hut  tlus  thing  dare  not. — ) 

Ste.  That 's  most  certain. 

Cal.  Thou  shalt  be  lord  of  it,  and  I'll  serve  thee. 

Ste.  How,  now,  shall  this  be  compass'd  ?  Canst 
thou  bring  me  to  the  party  ? 

Cal.  Yea,  yea,  my  lord;  1  '11  yield  him  thee 
asleep, 


Where  thou  mayst  knock  a  nail  into  nis  head. 
Ari.  Thou  liest !  thou  canst  not. 

Cal.  Wliat  a  pi'd  ninny  's  this  !'™  Thou  scurvy 
patch ! — 
I  do  beseech  thy  greatness,  give  him  blows, 
And  take  his  bottle  from  him  :  when  that  's  gone, 
He  shall  drink  nought  but  briue ;  for  I  'U  not 

show  him 
Where  the  quick  fi-eshes  are. 

Ste.  Trinculo,  nm  into  no  further  danger :  in- 
terrupt the  monster  one  word  further,  and,  by  this 
hand,  I  'U  turn  my  mercy  out  o'  doors,  and  make 
a  stockfish  of  thee. 

Trin.  Why,  what  did  I  ?  I  did  nothing ;  I  '11 
go  no  further  off."" 

Ste.  Didst  thou  not  say  he  lied  ? 

Ari.  Thou  liest ! 

Ste.  Do  I  so?  take  thou  that.  [_Strika  him 
As  you  like  this,  give  me  the  lie  another  time. 

Trin.  I  did  not  give  the   lie : — Out  o'  youi  • 

wits,  and  hearing  too  ? A  pox  o'  your  bottle . 

This  can  sack  and  drinking  do  I — A  miurain  on 
your  monster,  and  the  devil  take  your  fingers ! 

Cal.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Ste.  Now,  forward  mth  your  tale.  Prithee 
stand  further  off. 

Cal.  Beat  him  enough:  after  a  little  time,  I'll 
beat  him  too. 

Sic:  Stand  further. — Come,  proceed. 

Cal.  Why,  as  I  told  thee,  't  is  a  custom  with 

him 

I'  the  afternoon  to  sleep  :  there  thou  mayst  brain 

him, 
Having  first  seiz'd  his  books  ;  or  with  a  log 
Batter  his  skuU,  or  paunch  him  with  a  stake. 
Or  cut  his  wezand  with  thy  knife  :  Eemember 
First  to  possess  his  books ;  for,  -without  them. 
He  's  but  a  sot,'™  as  I  am,  nor  hath  not 
One  spirit  to  command :  They  all  do  hate  him 
As  rootcdly  as  I :  Bum  but  his  books ; 
He  has  brave  utensils,  (for  so  he  calls  them,) 
Which,  when  he  has  a  house,  he  '11  deck  withal. 
And  that  most  deeply  to  consider,  is 
The  beauty  of  his  daughter ;  he  himself 
Calls  her  a  nonpareil :  I  never  saw  a  woman 
But  only  Sycorax  my  dam,  and  she ; 
But  she  as  far  surpasseth  Syccrax, 
As  great' st  does  least. 

Ste.  Is  it  so  brave  a  lass  ? 

Cal.  Ay,  lord ;    she  wiU   become    tliy    bed,  I 
warrant. 
And  bring  thee  forth  brave  brood. 

23 


ACT  m. 


THE  TEMPEST. 


SCENE  m. 


Sto.  ilonster,  I  vnil  kill  this  man :  his  daughter 
and  I  will  be  king  and  queen,  (save  our  graces !) 
nnd  Tiinculo  and  thyself  shall  be  viceroys.  Dost 
thou  like  the  plot,  Trinculo  ? 

Trin.  Excellent! 

S(e.  Give  me  thy  hand ;  I  am  sorry  I.  beat 
thee :  but,  while  thou  Uv'st,  keep  a  good  tongue  in 
thy  head. 

Cat.  Within  this  half-hour  wUl  he  be  asleep ; 
WUt  thou  destroy  him  then  ? 

Sle.  Ay,  on  mine  honour  ! 

Art.  This  will  I  teU  my  master. 

Cal.    Thou   mak'st  me  meriy :     I    am    full   of 
pleasure ; 
Let  us  be  jocund  :  TVHl  you  troll  the  catch 
You  taught  me  but  wliile-ere  ? 

SU.  At  thy  request,  monster,  I  will  do  reason, 
any  reason  : 
Come  on,  Tiinculo,  let  us  sing.  [^Sings. 

Flout  'em,  and  skout  'em;'<"  and  skout  'em,  and  flout  'em ; 
Thought  is  free. 

Cal.  That 's  not  the  tune. 

[Ariel  plai/s  the  tune  on  a  tabor  and  pipe. 

Sle.  Wliat  is  tliis  same  ? 

Trin.  This  is  the  tune  of  our  catch,  play'dby  the 
picture  of  Nobody."" 

Ste.  If  thou  beest  a  man,  show  thyself  in 
thy  likeness  :  if  thou  beest  a  devil,  take  't  as  thou 
list. 

2)-in.  0,  forgive  me  my  sins  ! 

Ste.  He  that  dies,  pays  all  debts ;  I  defy  thee. 
Mercy  upon  us ! 

Cal.  Art  thou  afeard  ? 

Ste.  No,  monster,  not  I. 

Cal.  Be  not  afeard  ;  the  isle  is  fuU  of  noises, 
Sounds,  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight,  and  hurt 

not. 
Sometimes  a  thousand  twangling  instruments 
"Win  hum  about  mine  ears,  and  sometime  voices, 
That,  if  I  then  had  wak'd  after  long  sleep. 
Win  malce  me  sleep  again :  and  then,  in  dream- 

The  clouds,  mcthought,    would  open,   and  show 

riches 
Ready  to  drop  upon  me,  that  when  I  wak'd, 
I  cry'd  to  dream  again. 

Ste.  This  will  prove  a  brave  kingdom  to  me, 
where  I  shall  have  my  music  for  nothing. 
Cal.  Wlicn  Prospcro  is  dc8tro}'"d. 
Sto    That  shall  be  by  and  by  :  I  remember  the 
story. 
24 


Trin.  The  sound  is  going  iway  :  let 's  follow  it, 
and  after  do  our  work. 

Ste.  Lead,  monster ;  wo  '11  follow. — I  would  1 
could  see  this  taborer  :  he  lays  it  on. 

Trin.  Wilt  come?'"  I  '11  follow  Stcphaiio. 

SCENE  JIL—ATwiher  part  of  the  Islmd. 

Enter  Aionso,  Sebastian,  AJ^TO^^o,  Gonzalo 
Adeian,  Fkaucisco,  and  others. 

Gon.  By  'r  lakin,"^  I  can  go  no  further,  sir; 
My  old  bones  ache :  here  's  a  maze  trod,  indeed, 
Through  forth-rights"*  and  meanders !    by  youi 

patience, 
I  needs  must  rest  mc. 

Alon.  Old  lord,  I  cannot  blame  thee, 

Who  am  myself  attach'd  with  weariness. 
To  the  dulling  of  my  spirits  :  sit  down  and  rest. 
Even  here  I  will  put  off  my  hope,  and  keep  it 
No  longer  for  my  flatterer  :  he  is  drown' d. 
Whom  thus  we  stray  to  find,  and  the  sea  mocks 
Our  frustrate  search  on  land.     Well,  let  him  go. 

Ant.  I  am  right  glad  that  he  's  so  out  of  hope. 

\_Aside  to  Seb. 
Do  not,  for  one  repulse,  forego  the  purpose 
That  you  resolv'd  t'  effect. 

Seh.  The  next  advantage 

Will  we  take  th'roughly. 

Ant.  Let  it  be  to-night ; 

For,  now  they  are  oppress'd  wth  travel,  they 
Win  not,  nor  caimot,  use  such  'N'igilance, 
As  when  they  ai'e  fi'esh. 

Seh.  I  say,  to-night :  no  more. 

Solemn  and  strange  mtisic ;  and  Peospkko  ahove, 
invisible.  Enter  several  strange  Shapes,  liringirig 
in  a  banquet;  they  dance  about  it  with  genMe 
actions  of  salutation ;  and,  inviting  tlw  King  and 
the  rest  to  eat,  they  depart. 

Alon.  What  harmony  is  this  ?  my  good  friends, 
hark ! 

Gon.  Man-ellous  sweet  music  ! 

Alon.  Give  us  kind  keepers,   heavens !    Wlial 
were  tlieso  ? 

Seh.  A  living  drollery  :"*  Now  I  will  believe 
That  there  are  unicorns ;  that  in  .\jabia 
Tliorc  is  one  tree,  the  phoenix'  throne;"'  one  phonnix 
At  this  hour  reigning  there. 

Ant.  I  'n  believe  l)otli ; 

And  what  docs  else  want  credit,  come  to  me, 


ACT   UL 


THE   TEMPEST. 


gcran:  ni. 


A.nil  I  '11  be  sworn  't  is  true:  Travellers  ne'er 

did  lie, 
Though  fools  at  home  condemn  them. 

Gon.  If  in  Niijilos 

I  should  report  this  now,  would  they  bslieve  me  ? 
If  I  should  say  I  saw  such  islanders, 
(For,  certc3,  these  are  people  of  the  i.sland,) 
Who,  though  they  are  of  monstrous  shape,  yet,  note, 
Their  manners  are  more  gentle,  kind,  than  of 
Our  human  generation  you  shall  find 
Many, — nay,  almost  any. 

Fro.  Honest  lord, 

Thou  hast  said  well ;  for  some  of  you  there  present 
Are  worse  than  devils.  [_Aside. 

Alon.  I  cannot  too  much  muse"" 
Such    shapes,    such    gesture,    and    such    sound, 

expressing 
(Although  they  want  the  use  of  tongue)  a  kind 
Of  excellent  dumb  discourse. 
Fro.  Praise  in  departing.  \_Aside. 

Fran.  They  vanish'd  strangely. 

Seh.  No  matter,  since 

They  have  left  their  viands  behind ;  for  we  have 

stomachs. — 
Will  '<  please  you  taste  of  what  is  here  ? 
AUni.  Not  I. 

Gmi.  Faith,  sir,  you  need  not  fear :  When  we 
were  boys, 
Who  would  believe  that  there  were  mountaineers 
Dew-lapp'd  Hlce  bulls,  whose  throats  had  hanging 

at  them 
Wallets  of  flesh  ?  or  that  there  were  such  men. 
Whose  heads  stood  in  their  breasts  ?   which  now 

we  find. 
Each  putter-out  at  five  for  one'"  will  bring  us 
Good  warrant  of. 
Alon.  I  will  stand  to,  and  feed,  although 

my  last : 
No  matter,  since  I  feel  the  best  is  past : — 
Brother,  my  lord  the  duke ; — Stand  to,  and  do  as 
we. 

Thunder  and  lightning.  Enter  Akiel  lilce  a  harpy. 
Ha  claps  his  wings  upoti  the  table,  and,  with  a 
qttaint  device,  the  banquet  vanishes. ^'^^ 

Ari.     You  are  three  men  of  sin,  whom  destiny 
(That  hath  to  instrament  this  lower  world, 
And  what  is  in  't)  the  never-surfeited  sea 
Hath  caus'd  to  belch  up  j-ou,'"  and  on  this  island. 
Where  man  doth  not  inhabit,  you  'mongst  men 
Being  most  unfit  to  Hve.     I  have  made  you  mad ; 
[^Soeing  them  draw  their  swords. 


And  even  with  such-like  valour,  men  hang  and 

drown 
Their  proper  selves.   You  fools  !  I  and  my  fellows 
Are  ministers  of  fate  ;  the  elements, 
Of  whom  your  swords  are  tempcr'd,  may  as  well 
Woimd  the  loud  winds,  or  with  bemock'd-at  stabs 
Kill  the  still-closing  waters,  as  diminish 
One  dowle™  that  's  in  my  plume;  my  fellow- 
ministers 
Are  like  invulnerable.     If  you  could  hurt. 
Your  swords  are  now  too  massy  for  3'our  sti'cngths, 
And  will  not  bo  uplifted.     But,  remember, 
(For  that 's  my  business  to  you,)  that  you  three 
From  Milan  did  supplant  good  Prospcro  : 
Expos'd  unto  the  sea;  which  hath  requit  it. 
Him  and  his  innocent  child :  for  which  foul  deed 
The  powers,  delajing,  not  forgetting,  have 
Incens"d  the  seas  and  shores,  yea,  all  the  creatures, 
Against  your  peace.     Thee,  of  thy  son,  Alonso, 
They  have  bereft ;  and  do  pronoimce,  by  me, 
Ling'ring  perdition  (worse  than  any  death 
Can  be  at  once)  shall  step  by  step  attend 
You  and  your  ways ;  whose  .WTaths  to  guard  you 

from 
(Which  here,  in  this  most  desolate  isle,  else  falls 
Upon  your  heads)  is  nothing  but  heart's  sorrow. 
And  a  clear  life  ensuing. 

Sie  vanishes  in  thunder:  then,  to  soft  music,  enter 
the  Shapes  again,  and  dance  with  tnoch  and  mowcs- 
and  carry  out  the  table. 

Fro.  Bravely  the  figure  of  this  harpy  hast  thou 
Pcrform'd,  my  Ariel ;  a  grace  it  had,  devouring  : 
Of  my  instruction  hast  thou  notliing  bated, 
In  what  thou  hadst  to  say:    so,  with  good  life,'*' 
And  observation  strange,  my  meaner  ministers 
Their  several  Idnds  have  done :  my  high  charms 

work. 
And  these,  mine  enemies,  are  all  knit  up 
In  their  distractions :  they  now  ai'o  in  mj'  power , 
And  in  these  fits  I  leave  them,  while  I  visit 
Young  Ferdinand,  (whom  they  suppose  is  drown' d,) 
And  his  and  mine  lov'd  darling.'^ 

[.&('<  Pbos.  from  ahfve, 

Gon.  T  the  name  of  something  holy,  sir,  whj 
stand  you 
In  this  strange  stare  ? 

Alon.  0,  it  is  monsti'ous  !  monstrous! 

Methought  the  billows  spoke,  and  told  me  of  it ; 
The  winds  did  sing  it  to  me  ;  and  the  thmider, 
That  deep  and  dreadful  organ-pipe,  pronounc'd 
The  name  of  Prosper ;  it  did  bn.?e  my  trespass.'^ 

25 


CT^ 


THE  TEMPEST. 


SCENE  1 


ITierefore  ray  son  i'  the  ooze  is  bedded ;  and 
I  '11  seek  liiai  deeper  than  ere  plummet  sounded, 
And  with  him  there  lie  mudded. 

[Hxit. 
Seb.  But  one  fiend  at  a  time ; 

I  "U  fight  their  legions  o'er. 
Ani.  I  '11  be  thy  Becond. 

[_£xeunt  Seb.  and  Ann. 


Gon. 


thcil 


All  three  of  them  are  desperate ; 

great  guilt, 
Like  poison  given  to  work  a  great  time  after. 
Now  'gins  to  bite  the  spirits.     I  do  beseech  you, 
That  are  of  suppler  joints,  follow  them  s^viftly,    • 
And  hinder  them  from  what  this  ecstaoy'^-' 
May  now  provoke  them  to. 

Adr.  FoUow,  I  pray  you.        [Exeunt 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  l.—Bef(yre  Prospero's  Cell. 

Enter  Peospero,  FESDiNANn,  and  Mieanda. 

Pro.  If  I  have  too  austerely  punish'd  you, 
Voiir  compensation  makes  amends  ;  for  I 
Have  given  you  here  a  thread  of  mine  own  life,'" 
Or  that  for  wliich  I  live ;   who  once  again 
I  tender  to  thy  hand.    All  thy  vexations 
Were  but  my  trials  of  thy  love,  and  thou 
Hast  strangely  stood  the  test :  hero,  afore  Heaven, 
I  ratify  this  my  rich  gift.     0  Ferdinand, 
Do  not  smile  at  me  that  I  boast  her  off. 
For  thou  shalt  find  she  wiU  outstrip  aU  praise, 
And  make  it  halt  behind  her. 

Fer.  I  do  believe  it. 

Against  an  oracle. 

Pro.  Then,  as  my  gift,  and  thine  own  acquisition 
Worthily  purchas'd,  take  my  daughter  :  But 
If  thou  dost  break  her  virgin  knot,  before 
All  sanctimonious  ceremonies  may 
With  fall  and  holy  rite  be  minister'd, 
No  sweet  aspersion'*'  shall  the  heavens  let  fall 
To  make  this  contract  grow :  but  barren  hate, 
Sour-ey'd  disdain,  and  discord,  shall  bestrew 
The  union  of  your  bed  with  weeds  so  loathly. 
That  you  sliaU  hate  it  both  :  therefore  take  heed, 
As  Hymen's  lamps  shall  light  you. 

Fcr.  As  I  hope 

For  quiet  days,  fair  issue,  and  long  life, 
With  such  love  as  't  is  now,  the  murkiest  den, 
Tlio  most  opporhme  place,  the  strong' st  suggestion 
Our  worser  genius  can,  shall  never  melt 
Mine  honour  into  lust;  to  take  away 
2fi 


The  edge  of  that  day's  celebration, 

When   I   shall   think   or  Phoebus'   steeds'"    are 

founder'd, 
Or  night  kept  chain'd  below. 

Pro.  Fairly  spoke : 

Sit,  then,  and  talk  with  her,  she  is  thine  own.— 
What,  Ariel ;  my  industrious  servant,  Ariel  1 

Enter  AiiEL. 

Art.  What  would  my  potent  master?  here  lam. 

Pro.  Thou  and  thy  meaner  fellows  your  lasl 
service 
Did  worthily  perform  ;  and  I  must  use  you 
In  such  another  trick  :  go,  bring  the  rabble, 
O'er  whom  I  give  thee  power,  here,  to  this  place 
Incite  them  to  quick  motion  ;  for  I  must 
Bestow  upon  the  eyes  of  this  young  couplo 
Some  vanity  of  mine  art ;  it  is  my  promise, 
And  they  expect  it  from  me. 

Ari.  Presently  ? 

Pro.  Ay,  with  a  twink. 

Ari.  Before  you  can  say.  Come,  and  Go, 
And  breathe  twice,  and  cry.  So,  so, — 
Each  one,  tripping  on  his  toe, 
WiU  be  here  ^vith  mop  and  mowe : 
Do  you  love  me,  master  ?  no  ? 

Pro.  Dearly,  my  delicate  Ariel.  Do  rat  approach 
Till  thou  dost  hear  me  call. 

Ari.  Well,  I  conceive.  \Exit. 

Pro.  Look  thou  be  true  :  do  not  give  dalliance 
Too  much  the  rein :    the  strongest  oaths  are  straw 
To  the  fire  i'  the  blood :  be  more  abstemious, 
Or  else,  good  night  your  vow  I 


ACT  r7. 


THE  TEMPEST. 


SCENE   I. 


Fer.  I  warrant  you,  sir. 

The  white  cold  virgin  snow  upon  my  heart 
Abates  the  ardour  of  my  liver.'-" 

Pro.  WeU.— 

Now  come,  my  Ariel :  bring  a  corollary,™ 
1  Either  than  want  a  spirit :  appear,  and  pertly. — 
^o  tongue,  all  eyes  ;  be  silent.  \_S0ft  music. 

A  Masque.     Enter  Iris. 

7m.  Ceres,  most  bounteous  lady,  thy  rich  leas 
Of  wheat,  rye,  barley,  vetches,  oats,  and  pease ; 
Thy  turfy  mountains,  where  hve  nibbling  sheep. 
And  flat  meads  thatoh'd  with  stover,™  them  to 

keep ; 
Thy  banlcs  with  pioned  and  twilled  brims. 
Which  spongy  April  at  thy  hest  betrima. 
To  make  cold  njrmphs  chaste  crowns;   and  thy 

broom-groves,'^' 
Whose  shadow  the  dismissed  bachelor  loves, 
Being  lass-lorn ;  thy  pole-chpp'd  vineyard ; 
And  thy  sea-marge,  steril,  and  rooky-hard. 
Where  thou  thyself  dost  air :  The  queen  o'  the 

sky. 
Whose  wat'ry  arch,  and  messenger,  am  I, 
Bids  thee  leave  these,   and  with  her  sovereign 

grace, 

[Jtino  commences  ?ier  descent. '\ 

Here  on  this  grass-plot,  in  this  very  place, 
To  come  and  sport :  her  peacocks  fly  amain : 
Approach,  rich  Ceres,  her  to  entertain. 

Unter  Ceees. 

Cer.  Hail,  many-colour'd  messenget,  that  ne'er 
Dost  disobey  the  wife  of  Jupiter ; 
Who,  with  thy  saffron  ■wings,  upon  my  flow'rs 
Diffusest  honey-drops,  refreshing  show'rs  ; 
.And  with  each  end  of  thy  blue  bow  dost  crown 
My  bosky''-  acres,  and  my  unshrubb'd  down, 
Rich  scarf  to  my  proud  earth  :  Why  hath  thy  queen 
Summon'd  me  hither,  to  this  short-grass'd  green  ? 

Iris.  A  contract  of  true  love  to  celebrate, 
And  some  donation  freely  to  estate 
On  the  bless'd  lovers. 

Cer.  Tell  me,  heavenly  bow. 

If  S'onus,  or  her  son,  as  thou  dost  know. 
Do  now  attend  the  queen  ?  since  they  did  plot 
The  means  that  dusky  Dis  my  daughter  got. 
Her  and  her  blind  boy's  scandal'd  company 
I  have  forsworn. 

Iris.  Of  her  society 

Be  not  afraid ;  I  met  her  deity 


Cutting  the  clouds  towards  Paphos,  and  her  son 
Dove-drawn  with  her :  here  thought  they  to  havd 

done 
Some  wanton  charm  upon  this  man  and  maid. 
Whose  vows  are  that  no  bed-rite  shall  be  paid 
Tin  Hymen's  torch  be  lighted  :  but  in  vain  ! 
Miir.s's  hot  minion  is  retum'd  again  ; 
Her  waspish-headed  son  has  broke  his  arrows. 
Swears  he  will   shoot  no   more,  but  play  with 

sparrows. 
And  be  a  boy  right  out. 

Cer.  Highest  queen  of  state, 

Great  Juno  comes  :  I  know  her  by  her  gait. 

Juno  descends. 

Jim.  How  does  my  bounteous  sister?  Go  with  me. 
To  bless  this  twain,  that  they  may  prosperous  be, 
And  honour'd  in  their  issue. 


SONG. 

Jun.    Honour,  riches,  marriage  blessing, 
Long  continuance,  and  increasing, 
Hourly  joys  be  still  upon  you ! 
Juno  sings  her  blessings  on  you. 

Cer.   Earth's  increase,  foison  plenty, 
Bams  and  gamers  never  empty ; 
Vines,  with  clusf  ring  bunches  growing ; 
Plants  with  goodly  burthen  bowing ; 
Spring  come  to  you,  at  the  farthest, 
In  the  very  end  of  harvest ! 
Scarcity  and  want  shall  shun  you ; 
Ceres'  blessing  so  is  on  you. 


Fer.  This  is  a  most  majestic  vision,  and 
Harmonious  charmingly:'^'   ilay  i  De  bold 
To  think  these  spirits  ? 

Fro.  Spirits,  which  by  mine  art 

I  have  from  their  confines'"  caU'd,  to  enact 
My  present  fancies. 

Fer.  Let  me  live  here  ever ; 

So  rare  a  wonder'd  father,  and  a  wise,"" 
Makes  this  place  Paradise. 

[Juno  and  Ceres  whisper,  and  send  Iris 
on  empht/menf. 

Fro.  Sweet  now,  silence  ; 

Juno  and  Ceres  whisper,  seriously ; 
There's  something  else  to  do.  Hush,  and  be  mut* 
Or  else  our  speU  is  marr'd.'^* 

Iris.  You  nymphs  caU'd  Naiads,  of  the  wind- 
ing brooks,'^' 
With  yoiu-  scgd'd  crowns,  and  ever  harmless  looks, 
Leave  your  crisp  channels,  and  on  this  green  land 
Answer  your  summons : — Jimo  does  command  : 


THE  TEMPEST. 


Come,  temperate  nymphs,  and  help  tc  celebrate 
A  contract  of  true  love  ■  be  not  too  late. 

Enter  certain  Nymphs. 
You  sim-bum'd  sicklemen,  of  August  weary, 
Come  hither  from  the  furrow,  and  be  merry ; 
Make  hoHday  :  your  rye-straw  hats  put  on, 
And  tliese  fresh  nymphs  encounter  every  one 
In  country  footing. 

Enter  certain  Reapers,  properly  hahited ;  they  join 
xi'iili  the  Nymphs  in  a  graceful  dance;  towards 
the  end  tohereoj,  Peospeho  starts  suddenly,  and 
spealcs ;  after  which,  to  a  strange,  hollow,  and 
confused  noise,  they  heavily  vanish. 

Pro.  \_Aside.']   I  had  forgot  that  foul  conspiracy 
Of  the  beast  Caliban,  and  his  confederates. 
Against  my  life ;  the  minute  of  their  plot 
Is  almost  come. — [To  the  Spirits.'\    Well  done; — 
avoid ; — no  more  ! 

Fer.  This  is  strange :  your  father  's  in  some 
passion 
That  works  him  strongly. 

Mira.  Never  tUl  this  day. 

Saw  I  him  touch'd  with  anger  so  distemper"d. 

Pro.  You  do  look,  my  son,  in  a  mov'd  sort. 
As  if  you  were  dismay'd  :  be  cheerful,  sir  : 
Our  revels  now  are  ended.    These  our  actors, 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air : 
And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision. 
The  cloud-capp'd  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaots. 
The  solemn  temples,  the  gi-eat  globe  itself. 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,''''  shall  dissolve  ; 
And,  Uke  tliis  insubstantial  pageant  fided. 
Leave  not  a  wreck  behind.'^'    We  ai-e  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. — Sir,  I  am  vex'd  ; 
Bear  with  my  weakness  ;  my  old  brain  is  troubled. 
Be  not  disturb'd  with  my  infii-mity : 
If  you  bo  pleas' d,  retire  into  my  cell. 
And  there  repose ;  a  turn  or  two  I  '11  walk, 
To  stUl  my  beating  mind. 

Fer.,  Mira.  We  wish  your  peace. 

[F!xeunt. 

Pro.  Come  with  a  thought: — I  thank  thee  : — 
Ariel,  come. 

JEnter  Ariel. 

Ari.  Thy  thoughts  I  cleave  to  :    What'c  thy 

pleasure  ? 
Pro.  Spirit, 

28 


We  must  prepare  to  meet  ^vith'^"  Caliban. 

Ari.  Ay,   my  commander;    when  I  presented 

Ceres, 
I  thought  to  have  told  thee  of  it ;  but  I  fear'd 
Lest  I  might  anger  thee. 

Pro.  Say  again,  where  didst  thou  leave  thesi; 

varlets  ? 
Ari.  I  told  you,  sir,   they  were  red-hot  witli 

drinking : 
So  fiiU  of  valour,  that  they  smote  the  air 
Por  breatliing  in  their  foces ;  beat  the  ground 
For  kissing  of  their  feet ;  yet  always  bending 
Towards  their  project.     Then  I  beat  my  tabor. 
At  which,  like  unback'd  colts,  they  priok'd  their 

ears, 
Advano'd  their  eyelids,  lifted  up  their  noses. 
As  they  smelt  music ;  so  I  charm'd  their  ears. 
That,  calf-like,  they  my  lowing  follow'd  through 
Tooth'd  briers,  shai-p  furzes,  pricking  goss'*'  an^ 

thorns. 
Which  enter'd  their  fraQ  shins :  at  last  I  left  them 
I'  the  filthy  mantled  pool  beyond  your  cell. 
There  dancing  up  to  the  chins,  that  the  foul  lake 
O'erstunk  their  feet. 

Pro.  This  was  well  done,  my  bird ; 

Thy  shape  invisible  retain  thou  still : 
The  trumpery  in  my  house,  go,  bring  it  liither, 
For  stale'*"  to  catch  these  thieves. 

Ari.  I  go,  I  go.  [Uxit 

Pro.  A  devil,  a  bom  devU,  on  whose  naUu-e 
Nurture'"  can  never  stick  ;  on  whom  my  pains, 
Humanely  taken,  aU,  all  lost,  quite  lost ! 
And  as,  viith  age   his  body  uglier  grows, 
So  his  mind,  cankers  :  I  ^vill  plague  them  all. 

Re-enter  Asiel,  loaden  with  glistering  apparel,  SfC. 

Even  to  roai-ing : — Come,  hang  them  on  this  Unc 

Pkospeeo  ayid  Ariel  remain  invisiile.     Enter  Cali- 
ban, SiEriLANO,  and  Trinculo,  all  wet. 

Cal.  Pray  you  tread  softly,  that  the  blind  mole 
may  not  hear  a  foot  fall :  we  now  are  near  his 
ceU. 

Ste.  Monster,  your  fuiiy,  which  you  say  is  a 
harmless  fairy,  has  done  little  better  than  play'd 
the  Jack'"  with  us. 

Trin.  Monster,  I  do  smcU  all  horse-piss,  at 
which  my  nose  is  i:i  great  indignation. 

Ste.  So  is  mine.  Do  you  hear,  monster.^  If  I 
should  take  a  displeasure  against  j"ou ;  look  you, — 

Din.  Tliou  Wert  but  a  lost  monster. 

Cal.  (ioud  111}-  lord,  give  me  thy  favour  still . 
Bo  patient,  for  the  prize  I  '11  bring  thee  to 


THE  TEMPEST. 


Shall  hoodwink  this  mischance :  therefore,  speak 

softly ; 
All  's  hiish'd  as  midnight  yet. 

Trin.  kj,  but  to  lose  our  bottles  in  the  pool, — 

Ste.  There  is  not  only  disgrace  and  dishonour 
in  that,  monster,  but  an  infinite  loss. 

IVin.  That 's  more  to  me  than  my  wetting :  yet 
tliis  is  your  harmless  ftiiry,  monster. 

Ste.  I  will  fetch  off  my  bottle,  though  I  be  o'er 
cars  for  my  labour. 

Cal.  Prithee,  my  king,  be  quiet.     Seo"st  thou 
here, 
This  is  the  mouth  o'  the  cell :  no  noise,  and  enter. 
Do   that   good   mischief,   which   may  make  this 

island 
Thine  own  for  ever,  and  I,  thy  Caliban, 
For  aye  thy  foot-licker. 

Ste.  Give  me  thy  hand:  I  do  begin  to  have 
bloody  thoughts. 

Trin.  0  king  Stephano !  0  peer  !'**  0  worthy 
Stephano  !  look,  what  a  wardj-obe  here  is  for  thee ! 

Cal.  Let  it  alone,  thou  fool ;  it  is  but  trash. 

Trin.  0,  ho,  monster;  we  know  what  belongs 
to  a  frippery  :'*" — 0,  king  Stephano  ! 

Ste.  Put  off  that  gown,  Trinculo ;  by  tliis  hand, 
I'LL  have  that  gown. 

Trin.  Thy  grace  shall  have  it. 

Cal.  The  di'opsy  drown  this  fool !  what  do  you 
mean. 
To  doat  thus  on  such  luggage  ?  Let 't  alone,'" 
And  do  the  miirther  first :  if  he  awake, 
From    toe  to   crown   he   '11    fill   our  skins   with 

pinches, — 
Make  us  strange  stuff. 

Ste.  Be  you  quiet,  monster. — Mistress  line,  is 
not  this  my  jerkin  ?  Now  is  the  jerkin  under  the 
lino  :  now,  jerkin,  you  are  like  to  lose  your  hfdr, 
and  prove  a  bald  jerkin. 


Trin.  Do,  do  :  "We  steal  by  line  and  level,  an 
't  like  your  giace. 

Ste.  I  thank  thee  for  that  jtst :  here  "s  a  garment 
for  't :    ■(\'it  shall  not  go  unrewarded  while  I  am 
king  of  this  country.   'Steal  by  line  and  level'  is 
an  excellent  pass  of  pate  ;  there  's  another  garmen 
for  't. 

Trin.  Monster,  come,  put  some  lime  upon  your 
fingers,  and  away  with  the  rest. 

Cal.  I  wUl  have  none  on  't :  we  shall  lose  oiu 
time 
And  all  be  tum'd  to  barnacles,"*  or  to  apes 
With  foreheads  -siUainous  low. 

Ste.  Monster,  lay-to  your  fingers ;  help  to  bear 
this  away  where  my  hogshead  of  wine  is,  or  I  '11 
turn  you  out  of  my  kingdom :  go  to,  carry  tliis. 

Trin.  And  this. 

Ste.  Ay,  and  this. 

A  noixe  of  hunters  heard.  Enter  divers  Spirits,  in 
shape  of  dogs  and  hounds,  hunting  them  alottt ; 
Peospeeo  and  Ariei  setting  them  on. 

Pro.  Hey,  Mountain,  hey  ! 

Ari.  Silcer  !  there  it  goes.  Silver  ! 

Pro.  Fury,  Fury!  there,  Tyrant,  there!  hark, 

hark  ! 

\_They  are  driven  out. 

Go,  charge  my  goblins  that  they  grind  their  joints 

"With  dry  convulsions ;  shorten  up  their  sinews 

With  aged  cramps ;  and  more  pinch-spotted  make 

them, 

Than  pard  or  cat  o'  moimtain. 

Ari.  Hark,  they  roar. 

Pro.  Let  them  be  hunted  soundly  :  At  this  hour 
Lie  at  my  mercy  aU.  mine  enemies  : 
Shortly  shall  all  my  laboiirs  end,  and  thou 
Shalt  have  the  air  at  freedom :  for  a  little, 
Follow,  and  do  me  service.  [^Eteiinl. 

29 


ACT  V. 


THE  TEMPEST. 


ACT  V. 


SCEISTE  I.— Before  the  Cell  of  Prospero. 

Enter  Phospeeo  in,  his  magic  robes ;  and  Ariel. 

Pro.  Now  does  my  project  gather  to  a  head : 
My  charms  crack  not;  my  spirits  obey;  and  Time 
Goes  upright  with  his  carriage.     How  's  the  day  ? 

Ari.  On  the  sixth  hour ;  at  wliich  time,  my  lord, 
You  said  our  work  should  cease. 

Pro.  I  did  say  so, 

When  first  I  rais'd  the  tempest.     Say,  my  spirit, 
How  fores  the  king  and  's  followers  ? 

Ari.  Confin'd  together 

In  the  same  fashion  as  you  gave  in  charge ; 
Tust  as  you  left  them  ;  all  prisoners,  sir, 
In  the  line-grove"'  which  weather-fonds  your  cell ; 
They  cannot  budge  tiU  you  release.'-*     The  king. 
His  brother,  and  yoirs,  abide  all  three  distracted ; 
And  the  remainder  mourning  over  them, 
Brimfull  of  sorrow  and  dismay ;  but  chiefly 
Him  that  you  term'd,  sir,  "The  good  old  lord, 

Gonzalo ;" 
His  tears  run  down  his  beard,  like  winter's  drops 
From    eaves   of  reeds :  your   charm   so    strongly 

works  them, 
That,  if  you  now  beheld  them,  your  affections 
Would  become  tender. 

Pro.  Dost  thou  think  so,  spirit  ? 

Ari.  Mine  would,  sir,  were  I  human. 

Pro.  And  mine  shall ! 

Ilast  thou,  which  art  but  air,  a  touch,  a  feeling 
Of  their  afflictions,  and  shall  not  myself, 
One  of  their  kind,  that  relish  all  as  sharply'" 
Passion  as  they,  be  kindlier  mov'd  than  thou  art  ? 
Though  with  their  high  wrongs   I  am  strook  to 

the  quick, 
Yet,  with  my  nobler  reason  'gainst  my  fury 
Do  I  take  part.     The  rarer  action  is 
In  virtue  tlian  in  vengeance  :  they  being  penitent, 
The  sole  drift  of  my  purpose  doth  extend 
Not  a  frown  further.     Go,  release  them,  Ariel ; 
My  channs  I  '11  break,  their  senses  I  '11  restore. 
And  they  shall  be  themselves. 

Ari.  T  'U  fetch  them.  sir.  lUxit. 

3c 


Pro.  Ye  elves  of  MUs,  brooks,  standing  lakes, 

and  groves ; 
And  ye  that,  on  the  sands  with  printless  foot. 
Do  chase  the  ebbing  Neptime,  and  do  fly  him, 
When  he  comes  back ;  you  demi-puppets,  that 
By  moonsliine  do  the  green  sour  ringlets  make, 
Whereof  the  ewe  not  bites ;  and  you,  whose  pastime 
Is  to  make  midnight  mushrooms  ;'"  that  rejoice 
To  hear  the  solemn  curfew ;  by  whose  aid 
(Weak  masters  though  ye  be) ''"  I  have  bedimm'd 
The  noontide  sun,  caU'd  forth  the  mutinous  winds. 
And  'twixt  the  green  sea  and  the  azur'd  vault 
Set  roaring  war :  to  the  dread  rattHng  thunder 
Have  I  given  fire,  and  rifted  Jove's  sjout  oak 
AVith  his  own  bolt :  the  strong-bas'd  promontory 
Have  I  made  shake,  and  by  the  spurs  pluck' d  up 
The  pine  and  cedar  :  graves,  at  my  command, 
Have  wak'd   their  sleepers, — op'd,  and  let  there 

forth 
By  my  so  potent  art.     But  this  rough  magic 
I  here  abjure  :  and,  when  I  have  requir'd 
Some  heavenly  music,  (which  even  now  I  do) 
To  work  mine  end  upon  their  senses  that 
This  airy  charm  is  for,  I  '11  break  my  staff, 
Bury  it  certain  fadoms  in  the  earth. 
And,  deeper  than  did  ever  plummet  sound, 
I  "U  drown  my  book.  \_Solemn  music. 

Re-enter  AaiEL :  after  him,  Alonso,  ivith  a  frantic 
gesture,  attended  hy  Goxzaxo  ;  Sebastian  and 
Antonio  in  like  manner,  attended  ly  Adrian  ani 
Fkancisco  :  they  all  enter  the  circle  which  Vnoi- 
Tt.RO  had  made,  and  there  stand  charmed;  whiih 
Prospeso  observing,  speaks. 

A  solemn  air,  and  the  best  comforter 

To  an  unsettled  fancy,  cure  thy  brains, 

Now  useless,   boil'd    within   thy  skull!     There. 

stand. 
For  you  are  speU-stopp'd. 
Holy  Gonzalo,  honourable  man. 
Mine  eyes,  e'en  sociable  to  the  show  of  thine, 
Fall  fellowly  drops. — The  charm  dissolves  apncc ; 
And  as  the  morning  steals  upon  the  night, 


THE  TEMPEST. 


Melting  the  darlniess,  so  their  rising  senses 

Begin  to  chase  the  ignorant  fumes  that  mantle 

Their  clearer  reason. — 0  good  Gonzalo, 

My  true  preserver,  and  a  loyal  sir 

To  him  thou  follow'st,  I  will  pay  thy  graces 

Home,  both  in  word  imd  deed. — Most  cruelly 

Didst  thou,  Alonso,  use  me  and  my  daughter  : 

Thy  brother  was  a  furtherer  in  the  act ; — 

Thou  art  pinch'd  for  't  now,    Sebastian. — Flesh 

and  blood, 
You  brother  mine,  that  entertain' d  ambition, 
Expell'd  remorse'"  and  nature;'"  who,  with  Se- 
bastian, 
(Whose  inward  pinches  therefore  are  most  strong,) 
Would  here  have  kiU'd  your  king ;  I  do  forgive 

thee. 
Unnatural  though  thou  art !     Their  understanding 
Begins  to  swell,  and  the  approaching  tide 
Will  shortly  fill  the  reasonable  shore, "' 
That  now  lies  foul  and  muddy.     Not  one  of  them 
That  yet  looks   on   me,    or  would    know  me : 

Ariel, 
Fetch  me  the  hat  and  rapier  in  my  ceLl ; 

[^&it  Aetel. 
I  Till  disease  me,  and  myself  present, 
As  I  was  sometime  Milan  : — quickly,  spirit; 
Thou  shalt  ere  long  be  free. 

AjiiEL  re-enters,  singing,  and  Iwlps  to  attire  Peo- 

SPEEO. 

ji  ri        Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I ;'" 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie  ; 
There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cjy ; 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 
After  summer  merrily : 
Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bougL 

Pro.  Why,  that 's  my  dainty  Ariel !     I  shall 
miss  thee ; 
But  yet  thou  shalt  have  freedom :  so,  so,  so. — 
To  the  king's  ship,  invisible  as  thou  ar^ : 
There  shalt  thou  find  ttie  mariners  asleep 
Under  the  hatches;   the  master,   and  the  boat- 
swain. 
Being  awake,  enforce  them  to  this  place ; 
And  presently,  I  prithee. 

Art.  I  drink  the  air  before  me,  and  return 
Or  ere  your  pulse  twice  beat.  \^£xit  Aetel. 

Oon.  All  torment,  trouble,  wonder,  and  amaze- 
ment 
Inhabits  here :  Some  heavenly  power  guide  us 
Out  of  this  fearful  country  ! 


Pro.  Behold,  sir  king. 

The  wronged  duke  of  ililaii,  I'rospero  : 
For  more  assurance  that  a  living  princo 
Does  now  speak  to  thee,  I  embrace  thy  body; 
And  to  thee,  and  thy  company,  I  bid 
A  hearty  welcome. 

Alon.  Whe'r  thou  beest  he,  or  no. 

Or  some  enchanted  trifle  to  abuse  me, 
As  late  I  have  been,  I  not  know  :  thy  pulse 
Beats,  as  of  flesh  and  blood ;  and,  since  I  saw 

thee. 
Til'  afHiction  of  my  mind  amends,  with  which, 
I  fear,  a  madness  hold  me  :  this  must  crave 
(And  if  this  be  at  all)  a  most  strange  story. 
Thy  dukedom  I  resign,"*  and  do  entreat 
Thou  pardon  me  my  -nTongs : — But  how  should 

Prospero 
Be  living,  and  be  here  ? 

Fro.  First,  noble  friend. 

Let  me  embrace  thine  age,  whose  honour  cannot 
Be  mea.5iu''d,  or  confin'd. 

Gon.  Wliether  this  be, 

Or  be  not,  I  'U  not  swear. 

Pro.  You  do  yet  taste 

Some  subtilties  o'  the  isle,  that  will  not  let  you 
Believe    things    certain : — Welcome,    my   friend 

aU:— 
But  you,  my  brace  of  lords,  were  I  so  minded, 

\_AsitIe  to  Seb.\s.  and  Ant. 
I  here  could  pluck  his  highness'  frown  upon  you, 
And  justify  you  traitors ; — at  tliis  time 
I  will  tcU  no  tales. 

Seh.  The  devil  speaks  in  him.    [_Asidt. 

Pro.  No  :— 

For  you,  most  wicked  sir,  whom  to  call  brother 
Would  even  infect  my  mouth,  I  do  forgive 
Thy  rankest  fiiult ;  aU  of  them ;  and  require 
My  dukedom  of  thee,  which,  perforce,  I  know 
Thou  must  restore. 

Aloti.  If  thou  beest  Prospero, 

Give  us  particulars  of  thy  preservation : 
How  thou  hast  met  us  here,  whom  three  hours 

since 
Were  wreok'd  upon  this  shore  ;  where  I  have  lost 
(How  sharp  the  point  of  this  remembrance  is!) 
ily  dear  son  Ferdinand. 

Pro.  I  am  woe  for  't,  sir. 

Alon.  Irreparable  is  the  loss ;  and  patience 
Says  it  is  past  her  cure. 

Pro.  I  rather  think. 

You   have  not  sought  her  help;    of  whoet  soft 
grace 

81 


ACT    V. 


THE  TEMPEST. 


For  the  L'ke  loss  I  have  her  sovereign  aid, 
And  rest  myself  content. 

Alon.  You  the  like  loss  ? 

I^ro.  Xs  great  to  me,  as  late ;  and  supportable 
To    make    the   dear   loss,    have   I   means   much 

weaker 
Than  you  may  call  to  comfort  you  ;  for  I 
Save  lost  my  daughter. 

Ahn.  A.  daiighter? 

0  heavens !  that  they  were  living  both  in  Kaples, 
The  king  and  queen  there !  that  they  -were,  I  -wish 
Myself  were  mudded  in  that  oozy  bed 

Where  my  son  lies.     When  did  you  lose  your 

daughter  ? 
Pro.  In  this  last  tempest.   I  perceive  these  lords 
At  this  encounter  do  so  much  admire. 
That  they  devour  their  reason  ;  and  scarce  think 
Tlieu-  eyes  do  offices  of  truth,  their  words 
Are  natural  breath  :  but,  howsoe'er  you  have 
Eeen  justlcd  from  your  senses,  know  for  certain 
That  I  am  Prospero,  and  that  very  duke 
Which  was   thrust   forth   of  MUan ;    who   most 

strangely 
Upon  this  shore,  where  you  were  wreck' d,  was 

landed, 
To  be  the  lord  on  't.     No  more  yet  of  this ; 
For  't  is  a  chronicle  of  day  by  day. 
Not  a  relation  for  a  breakfast,  nor 
Befitting  this  first  meeting.     Welcome,  sir ; 
This  cell 's  my  court :  here  have  I  few  attendants, 
Ajid  subjects  none  abroad  :  pray  you,  look  in. 
My  dukedom  since  you  have  given  me  again, 

1  will  requite  you  with  as  good  a  thing ; 

At  least,  bring  forth  a  wonder  to  content  ye, 
As  w  uch  as  me  my  dukedom. 

The  entrance  of  the  Cell  opens,  and  discovers  Eembi- 
NAJTD  and  MnuNBA  playing  at  chess. 
Mira.  Sweet  lord,  you  play  me  false. 
Fer.  No,  my  dearest  love, 

I  would  not  for  the  world. 
Mira.  Yes,  for  a  score  of  kingdoms  you  should 
wrangle,"' 
And  I  woidd  call  it  fair  play. 
A  Ion.  K  this  prove 

A  vision  of  the  island,  one  dear  son 
Snail  I  twice  lose. 

Seb.  A  most  high  miracle  ! 

Fw.  Though  the  seas  threaten,  they  are  mer- 
citul  ■ 
I  have  cure'd  them  without  cause. 

[Ffnt.  hiccls  to  At.on. 


Alon.  Now  all  the  blessings 

Of  a  glad  father  compass  thee  abcjut  I 
Arise,  and  say  how  thou  cam'st  here. 

Mira.  0 !  wonder  ! 

How  many  goodly  creatures  are  there  here  I 
How    beauteous     mankind    is !      0    brave    nc . 

world. 
That  has  such  people  in  "t ! 

Pro.  'T  is  new  to  thee. 

Alon.  What  is  this  maid,  with  whom  thou  wast 
at  play  ? 
Your  eld'st  acquaintance  cannot  lie  three  hours  ; 
Is  she  the  goddess  that  hath  sevcrd  us, 
And  brought  us  thus  togetlier  ? 

Fer.  Sir,  she  is  mortal ; 

But,  by  immortal  providence,  she  's  mine ; 
I  chose  her,  when  I  coidd  not  ask  my  father 
For  his  advice ;  nor  thought  I  had  one.     She 
Is  daughter  to  this  famous  duke  of  Milan, 
Of  whom  so  often  I  have  heard  renown. 
But  never  saw  before ;  of  whom  I  have 
Eeceiv'd  a  second  Kfe,  and  second  father 
This  lady  makes  him  to  me. 

Alon.  I  am  her's : 

But  0,  how  oddly  wUl  it  sound  that  I 
Must  ask  my  child  forgiveness  ! 

Pro.  Tlicre,  sir,  stop  ; 

Let  us  not  burden  our  remembrances  \vit)i 
A  heaviness  that 's  gone. 

Gon.  I  have  iidy  wept, 

Or  shoidd  have  spoke  ere  this.     Look  dowT.,  yoii 

gods. 
And  on  this  couple  drop  a  blessed  crown ; 
For  it  is  you  that  have  challc'd  forth  the  way 
Which  brought  us  hither  ! 

Alon.  I  say,  amen,  Gonznlo ! 

Oon.  Was  Milan  tlu-ust  fi'om  Milan,    that  his 
issue 
Shoidd  become  kings  of  Naples  ?     0,  rejoice 
Beyond  a  common  joy,  and  set  it  down 
With  gold  on  lasting  pillars.     In  one  voyage 
Did  Claribcl  her  husband  find  at  Tunis ; 
And  Ferdinand,  her  brother,  found  a  wife, 
Where  he  liimself  was  lost ;  Prospero,  his  duke- 
dom. 
In  a  poor  isle  ;  and  all  of  us,  ourselves, 
Wlicn  no  man  was  his  own.'  ° 

v/Ai«.  Give  mo  your  hands  : 

[ToYv.u.  and liiR. 
Let  gi  iet'  and  sorrow  still  embrace  his  heart 
Tliat  doth  not  wish  you  joy  ! 

Go7i.  Be  it  so  !  Amen  ! 


I 


THE  TEMPEST. 


SCENB   L 


Re-enter  ;VniEi,,  loith  the  Master  and  Boatswain 
ainazedhj  following. 

0  look,  sir,  look,  tiir;  hero  are  more  of  us  ! 

1  proplicsy'd,  if  a  gallows  were  on  laud, 

Tills  fellow  could  uot  drown :  uow,  blasphemy. 
That  swciu'st  gi'aoe  o'erboard,    not  an  oath  on 

sliore  ? 
Ifast   thou   no  mouth   by   land?      What   is   the 
news  ? 
Boats.  The  best  news  is,  that  we  have  safely 
found 
Our  king,  and  company :  the  next  our  ship, 
Wliich,  but  three  glasses  since,  we  gave  out  split, 
Is  tight,  and  yare,  and  bravely  rigg'd,  as  when 
Wo  lirst  put  out  to  sea. 

Ari.  Sir,  all  this  service      \ 

Have  I  done  since  I  went.  >      Aside. 

Pro.  My  tricksy'^'  spirit !    ) 

Alon.    These    are    not   natm-al    events;     they 
strengthen 
From  strange  to   stranger.     Say,  how  came  you 
hither  ? 
Boats.  If  I  did  thinlf,  sir,  I 'were  well  awake, 
I  'd  strive  to  tell  you.     We  were  dead  of  sloop, 
Ajid   (^how   we    know     not)    all    clapp'd   under 

hatches, 
Wliere,  but  even  now,  wth  sh'ange  and  several 

noises 
Of  roaring,  slu-ieking,  howling,  gingUng  chains. 
And  more  di  versify'^  of  sounds,  all  homble, 
Wg  were  awak'd  ;  straightway,  at  liberty  : 
■^Hiero  we,  in  aU  her  trim,'"  freshly  beheld 
Our  royal,  good,  and  gallant  ship ;  our  master 
Caf'riug  to  eye  her :   on  a  tiice,  so  please  you, 
E.'cn  in  a  dream ,  were  we  divided  from  them. 
And  were  brought  moping  hither. 

Ari.  Was  't  well  done  ?  \ 

Pro.  Bravely,   my   diligence  !     Thou  |    Aside. 

shalt  be  free.  / 

Alo''\    This  is  as  strange  a  maze  as  ere    men 
trod, 
And  there  is  in  this  business  more  than  nature 
Was  ever  conduct'"  of:  some  oracle 
Must  i-ectify  our  knowledge. 

Pro.  Sir,  my  Hege, 

Do  not  infest  your  mind  with  beating  on 
The   strangeness  of  this  business  :  at  pick'd  lei- 
sure. 
\^'llich  shall  be  shortly,  single  I  '11  resolve  you 
(Which  to  you  shall  seem  probable)  of  evciy 
These  happen'd  accidents  :  till  when,  be  cheerfiJ, 


And  think  of  each  thing  well. — Come  hither, 
spirit ;  [Aside. 

Set  Caliban  and  his  companions  free  • 

Untie  the  spell.  \JSxit  Aexel.]  How  fares  my 
gracious  sir  ? 

There  arc  yet  missing  of  your  company 

Some  few  odd  lads  that  you  remember  not. 

Re-entor  Ariel,  drivinff  in  Caliban,  SiEpnANO, 
and  Trinculo,  in  their  stolen  apparel. 

Ste.  Every  man  shift  for  all  the  rest,  and  let  n« 
man  take  care  for  himself ;  for  aU  is  but  fortune ; — 
Coragio,  bidly-monstcr,  Coragio ! 

Trin.  If  these  be  tnie  spies  which  I  wear  in  my 
head,  here  's  a  goodly  sight. 

C'al.  0  Setebos  I  these  be  brave  spLrits,  indeed  I 
How  fine  my  master  is !     I  am  afraid 
He  will  chastise  me. 

Seb.  Ha,  ha ! 

WHiat  things  ai'e  these,  my  lord  Antonio  ? 
WiU  monej'  buy  them  ? 

Ant.  Very  like  ;  one  of  them 

Is  a  plain  fish,'"'  and,  no  doubt,  marketable. 

Pro.  Mark  but  the  badges  of  these  men,  my 
lords. 
Then  say   if    they   be    true:'"    this   mis-shapen 

knave, — 
His  mother  was  a  witch,  and  one  so  strong 
That  could  control   the   moon,    make   flows  and 

ebbs. 
And  deal  in  her  command,  without  her  power  : 
These  three  have  robb'd  me  :   and  this  demi-devil 
(For  he  's  a  bastaj'd  one)  had  plotted  with  them 
To  take  my  life :  two  of  these  fellows  you 
Must  know,  and  own  ;  this  thing  of  dai'kness  I 
Aclmowledge  mine. 

Cal.  I  shall  be  pinch'd  to  death  ! 

Alon.    Is    not    this    Stephano,     my    drunlen 
butler  ? 

Seh.  He  is  dnuik  now :  where  had  hj  wine  ? 

Alon.  And   Trinculo   is   reeling   ripe:    ^Vhere 
should  they 
Find  this  grand  liquor  that  hath  gilded  them  ? — 
How  cam'st  thou  in  this  pickle  ? 

Trin.  I  have  been  in  such  a  pickle,  since  I  saw 
you  last,  that,  I  fear  me,  will  neve."  out  of  my 
bones  :  I  shall  not  fear  fly-blowing. 

Seh.  ^\Tiy,  how  now,  Stephano  ? 

Sto.  0,  touch  me  not ;  I  am  not  Stephano,  but 
a  cramp. 

Pro.  You  'd  be  king  o'  the  isle,  sin-ah  ' 

Ste.  I  should  have  been  a  sore  one  then. 

S3 


ACT   V" 


THE    TEMPEST. 


SCENE   L 


Alon.  This  is  a  strange  thing  as  e'er'''  I  look'd 
on.  [Pointing  to  Cal. 

Pro.  He  is  as  disproportion" d  in  his  manners 
As  in  his  shape  : — Go,  siiTah,  to  my  cell ; 
Take  with  you  yoiu-  companions  ;  as  you  look 
To  have  my  pardon,  trim  it  handsomely. 

Cal.  Ay,  that  I  wUl ;  and  I  '11  be  mse  here- 
after, 
And  seek  for  grace.     What  a  thrice-douhle  ass 
Was  I,  to  take  this  dnmkard  for  a  god. 
And  ■worship  this  dull  fool ! 

Pro.  Go  to  ;  away  ! 

Alon.  Hence,  and  bestow  your  luggage  ■where 
you  found  it. 

Seh,  Or  stole  it,  rather. 

\JExeu)it  Cal.,  Ste.,  ayid  Tnrs. 

Pro.  Sir,    I   in^-ite   your  highness,    and   your 
train. 
To  my  poor  cell :  ■where  you  shall  take  your  rest 
For  this  one  night ;  ■which  (part  of  it)  I  '11  ■waste 
With  such   disooua'se,    as,    I    not    doubt,    shall 

make  it 
Go  quick  a^way, — the  story  of  my  life, 
And  the  particiilar  accidents  gone  by. 
Since  I  came  to  this  isle  :  And  in  the  mom 
I  'U  bring  you  to  your  ship,  and  so  to  Naples, 
Where  I  have  hope  to  sec  the  nuptial 
Of  these  our  dcar-belov'd  solemnized ; 
And  thence  retire  me  to  my  Milan,  ■where 
Erei-y  thii-d  thought  shall  be  my  grave. 

Alon.  '     I  long 

To  hear  the  stoiy  of  your  life,  which  must 

Take  the  oar  strangely. 
■34 


Pro.  I  'U  deliver  all ; 

And  promise  you  calm  seas,  auspicious  gales, 
And  sail  so  expeditious,  that  shall  catch 
Tour  royal  fleet  far  oflf. — My  Ariel, — cliick, — 
That  is  thy  charge  ; — then  to  the  elements 
He  free,  and  fare  thou  well ! — [aside\  Please  yon, 
draw  near.  \Exmnu 


EPILOGUE. 

Spohen   ly   Peospeeo. 

Now  my  charms  are  all  o'ertlu"own. 
And  what  strength  I  have  's  mine  owii  ; 
Which  is  most  fiiint :  now  't  is  tree, 
I  must  be  here  confin'd  by  you. 
Or  sent  to  Naples.    Let  me  not, 
Since  I  have  my  dukedom  got, 
And  pardon'd  the  deceiver,  dwell 
Li  this  bare  island,  by  your  spell ; 
But  release  me  from  my  bands, 
With  the  help  of  your  good  hands. 
Gentle  breath  of  yours  my  sails 
Must  fill,  or  else  my  project  fails, 
Which  was  to  please.    Now  I  wai  t 
Spirits  to  enforce,  art  to  enchant ; 
And  my  ending  is  despair. 
Unless  I  be  rehev'd  by  prayer; 
Which  pierces  so,  that  it  assaults 
Mercy  itself,  and  fi-ees  all  faults. 
As  you  from  crimes  woTild  pardon'd  oe, 
Let  your  indxigence  '^t  mo  free. 


NOTES  TO  THE  TEMPEST. 


'  GiKxl,  speak  to  the  manners. 

Thu  reader  of  Shakespeare  will  find  it  advantageous  to 
bear  iii  mind  that  tlie  poet  eontinually  employs  elliptical 
expressions.  Good,  in  this  passage,  is  elliptical  for  good 
friends.  The  master  could  scarcely  tell  the  hoatswain 
mat'ei-s  were  in  a  favoiu-ahle  condition,  though  that  is  the 
only  meaning  to  bo  derived  from  the  piuictuation  adopted 
by  Knight,  Collier,  and  other  modem  editors.  Wluil  cheer 
is  an  expletive,  nearly  equivalent  to  holloa  in  reply  to  a 
smiuuons.  Yarely,  qiucldy,  nimbly. — Blow,  till  thou  burst 
tliy  wind,  if  room  enough.  This  is  said  by  the  boatswain, 
apostropliizing  the  storm,  and  may  be  explained, — Blow, 
till  thou  burst  thyself,  if  there  be  sutficient  sea-room. 

Rise,  winds! 

Blow  till  ye  burst  the  air,  and  swell  the  seas, 

That  they  may  sink  the  stars ! 

Fletcher's  Double  Marriage,  1647. 

Mr.  Holt,  who  wrote  a  tract  on  this  play  printed  in  1749, 
says,  "  the  whole  dialogue  here,  consisting  of  sea-terms  and 
phrases,  tliough  not  quite  perfect,  is  by  much  the  best  of 
that  kind  ever  introduced  on  the  stage ;  for  unless  when 
Gonsalo  mentions  the  cable,  which  is  of  no  use  but  when 
the  sliip  is  at  anchor,  and  hero  it  is  plain  they  are  under 
sail,  tliere  is  not  one  improperly  used."  It  should,  however, 
be  recollected  that  Gonzalo  is  not  a  sailor.  Competent 
judges  have  declared  the  description  faidtless. 

-  Antonio,  Ferdinand. 
The  first  folio  reads  Anthonio  and  Ferdinando.      In  the 
first  of  these  instances,  the  h  may  perhaps  be  retaiaed,  but 
of  course  not  admitted  into  the  pronunciation, 

^  Play  the  men. 
That   is,  behave  like  men.      The  plirase  occurs   in  the 
Bible,  2  Samuel,  x.  12. 

*  Where  is  the  jnaster,  boatswain  ? 
Mr.  Knight  here  roads  boson,  from  the  first  folio,  but  Mr. 
Dyce  has  clearly  6ho%vn  this  to  be  a  more  variation  of  form 
arising  from  the  unsettled  state  of  our  early  orthography. 
Besides,  had  it  been  a  familiar  form  of  the  word,  it  might 
have  been  employed  by  one  sailor  to  another,  but  scarcely 
jy  a  person  of  so  exalted  a  station  as  An  onio. 

^  Of  the  present. 
That  is,  of  the  present  time. 


'  Bring  her  to  try  with  main  couTSi. 
A  sea-phrase.  As  the  gale  is  increasing,  tho  topmast  it 
struck,  to  take  the  weight  from  aloft,  make  the  ship  drivo 
less  to  leeward,  and  bear  the  mainsail  under  which  the  ship 
is  laid  to.  Smith,  in  his  Sea  Grammar,  1G27,  explains  it, 
"  to  bale  the  lacke  aboord,  the  sheate  doee  aft,  the  holing  set 
up,  and  the  hebne  tied  close  aboord." 

'  I'll  warrant  him  for  drowning. 
The  preposition /or  is  here  archaic  in  the  absolute  sense 
o(  from,  not  on  account  of,  as  Jlr.  Knight  explains  it.  There 
is,  therefore,  no  necessity  for  adopting  Theobald's  alteration. 
from  droicniny. 

*  Lay  her  a-hold,  a-liold  1 
The  ship,  having  diiven  near  the  shore,  is  brought  to  lie 
as  near  the  wind  as  she  can,  and  tho  mainsail  is  hauled  up. 

^  Set  her  two  courses. 
Holt's  pimctuation  is  here  followed.  Ho  says,  "the 
courses  meant  are  two  of  the  three  lowest  and  largest  sails 
of  a  ship,  wliich  are  so  called,  because,  as  laigest,  they 
contribute  most  to  give  her  way  through  the  water,  and 
consequently  enable  her  to  feel  her  helm,  and  steer  her 
com-se  better,  than  when  they  are  not  set  or  spread  to  the 
wind." 

■°   We  are  merely  cheated. 
Merely,   i.  e.  absolutely ;  wholly.      It   is   the   primitive 
meaning,  from  the  Latin  merits. 

"    To  glut  him. 
That  is,   to   swallow  him.     It  is  scarcely  necessary  to 
remark  that  Gonzalo  is  refening  to  the  old  proverb, — "  He 
that  is  born  to  be  hanged  will  never  be  drowned." 

•-  The  freighting  souls  within  her. 
Messrs.  CoUierand  Knight  adopt  the  oiihography/rauji/i/- 
ing  fi-om  the  fii-st  folio,  which  is  merely  the  early  form  oi 
tho  word,  and  can  scarcely  be  considered  worth  retaining. 
We  must  make  a  \ride  distinction  between  different  words 
and  dili'erent  fonns  of  words. 

'■*  /  am  more  better. 
The  reader  must  recollect  that  these  double  comparatives 
belonged  to  the  grammar  of  Shakespeare's  peri<d. 
"   That  there  ii  no  soul, — 
Prospero  here,  speaking  very  rnergetically,  breaks  the 


NOIES  TO   IHE  TEMPEST. 


sentence.     Wiy  should  I  say  soiil  ?  There  ia  not  so  much 
perdition  as  a  hair  betid  to  any  creatiu-e  in  the  Tesscl. 

''  Inquisition,  L  e.  enquiry.      "Toi-tuiing  strangers  with 
inquisition  after  lis  grace."     Cynthia's  Revels. 

'*  Out  three  years  old. 

That  is,  quite  three  years  old. 

'"  Backwa  1  and  abysm  of  time. 
Backward,   the  past   state.      Abysm,   abyss,   from   the 
old  French  abysme. 

18  And  princess — no  worse  issued. 
1  hare  ventmed  to  arrange  this  speech  differently  from 
toy  predecessors.  Prospero  says  his  wife  asserted  Miranda 
to  be  his  daughter,  and  his  only  heir  and  pi-incess,  no  worse 
descended.  The  passage,  and  thy  father  was  Dithc  of  Milan, 
is  parenthetical,  to  bring  the  fact  to  his  daughter's  mind, 
not  an  assertion  that  the  Duchess  herself  would  have  con- 
sidered it  necessary  to  have  added,  or  Prospero,  speaking 
for  her. 

13  Or  blessed  was  't  we  did. 
That  is,  or  was  it  a  blessing  that  we  did. 

-"  TTie  teen  that  I  have  turn'd  you  to. 

Teen,  sorrow,  trouble,  grief.  Tliis  is  a  puie  Anglo-Saxon 
Tord,  very  common  in  old  English. 

-'  Who  (  advance. 
This  is  no  doubt  Shakespeare's  diction,  being  consonant 
Bdth  the  graimuatical  usage  of  Ms  time.  My  text  is  from 
die  first  folio.  Modem  editors  adopt  the  later  reading,  whom 
to  advance.  Knight  and  CoUier  frequently  depart  from  the 
original,  not  sufficiently  considering  that  the  age  of  Shakes- 
peare had  a  grammar  of  its  o^vn,  quite  as  systematic  and 
fiir  more  genuine  than  what  we  now  use. 

--  To  trash  for  over-topping. 

That  is,  whom  to  lop  in  case  of  over-topping.  Trash  is 
;in  old  gardening  term  for,  to  lop,  and  Dryden  substitutes 
the  latter  toiin,  e\idently  understanding  it  in  that  sense. 

-3  Like  a  good  parent. 

Alluding  to  the  old  saying, — A  wise  father  has  often  a 
fooHsh  son. 

-^    \Mio  having  unto  truth,  by  telling  of  it,  ^c. 

This  sentence  is  confused,  tho\igh  the  meaning  is  e\ident 
ly  transposition, — who  having  unto  troth  made  such  a 
Erinner  of  his  memory,  to  credit  his  own  lie  by  teUing  of  it. 
This  is  Mr.  Knight's  e.xplanation.  The  emendation,  by 
telling  oft,  perhaps  rendere  the  line  more  consistent  with 
sense  and  metre ;  but  it  is  not  impossible  a  line  may  be 
irrecoverably  lost,  for  the  constniction  appears,  under  any 
explanation,  to  require  some  addition.  The  old  edition 
reads,  into  truth,  and  the  passage  woidd  he  similarly  ex- 
plained,— -w  ho  having,  by  telling  of  his  own  Me,  made  such 
n  sinner  o(  his  memory,  to  credit  it  into  truth. 

"  To  have  no  screen,  ^c. 
Thai  Is.  to  prevent  the  necessity  of  his  acting  a  part. 

"  Dry  he  was  for  sway. 
Dry  is  now  a  vulgarism  for  thirsty,  and  its  metaphorical 
aso  here  might  at  first  sight  perplex  tlio  casual  reader. 
3G 


^  In  lieu  o'  iK  premise*. 

That  is,  in  consideration  for. 

'*  A  rotten  carcase  of  a  boat. 

The  old  editions  imfortunately  read  butt  for  bout,  and 
Knight  and  Collier  restore  the  e\'ident  corruption  to  th-' 
text  in  the  sense  of  a  wine-butt !  Mr.  Dyce  observes  that  i 
butt  large  enough  to  contain  Prospero  and  his  daughter, 
with  the  articles  fui^nished  by  Gonzalo,  must  have  been  the 
Great  Tun  of  Heidelbiu'g  borrowed  for  the  occasion.  The 
editors  omit  the  only  feasible  argument  in  favour  of  theii 
restoration,  that  butt  might  possibly  be  used  metaphorically 
for  a  vessel  no  better  than  a  cask. 

^3  Instinctively  have  quit  it. 
Dryden  altered  have  to  had,  and  his  reading  was  followed 
by  many  editors.     There  is  no  necessity  for  distm-bing  the 
original.     Prospero  uses  the   present  tense  to   bring  Iiis 
naiTative  more  >dvidly  to  his  hearer's  mind. 

^^  Whe7i  I  have  deck'd  the  sea. 
We  may  probably  use  the  tenn  deck'd  in  the  original 
sense  of  covered.  This  seems  preferable  to  the  \'iolent 
alteration  degg'd,  sprinkled,  which  is  recommended  by  some 
editors.  Teai's,  to  be  sm-e,  are  called  melting  pearls  in  the 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  and  might  thus  be  metapho- 
rically supposed  to  adorn  the  sea,  but  the  image  appears  too 
forced  for  Prospero  to  use  in  spealdng  of  his  own.  Although 
Prospero  could  raise  a  Tempest,- he  could  not  allay  the 
storm  of  Nature,  and  confesses  his  weakness  by  his  tears. 

"  An  undergoing  stomach. 
Stomach  is  here  us  'd  in  the  old  sense  of  courage.    Elyot- 
in  his  Dictionarie,  1556,  translates  spiritus  by  this  word. 

32  j^j^  Providence  divine. 
Mr.  Knight  places  a  comma  after  this  sentence,  and  says 
the  entii'e  speech  is  an  answer  to  Miranda's  question.  But 
this  is  surely  an  error.  By  the  aid  of  divine  Providence 
they  reached  the  shore.  The  pro\'isions,  garments  and 
books,  furnished  by  Gonzalo,  can  scarcely  be  referred  to  the 
same  source,  in  a  reply  to  the  question  asked  by  Miranda. 

^^  Know  thus  far-forth. 
Far-forth,  Uterally,  far  in  advance.    The  phrase  is  here 
equivalent  to,  know  thus  much. 

"  IVow  my  dear  lady. 
This  refers  to  Fortune,  who  is  now  my  dear  lady,  my 
auspicious  mistress. 

'^  Perform  d  to  point. 
That  is,  perfectly.     A  French  plu-ase. 

'*'*  A'oH?  on  the  hi'ah,  now  in  the  waist 

Beak,    tl;e   prow    of  a   ship ;     extremitas  prora.    Coles 

Waist,  the  part  between  the  quarter-deck  and  the  forccaslle 

"  Sitstaining  garments. 

That  is,  enduring  garments,  garments  which  bore  the 
drenching  of  the  sea. 

^**   His  anus  in  this  sad  knot. 
Here  Ariel  of  course  folds  his  arms  in  imitation  ol 
Ferdinand's  position. 


KOTES  TO  THE  TKMPEST 


"'  77i«  slillrvex'd  Bermoetltes. 
The  Bermudas  were  supposed  to  be  inhabited  by  evil 
tpirita.  Dekker,  in  Uis  Strange  Horse  Race,  1613,  mentions 
thorn  as  being  "  haunted,  as  all  men  know,  -ft-itli  hogs  and 
hnbgoblings,"  and  adds,  the  "  Boi-mudas  called  the  Hand  of 
Divels  by  reason  of  the  grunting  of  B\rijie  heard  from 
cbenep  to  the  sea." 

Orcatnessc  to  me  seem'd  ever  fidl  of  feare, 

Wiieli  -tlmu  found'at  false  at  thy  arriving  there  ; 

Of  the  BfTramlos  the  example  such, 

Where  not  a  ship  untiU  this  time  durst  touch, 

Kept,  as  suppos'd,  by  hels  infernall  dogs,- 

Oiir  fleet  found  their  most  honest  courteous  hogs. 

Coryafs  Crudities,  1611. 

'»  Sir,  in  Argier. 

An  old  name  for  Algiers. 

^^    We  cannot  miss  him. 

We  cannot  miss  him,  i.  o.,  we  cannot  do  without  him,  a 
phrase,  according  to  Malone,  current  in  the  midland  coun- 
ties. Mr.  Collier  says,  "  no  similar  use  of  it  has  been 
pointed  out  in  otlier  writers."  Palsgrave,  however,  gives 
a  very  similar  idiom  in  his  Table  of  Verbes,  f.  180 — "I 
can  nat  want  my  gloves,  je  ne  me  puis  passer  sans  mes 
gans."  So  also  Cotgrave,  in  v.  Passer,  "  De  cela  je  ne 
puis  passer,  I  can  by  no  meanes  want  it,  I  cannot  bee 
without  it."  This  form  of  expression  is  common  enough 
in  America. 

*-  Come,  thou  tortoise !  when  ? 
When  is  a  very  common  expression  of  great  impatience  | 
in  old  plays.    So  in  Julius  Caesar,  "  When,  Lucius,  when?" 

*^   Quaint,  brisk,  dexterous.     (Fr.  cointe.) 
'*  As  wicked  dew. 

Wicked,  i.e.,  baneful,  pemicioua.  His  mother  was  a 
witch,  and  the  raven's  feather  was  an  article  in  her 
laboratory. 

*5  Urchins  shall,  for  thai  vast,  Sfc. 
Urchins  is  an  archaic,  and  still  used  as  a  provincial, 
terra  for  hedgehogs,  but  here  may  be  employed  for  a  kind  of 
spirits  or  fairies,  who  perhaps  were  supposed  to  assume  that 
shape.  The  term  again  occurs  in  the  Merry  Wives  of 
Windsor.  For  that  vast  of  night,  during  that  depth  of 
night. 

*"  But  ihy  vild  race. 
Vild  is  an  old  form  of  vile,  and  being  necessary  for  the 
verse  in  other  places,  should  not  be  altered  by  the  editors. 
Race  appears  to  mean  natural  dispo.':ition,  a  disposition 
inherited  from  the  mother.  The  word  occurs  in  a  similai' 
ease  in  Measure  for  Measure, — "  now  I  give  my  sensual 
face  the  rein." 

*'  The  red  plague  rid  you. 
Rid  you,  i.e.,  destroy  you. 

**  Aches. 
In  Shakespeare's  time  this  substantive  was  always  used 
as  a  dissyllable.      Kcmble   was,   perhaps,  coiTect   in    hia 
pronunciation,  however  much  we  may  question  his  judg- 
ment in  persisting  in  the  old  form  on  the  modem  stage. 


*»  HTy  dam's  god,  Setelim. 

Setcbos  was  the  supreme  god  of  tlie  Patagonians,  and 
although  Sycorax  was  bom  in  Algiers,  she  might  have  been 
descended  from  them.     He  is  termed  a  "  great  dinTll"  iii 
Eden's  History  of  Travayle,  1577,  p.  434. 
51  T7ic  wild  waves  whist. 

I  think  we  must  consider  tliis  line  parenthetical,  the  wild 
waves  being  silent.  Mr.  Knight  suggests  the  pretty  idea, 
you  have  kissed  the  wild  waves  into  silence ;  but  tlus  in- 
terpretation scai-eely  suits  the  construction  of  the  original. 

"  Dispersedly,  in  several  places.    "  A  rausick  that  seem'd 
to  come  from  all  parts  of  the  stage,"  Capell. 
"  Cry,  cock-a-diddle-dow. 

It  seems  preferable  to  preserve  this  version  of  the  strain, 
as  printed  in  Uie  first  folio,  to  the  modem  one,  it  being 
evidently  intended  to  rhyme  mth  bowgh,  wowgh. 
53   Full  fadom  five  ihy  father  lies. 

Fadom,  the  old  Anglo-Saxon  foi-m  of  fathom.     This  is  f 
case,  I  apprehend,  where  it  is  not  in  an  editor's  discretion 
to  alter  the  original  text.     The  alliteration  in  this  line,  and 
in  the  previous  song,  is  worth  observation. 
5*   That  the  earth  owes. 

That  is,  owns,  possesses.  This  archaic  use  of  the  wo;d 
is  fi-equent  in  Shakespeare. 

5*  If  you  be  maid  or  no. 

This  is  no  doubt  the  correct  reading,  but  it  has  been 
differently  explained.  By  some,  that  Ferdinand's  immediate 
and  preternatural  love  for  Miranda  renders  his  prime  request 
the  question  whether  the  is  unmanied.  The  only  objection 
I  have  to  this  is,  that  Mu-anda's  reply  would  in  that  sense 
possibly  deti-act  somewhat  from  the  extreme  pmity  of  her 
character.  Others  think  the  enquiry  is  merely  whether  she 
is  a  mortal  or  goddess. 

^  A  single  thing. 

That  is,  a  simple  weak  person.  "  My  single  state  o 
man."  Single  is  used  elsewhere  by  Shakespeare  in  the 
same  sense. 

5'  And  his  brave  son. 

This  personage  is  not  mentioned  elsewhere  in  the  play, 
a  circumstance  which  may  perhaps  be  attributed  to  the  tale 
being  taken  from  an  early  novel. 

'8  Could  control  tliee. 

That  is,  disprove  or  contradict.  Coles  ti-anslates  conrrw.d 
by,  redarguo,  conlradico.  "  I  fear  you  have  done  yourself 
some  wrong,"  that  is,  says  Steevens,  I  fear  that  in  assert- 
ing yourself  to  be  King  of  Naples,  you  have  uttered  a 
falsehood  injurioue  to  your  character. 

5'  ril  manacle  thy  neck  and  ftet  together. 

That  is,  fasten  them  together  with  a  manacle,  ui  an  iron 
instrument  so  foraied  that  when  a  prisoner  was  placed  in  it 
he  could  not  change  his  position. 

5"  He's  gentle  and  not  fearful. 
Fearful  has  the  two  significations,   timorous  and  tor- 
midable.     Here  Miranda  seems  to  imply  he  is  not  lo  be 
feared,  and  therefore  that  there  was  no  necessity  for  "  too 
rash  a  trial," 

3T 


NOTES  TO  THE  TEMPEST. 


*'  Mij  foot  my  tutor. 
The  term  foot  is  appai-ently  employed  metaphorically  for 
Ills  child. 

«=  Come  from  thj  ward. 
That  is,  thy  posture  of  defence. 

^  Our  hint  of  woe. 

In  other  -n-ords,  the  woe  which  oiir  misfortune  hints  or 
siiggeeta  to  us. 

**  The  masters  if  some  merchant. 

That  is,  of  sosao  merchant  vessel.  The  term  is  used  in 
Uio  same  sense  by  Dryden. 

^»  The  visitor  will  not  give  him  o'er  so. 

The  -visitor  is  Gonzalo,  who  is  represented  as  consoler, 
and  therefore  so  called  in  allusion  to  the  person  who  visits 
and  consoles  the  sick. 

^8  So,  you're  paid. 
The  wager  laid  was  a  latighter,  and  as  Sebastian  laughs 
immediately  affer  Adrian  commences  speaking,  he  remarks 
Ihat  the  wager  is  paid.  In  the  old  copies  these  words  are 
given  to  Antonio,  but  they  clearly  do  not  belong  to  him,  as 
it  is  he  who  wins  the  wager. 

"  Delicate  ianperancc. 
Steevens  says  temperance  here  means  temperature,  and 
that  the  allusion  in  the  next  line  is  to  the  Puritanical  custom 
of  christening  children  fiom  the  titles  of  religious  and  moral 
virtues 

^^  Hoiv  lush  and  lusty. 

Lush  is  juicy,  succulent.  The  term  is  apparently  used  for 
moist  by  Topscll,  in  his  Historic  of  Beasts,  1607,  p.  343, 
An  eye  of  green,  a  shade  or  tint  of  gieen. 

^'  Not  since  widow  Dido's  time. 
Dr.  Johnson  supposes  this  alludes  to  the  -n-idows  their 
wreck  had  made  for  a  time ;  but  Dido's  husband  had  been 
murdered  before  she  went  to  Carthage. 

""  More  than  the  miraculous  harp. 
Alluding  to  the  story  of  Amphion,  who  was  so  incom- 
parable a  musician,  that  when  he  played  upon  a  lute  pre- 
sented to  him  by  Mercury,  the  stones  which  buUt  Thebes 
followed  him  to  the  place  where  they  should  be  laid. 

'1   The  stomach  of  my  sense. 
Tlie  stomach  or  appetite  of  my  sense,  i.e.  my  desire. 

"2   Who  hath  cause  to  wet  the  grief  on  't. 
This  line  will  be  best  understood  by  explaining  who  to 
refer  to  eye.     The  rcl.atives  who  or  which  are  frequently 
used  indiscriminately  by  Shakespeare. 

'^  Which  end  tfie  beam  should  how. 

Tliu  old  copies  read,  which  end  o'  th'  beam  should  boa, 
Jtcred  generally  to,  which  end  o'  the  beam  she'd  bow. 
EiUioi  this  reading,  or  tliat  I  linvo  adopted,  makes  perfect 
SCIUO. 

38 


'^  ]ifore  icidows  in  them  of  this  business*  making, 
Tlian  we  bring  men  to  comfort  them. 

Sebastian  means  to  say,  there  are  more  widows  in  Milan 
and  Naples  than  there  are  men  preserved  in  the  island 
alluding  to  the  others  he  supposes  have  perished. 

"'^  Foison  i.e.  abimdance.   The  word  occurs  again  at  p.  27 
It  is  from  the  Anglo-Norman  ymsoji,  but  Collier  and  Knight . 
print  foizon  and  foison  in  this  same  play,  blindly  following 
the  un-iettled  oithography  of  the  time. 

'*  You  are  gentlemen  of  brave  metal. 
Metal  in  the  original  edition,  is  changed  by  modern 
editors  to  mettle,  but  this  latter  word  conveys  a  stronger 
meaning  than  Shakespeare  intended.  Metal  is  used  me- 
taphorically for  temper  or  disposition,  and  brave  in  the 
ordinary  old  sense  of  fine  or  arrogant. 

'''  The  heavy  offer  of  it. 

Alluding  of  course  to  sleep,  but  the  next  line  has  a  re- 
lative ■n'ithout  an  antecedent. 

'•^  For  he's  a  spirit  of  persuasion. 

The  word  who  is  understood  before  only,  a  mode  of  elision 
we  again  meet  with  in  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  VeroJia.  The 
sentence  is  rather  obscure.  His  entire  business  ia  the  pro- 
fession of  persuasion. 

'^  Teti  leagues  beyond  man's  life, 

We  have  here  one  of  the  vexed  questions  whidi  have 
tormented  critics  for  more  than  a  centvuy.  Some  say  it 
implies  a  greater  distance  than  the  life  of  man  is  long 
enough  to  reach ;  others,  that  Man's  Life  is  the  name  of  n 
place.  It  is  perfectly  clear  Antonio  wishes  to  express  and 
even  exaggerate  the  distance  between  Naples  and  Tunis,  iu 
order  to  persuade  Sebastian  of  tho  possibility  of  his  design, 

"  And  by  that  destiny,  Ifc. 
This  difficult  passage  receives  no  explanation  at  tho 
hands  of  CoUier  or  Knight,  but  it  surely  requires  a  note. 
The  passage,  and  by  that  destiny,  I  suppose  is  spoken  ellip- 
ticaUy,  and  the  sense  of  the  whole  will  be, — though  some 
thrown  on  shore  to  perform  a  deed  of  which  the  past  is 
oiJy  a  prologue ;  the  future  depends  on  what  you  and  I  are 
to  perform.  The  construction  of  the  last  line,  in  your's  and 
my  discharge,  is  somewhat  pecuhar,  but  seems  preferable  to 
is  yours,  as  Theobald  reads,  because  it  leaves  the  question 
open  to  Sebastian's  desires,  whereas  the  latter  would  read  aa 
if  he  had  quite  determined  on  the  course  to  be  adopted. 


'Choughs  and  rooks," 


61   Chough,   i.e.    a  jack-daw. 

Macbeth. 

82  Morsel,  figuratively  used  for  a  small  person,  or  perhaps 
for  any  individual  iu  fanuliar  language.  The  term  occurs 
again  in  Measure  for  Measure. 

^   To  heep  them  living, 

Malone's  alteration  in  this  line,  his  projects  die,  for  hts 
project  dies,  has  been  adopted.  Some  emendation  must  be 
made,  or  them  is  inexplicable,  unless,  indeed,  we  refer  it  tc 
Gomialo  and  the  project 


NOTES  TO  THE  TEMPEST. 


*•   IVhy  are  you  draim  ? 
That  is,  why  aro  your  swords  drawn  ? 

^  Moe,  i.n.  make  mouths.  "To  mop,  mow,  jest,railo," 
Declaration  of  Popish  Impostures,  1603. 

**  Pricks,  L9.  prickios.     Wound,  i.e.  wrapped  round, 

*'  A  foul  bumbard. 

A  bumbard  was  a  largo  Idnd  of  diiuldng-can.  "  That 
huge  bumbard  of  saci;,"  I  Homy  IV. 

"8  Tli're  would  this  monster  make  a  man. 

That  is,  make  a  man's  fortune.  The  phrase  occurs  fre- 
quently in  Shakespeare.  So  in  the  old  ballad  of  Eobin 
Hcod  and  the  Tinker,— 

I  have  a  warrant  from  tho  king 

To  take  him  where  I  can ; 
If  you  can  tell  me  where  he  is, 

I  will  make  you  a  man. 

"  To  creep  under  his  gaberdine. 

A  gaberdine  was  a  land  of  coarse  cloak  or  mantle,  worn 
chiefly  by  peasants  and  Jews. 

^  Salmyes,  i.e.  sav.tges.  It  was  the  pi'onunciation  of  the 
time,  and  should  be  preserved. 

"    Wiile  Stephano  breathes  at '  yiostiils. 

I  linvo  here  followed  the  original  edition  in  placing  n 
mark  of  elision  after  at,  which  is  probably  elliptical  for 
at  hii. 

^  I  leiR  not  lake  too  much  for  him. 

A  vulgar  kind  of  ironical  speaking,  implying  he  will 
lake  as  much  as  he  can  get. 

^^  TTiOH  dost  me  yet  but  little  hurt. 

Dr.  Grey  tbinka  Caliban  always  speaks  in  verse,  and 
arranges  this  speech  as  follows, — 

Thou  dost  me  yet  hut  little  hurt ;  thou  wilt 
Anon  :   I  know  it  by  thy  trembling  : 
Now  Prospro  works  so  on  thee. 

Kotes  on  Shakespeare,  ed.  1754,  i.  19.  Mr.  Knight  in 
act  iii.  so.  2,  says  Caliban  always  speaks  metrically,  though 
he  arranges  the  above  as  prose !  In  fact,  if  au  editor  can 
make  blaidc  verse  of  the  present  speech,  so  he  could  of 
every  article  in  tie  Times  newspaper  with  equal  facility. 

8*  /  have  no  long  spoon, 

"  He  hath  need  of  a  long  spoon  that  eateth  with  the 
devU,"  )ld  proverb. 

"  The  siege  of  this  mconcalf. 

Mr.  jollier  erroneously  explains  siege  by  seat,  though  its 
mcanirg  (save  reverence)  is  perfectly  clear,  and  needs  not 
a  note.  A  mooncalf  is  an  imperfectly  developed  foetus, 
Ijflro  metaphorically  applied  to  a  misshapen  monster. 

^   Young  scamelsfrom  the  rock. 

Holt,  writing  in  1749,  says  limpets  are  termed  scams  in 

acme  counties,  and  I  have   the  authority  of  Mr.  Croflon 

r  for  asaortiDg  that  tho  term  is  still  retained  in  Ire- 


land in  that  sense.  Mr.  Croft  bears  eiidenne  to  tho  eame 
effect,  and  Waldron,  notes  to  the  Sad  Shepherd,  p.  12G, 
observes  that  a  vessel  called  the  Scammel  m  mentioned  in 
the  Pennsylvanian  Journal  for  July  1.5th,  1782.  Thei^balJ 
proposes  to  read  stamiels,  a  species  of  hawk. 

"  Nor  scrape  trencher. 

The  early  editions  read  trinchevimj,  an  obvious  typogi-a- 
phical  blimder,  which,  though  conected  by  Diydon,  iji  hii> 
alteration  of  this  play,  and  by  Theobald,  is  unaccountatily 
re-introduced  by  Knight  and  Collier.  This  blind  adliercnco 
to  the  old  copies,  in  defiance  of  sense,  cannot  be  judicious. 
The  only  supposition  on  which  the  old  reading  can  bo 
made  partially  con'ect  is  that  Shakespeare  wrote  trencheren, 
tho  old  English  plural ;  but  this  is  scarcely  probable,  and. 
on  the  whole,  we  believe  our  reading  to  be  tlie  best. 
In  Shakespeare's  time,  when  trenchers  were  used,  they 
were  generally  scraped,  not  washed. 

°'  Most  busy-less  when  I  do  it. 

The  second  folio  reads,  "  most  busy,  least  when  1  do  it," 
a  reading  adopted  by  several  critics  of  the  last  centiuy, 
and  revived  by  Mr.  Collier  as  original.  The  above  is 
Theobald's  correction.  Mr.  Dyce  characteii.'es  Mr.  Collier's 
reading  as  "  a  corruption  which  outrages  language,  taste, 
and  common  sense." 

^3  ^  Twill  weep  for  having  wearied  you. 

A  beautiful  allusion  to  the  dewy  vapour  on  grocn  wood 
when  burning. 

'°''  Hest,  i.e.  behest,  command.  ' 

;oi  fpjiat  else,  i.e.  whatever  else,  aught  else. 

i"-  It  seeks,  i.e.  affection  seeks. 

""  A  thousand,  thousand ! 
That  is,  a  thousand,  thousand  times  farewell ! 

"■*  Standard,  i.e.  ensign. 

los   Thou  dcbosh'd  fish. 

Dcbosh'd,  lewd  and  debauched.  This  is  more  than  a  mere 
variation  of  orthography,  and  should  of  course  be  preserved ; 
and  if  the  reader  refers  to  Minsheu,  he  may  conclude  it 
means  rather  more  than  debauched. 

1(16  '\Yhat  a  pied  ninm/s  this  f 
Trinculo,  the  jester,  w.is  a  domestic  buffoon,  and  this 
passage  puts  it  beyond  doubt  that  he  should  be  habitfcl  on 
the  stage  in  a  suit  of  motley. 

""  I'll  go  no  further  off. 

The  word  no  is  taken  from  the  second  folio,  and  seems 
necessary  to  the  sense.  Stephano  wishes  to  get  rid  ol 
Trinculo' 8  interruption,  hut  the  latter  is  bent  on  listening 
to  Caliban,  and  as  Stephano  commands  him  to  stand  ftirtbet 
off  twice  in  a  few  lines,  we  may  suppose  some  moveme'al 
of  the  hand  is  here  given  to  the  same  effect. 

'M  He's  but  a  sot. 
Sot  is  here  used  in  the  sense  of  fool,  from  tte  French. 

39 


NOTES  TO  THE  TEMPEST. 


""  T^oul  'em,  and  shout  'em. 

Tho  original,  by  an  easy  misprint-,  reads  cout  for  skout, 
ond  51  r.  Knight  follows  it,  but  does  not  tell  ua  the  meaning 
of  the  term. 

""  The  picture  of  Nobody. 

Nobody  ■vras  once  the  subject  of  sign-boards.  It  was 
usually  represented  by  a  picture  of  a  head  upon  two  legs, 
with  arms ;  a  physical  realization. 

"I  Wilt  come? 

These  words  should  be  added  to  Stophano's  speech,  or 
else  they  are  intended  to  be  addressed  to  Caliban. 

112  jjy'r  la'hin,  diminutive  of  By  our  lady,  a  very  common 
ancient  oath. 

i'3  Through  forth-rights  and  meanders. 

That  is,  througli  straight  and  wandering  paths.  The  first 
term  occurs  again  in  Troilus  and  Cressida. 

m  A  living  drollery. 
A    drollery    or    puppet-show    represented    by    living 
characters. 

"5  There  is  one  tree,  the  phanix'  throne. 
•'  Phenbt  is  a  bird,  and  there  is  but  one  of  that  Hnde  in 
all  the  wide  worlds,  therfore  ignorant  men  wonder  thereof; 
and  among  fne  Arabians,  there  this  bird  Phenix  is  bred. 
He  is  called  singularis,  alone."  Salman  uppon  Bartholome, 
fol.  Lond.  1582,  fol.  183. 

1'-^  Rfuse,  i.e.  wonder. 

^'^  J^ach  nuti'er  out  at  Jive  for  one. 

It  was  the  custom  in  Shakcspcai'e's  time,  when  travelling 
was  not  very  safe,  for  persons  to  put  out  money  before 
going  abroad,  on  condition  of  recei™ig  back  two,  three, 
foiu'  or  even  five  times  the  amount  on  theii'  return,  accord- 
ing to  tho  supposed  danger  of  the  expedition.  Shirley 
makes  an  incident  of  this  kind  conspicuous  in  his  play 
called  the  Ball.  It  appears  fi'om  Haniarby  Rich,  that 
three  for  one  was  paid  even  for  a  journey  to  Kome.  Daviea 
in  his  Epigrams,  has  one  of  considerable  point  on  the  prac- 
tice of  putting  out : — 

Lyc\is,  which  lately  is  to  Venice  gone. 
Shall,  if  he  do  rctimi,  gain  three  for  one  ; 
But,  ten  to  one,  his  knowledge  and  his  wit 
Will  not  be  better'd  or  increas'd  a  whit. 

We  shall  hear  more  of  men  with  heads  standing  below  the 
ehoiJdcrs  in  Othello. 

'"    IVith  a  quaint  device,  the  banquet  vanishes. 

ITiis  means  nothing  more,  as  Mr.  Dyce  obseiTes,  than 
that  the  mechanist  of  the  theatre  was  to  do  his  best  to 
make  it  seem  that  the  harpy  had  dcvoiu-ed  the  banquet. 

11'  To  belch  up  you, 

Mr.  Collier  omil.5  the  last  word,  bnt  erroneously,  for 
nothing  is  more  common  in  the  Klizabethan  di-ama  tlian 
the  duplication  of  tlic  pronoun,  and  we  have  many  instances 
of  it  in  Shakespeare.  Tluit  hath  to  instrument,  Ifc.,  i.e. 
that  uses  all  the  world  as  its  instnimcnt  or  design  for  work. 
This  is  one  of  tho  finest  speeches  in  tbc  play,  and  its  moral 
effect  should  shield  the  whole  from  tho  censure  of  tho 
opponents  of  tho  drama. 
40 


'-"  Dowle,  i.e.  a  foatJitr,  or,  perhaps,  more  rtrongly,  j 
single  particle  of  down. 

1*'   Good  life,  i.e.  good  spirit,  energy. 

"•  And  his  and  mine  lov'd  dnrling. 
Here  both  Collier  and  Knight  alter  the  expressive  ori^- 
nal  mine  to  my,  in  defiance  of  the  usage  of  Shakespeare. 

1-3  It  did  base  my  trespass. 

That  is,  the  thunder  pronounced  his  crime  in  the  deep 
base  sound.  Spenserhas  a  similar  image  inhis/lzer/c'  Queen, — ■ 

The  rolling  sea,  resoimding  oft, 

In  his  big  base  them  fitly  answered. 

1-'  Ecstacy,  i.e.  madness.  It  is  used  in  the  same  senso 
in  Hamlet. 

1-^  A  third  of  mine  otcn  lifi. 

Although  I  have  very  great  doubts  whether  Theobald' 
alteration  thread  should  not  be  substituted  for  third,  yet  as 
every  old  edition  concurs  in  the  latter  reading,  and  tolerable 
sense  can  be  made  of  it,  I  have  followed  the  first  foUo. 
Mr.  Collier  adopts  the  e.^lanation  that  Prospero  has  given 
Ferdinand  a  thiid  of  his  own  life,  a  portion  of  his  very 
existence,  in  bestowing  Miranda  upon  him.  Can  we 
accept  it  in  the  sense  that  Prospero  has  bestowed  a  third 
portion  of  his  life  on  the  care  and  education  of  M  iranda  ? 
Shakespeare  elsewhere  uses  thread  of  life  in  its  strict  classi- 
cal sense,  so  that  he  would  probably  have  written  the  thread, 
had  he  intendcdto  use  that  word. 

1-*  Aspersion,  i.e.  sprinkling,  the  primitive  sense  of  tlic 
term. 

1-'   Or  Phabiis'  steed.i. 

It  is  almost  rmnecessai-y  to  observe  that  the  first  or  is 
used  here  for  eitJicr. 

i-S  The  ardour  of  my  liver. 

In  the  physiology  of  oiu-  ancestors,  the  liver  was  con- 
sidered the  seat  of  the  passions 

'-'  Bring  a  corollary. 
Corollary,  a  sui-plus  number,  (Fr.)  i.e.  bring  more  thiul 
are  sufficient  rather  than  want  any.     Minshcu  explains  it, 
the  addition  or  advantage  over  measm-e. 

■'"  Stover,  properly  applied  to  gi-ass  fodder  for  cattle. 
See  my  Dictionary  of  .•b-chaisnis,  p.  81 -1.  Not  necessarily 
coai'sc  gi'ass,  as  stated  by  Mr.  Collier.  Twilled  m  tho  neA 
line  has  occasioned  much  controversy,  and  its  exact  mean- 
ing does  not  appear  to  be  ascertained.  A  reed  is  called  a 
twill  in  the  North  of  England.  Lass-lorn,  forsalien  by  his 
mistress.  Pole-clypt  vineyard,  a&udmg  to, ihv  poles  being 
clipped  or  embraced  by  the  vines. 

131  A7id  thy  broom  groves. 
An  old  SrL.tch  baUad  represents  a  lover  waiting  for  his 
mistress  in  a  Drooni-grovc, — 

But  let  them  say,  or  let  them  do, 

'Tis  a"  ane  to  me, 
For  he's  low  down,  he's  in  the  broom,— 

Is  waiting  for  me. 

1'-  Boshy,  i.  o.  shrubby,  woody. 


NOTES  TO  THE  TEMPEST. 


'^  Harmonious  charmingly. 

Slialteapearo's  construction,  not  requiring  tlie  laboured 
oi'iiotation  of  the  commentators.  Coleridge  writes,  "beauti- 
ful exceedingly."  In  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  wo 
have  "  miserable  most "  for  "  most  miaeraUc." 

J3'  From  tlieir  confine-'. 
The  second  folio  reads,  all  their  confines. 

"5  A  wonder'd  father  and  a  mse. 

The  common  phraseology  of  Shakespeai-o's  time.  This  is 
the  old  reading,  adopted  by  Mr.  Collier.  Most  editors  read 
wife ;  but  we  may  retain  the  original  reading,  though  at 
iii-st. sight  not  so  apposite.  Ferdinand  is  enraptm-cd  with 
the  nia-siiue,  and  pays  a  merited  compliment  to  Trospero. 
A  wonder'd  father,  tliat  is,  a  father  able  to  perform  wonders. 

1^"  Be  mute,  or  else  our  spell  is  inarr'd. 

Silence  was  indispensably  necessary  during  all  magical 
operations.  The  witch  in  Macbeth  says  of  the  armed  head, — 
Hear  bis  speech,  but  say  thou  nought. 

"'  Of  Hie  winding  brooks. 

ITie  old  copies  corruptly  read  windring,  and  are  ab- 
Eolutely  followed  by  Mr.  Knight,  althoiigh  no  one  can 
produce  such  a  word  in  the  old  English  language.  See  Mr. 
Dyce's  remarks  on  this  editorial  absurdity. 

"''■  Inherit,  i.e.  possesseth. 

'2''  Leave  not  a  wreck  behind. 

1  will  give  my  reason  for  preferring  tcreck  to  the  ordinary 
leading  rack.  The  latter  is  nerer  found  with  the  indefinite 
article.  Wreck  is  sometimes  misprinted  rack,  as  in  the 
early  editions  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  See  the  argu- 
ment fiu'ther  discussed  in  my  Dictionary  of  Archaisms, 
p.  661.  Back  is  applied  to  the  thin  vapoury  clouds.  So 
Fletcher, — 

shall  I  stray 

In  the  middle  air,  and  stay 

The  sailing  rack,  or  nimbly  take 

Hold  by  the  moon,  and  gently  make 

Suit  to  the  pale  queen  of  nig-ht, 

For  a  beam  to  give  theo  light ) 

'*'  Meet  with,  i.e.  counteract. 

"'  Gorse,  a  species  of  fiu-ze.  Shakespeare  here  seems  to 
make  a  distinction  between  gorse  and  furze,  but  wo  leam 
from  Gerard  that  in  his  time,  as  at  present,  the  fonner  was 
only  a  proracial  term  for  the  other. 

^'^  Stale,  i.e.  a  ti'ap  ot  decoy, 

113  Jifurtttre,  i.e.  education. 

,  '"  Played  the  Jack. 

A  common  old  proverbial  phi-ase  for  playing  the  knave. 
There  is  not  necessarily  an  allusion  to  Jack  o'  Lantern,  as 
Mr.  Collier  supposes. 

"5  O,  King  Stephana!  O  Peer! 

The  oldTjaUad  here  referred  to  is  quoted  in  (JtheUo,^ 
King  Stephen  was  a  worthy  peer. 
His  breeches  cost  him  but  a  crown. 

e 


"'  We  know  what  belongs  to  a  frippery, 

A  fi-ippcry  was  a  shop  where  old  clothes  were  sold  anJ 
exchanged.     Hon  Jonson  mentions  ono  in  the  Old  Jewry. 

'"  Let  'I  alone. 

Theobald  reads,  let's  along,  but  the  old  edition  has  lel'i 
alone,  and  our  tc.^  which  is  adopted  by  Hanmcr  and 
CoUier,  is  a  less  violent  alteration.  The  original  reading 
can  scarcely  be  right,  though  Stcevens  explains  it, — "  Let 
you  and  I  only  go  to  commit  the  murder,  leaving  Trinculo, 
who  is  so  solicitous  about  the  trash  of  dress,  behind  us ;" 
but  Stephano  was  equally  enraptured  with  the  gown. 

1**  Barnacles ;  the  clakis  or  tree-goose  is  hero  referred 
to.  Early  writers  beUeved  that  the  bamadc-goose  was 
produced  from  the  shell  of  the  fish. 

"'  In  the  line-grove. 

Line  is  the  old  term  for  the  lime-tree,  and  should  be 
preserved.  Mr.  Himter  has  ingeniously  conjectured  that 
when  Prospero,  in  a  previous  scene,  says  to  Ariel,  who 
comes  in  bringing  the  glittering  apparel,  "  Come,  KTiig 
them  on  this  line,"  he  means  on  one  of  the  line-trees  near 
his  cell,  which  coiJd  hardly  have  been  mistaken  if  the  v/ord 
of  tho  original  copies  had  been  allowed  to  keep  its  place.  I 
am,  however,  convinced  with  Mr.  Knight  that  the  poet 
intended  a  horse-hair  line,  and  that  the  players  are  right  in 
hanging  one  across  the  stage,  othenvise  the  "  clumsy 
joking"  about  the  line,  as  Mr.  Hunter  calls  a  clever 
dialogue,  though  replete  with  quibbling,  would  be  abso- 
lutely unintelligible. 

!5o  Till  you  release. 

So  the  later  folio.  The  first  reads  till  your  release,  wliicb 
does  not  appear  to  be  grammatical. 

'^'  That  relish  all  as  sharply  passion  as  thrj 
That  is,  that  relish  or  feel  passion  as  deeply  as  they  do 
Tlie  passage  scarcely  seems  to  require  explanation,  had  not 
Collier  and  Knight  placed  a  comma  in  the  middle  of  it, 
intending,  I  suppose,  that  passion  should  be  considered  a 
verb. 

^^'  Midnight  nuLshroonis. 

The  old  edition  has  the  fomi  nni^^hrumps.  Our  author 
probably  means  toadstocls.  In  Shakespeare's  time,  tho 
term  was  applied  both  to  toadstools,  what  we  now  term 
mushrooms,  and  many  kind  of  fungi. 

^^^  Weak  masters  though  ye  he. 

Weak  if  left  to  your  own  giudancc,  powerful  when  assist- 
ing the  designs  of  one  able  to  direct. 

'"  Remorse,  i.e.  pity. 

'55  Nature,  i.e.  natural  affection. 

^^  Tlie  reasonable  shore. 

So  the  old  editions,  which  read  ly  for  lies  in  the  next 
line.     AH  modem  editors  read  shores. 

'"   Where  the  bee  sucks. 

This,  and  the  song  commencing.  Full  fadom  fire,  were 
originally  set  to  music  by  Robert  Johnson,  a  composer 
contemporary  with  Shakespeare.     See  a  note  by  Burney  in 

41 


NOTES   TO   THE   TEMPEST. 


Ihc  1-arioriim  edition,  p.  61.  Dr.  Wilson  also  set  them  to 
music,  and  Ida  compositions  are  printed  in  his  Cheerful 
Ayres  or  Ballade,  1660.  Wilson's  music  to  the  present 
song  w-ill  also  be  found  in  Pluyford's  Musical  Companion, 
Second  Part,  1672,  pp.  174 — 5.  Lock's  music  to  the 
Tempest  wss  published  in  1675,  4to. 

'59  Thy  dukedom  I  resign. 

iVUuding  to  the  duchy  of  MUan  having  been  made  tri- 
butary to  him  by  Antonio. 

'5'  For  a  score  of  kingdoms  you  should  wrangle. 

The  term  wrangle  appears  to  be  here  equivalent  to 
playing  falsely.  This  seems  a  less  forced  interpretation 
tJian  that  given  by  Ur.  Johnson. 

160   B'Act  no  man  was  his  own. 
That  is,  when  no  man  was  himself  or  in  his  right  senses. 

"  li-icksy,  Le.  quick,  clever,  elegant. 
42 


"2  And  more  diversity. 

Here,  and  in  some  other  places,  the  early  editions  read 
mo,  the  old  word  for  more. 

'53  In  alt  her  trim. 

The  old  editions  read,  our  trim,  but  the  expression  seems 
more  applicable  to  the  slup  than  the  crew.  "  The  ship  Li 
in  her  trim,"  Comedy  of  Errors. 

'"  Conduct,  i.e.  conductor,  guide. 

"  A  plain  fish,  i.e.  plainly  a  flflh. 

'««  True,  honest. 

'^^  A  strange  thing  as  ere. 

Mr.  Knight,  in  his  Pictorial  Edition,  reads,  as  strcmge  a 
tiling  as  e'er,  which  is  only  partially  corrected  in  the 
Library  Edition,  although  the  original  is  refencd  to  1  Me 
Collier  rightly  follows  the  fiist  folio. 


€l)?  €m  €m\\n\m\  iif  'ilernnn. 


TlUE  Bima  of  Jorge  de  Montemayor  was  one  of  the  books  -which  had  the  rare  merit  of  escaping  th6 
Hamrs  tliat  consumed  the  greater  portion  of  the  Hbrary  of  Don  Quixote.  "  I  am  of  opinion  we  ought 
not  to  burn  it,  but  only  take  out  that  part  of  it  wliich  treats  of  the  magician  FeHcia  and  the  enchanted 
water,  as  also  aU  the  longer  poems,  and  let  the  work  escape  with  its  prose,  and  the  honour  of  being  the 
first  m  that  kind."  The  Diana  deserved  the  praise  of  Cervantes,  and  it  appears  to  have  been  extremely 
popular  in  England  daring  the  later  years  of  the  sixteenth  century.  It  was  translated  by  Bartholomew 
Yonge  somewhere  about  1582  or  1583,  by  Thomas  "Wilson  in  1595  or  1596,  mid  parts  of  it  were  rendered 
into  Enghsh  by  Edward  Fasten  and  the  celebrated  Sir  Philip  Sidney  ;*  but  Yonge's  versJon  was  the 
only  one  published,  and  that  did  not  appear  till  1598,  the  year  in  which  we  first  hear  of  the  Two 
Gentlemen  of  Verona  in  the  pages  of  Meres. 

Tlie  fact  of  the  popularity  of  the  Diana  in  England  at  tliis  period  is  of  considerable  importance, 
for,  although  it  would  seem  that  Shakespeare  could  not  have  read  the  printed  translation  by  Tongo 
befcirc  he  composed  the  play,  there  are  similarities  between  a  story  contained  in  Montemayor  and  the 
di'ama  too  minute  to  be  accidental.  Mr.  CoUier  says  the  incident  common  to  the  two  is  only  such  as 
might  bo  found  in  other  romances,  and  limits  the  resemblance  to  the  assumption  of  male  attire  by  the 
lady.  But  the  most  striking  similitude  is  contained  in  the  account  of  the  incident  of  bringing  the 
letter,  and  the  wayn^ardness  of  Julia;  and  I  subjoin  an  extract  from  the  Diana,  which  will  exhibit 
even  several  of  Shakespeare's  o^vn  expressions,  and  prove  that  Mr.  CoUier's  opinion  is  quite  untenable: — 

"  ■Wtcn  ho  had,  therefore,  by  simdry  signs,  as  by  tilts  and  tourneys,  and  by  prancing  up  and  down  upon  his  proud 
genet  before  my  vrindows,  made  it  manifest  that  he  ^ra3  in  love  -svith  me,  for  at  the  first  I  did  not  so  well  perceive  it,  he 
determined  in  the  end  to  write  a  letter  unto  me ;  and  having  practised  divers  times  before  with  a  maid  of  mine,  and  at 
length,  -n-ith  many  gifts  and  fair  promises,  gotten  her  good  will  and  fiuiherance,  he  gave  her  the  letter  to  deliver  to  me. 
But  to  see  tlic  means  that  Eosina  made  unto  me,  for  so  was  she  called,  the  dutiful  services  and  unwonted  circumstances 
before  she  did  deliver  it,  the  oaths  that  she  sware  unto  me,  and  the  subtle  words  and  serious  protestations  she  used,  it  was 
a  pleasant  thing,  and  wojjby  the  noting.  To  whom,  nevertheless,  with  an  angry  countenance  I  turned  again,  saying,  If  I 
had  not  regard  of  mine  own  estate,  and  what  hereafter  might  be  said,  I  would  malce  this  shameless  face  of  thine  be  known 
ever  after  for  a  mark  of  an  impudent  and  bold  minion ;  but  because  it  is  the  first  time,  let  this  suffice  that  I  have  said,  and 
give  thee  waniing  to  take  heed  of  the  second. 

"  Methinks  I  see  now  the  crafty  wench,  how  she  held  her  peace,  dissembling  very  cunningly  the  sorrow  that  she 
conceived  by  my  angry  answer;  for  she  feigned  a  counterfeit  smiling,  saying,  Jesus!  mistress,  I  gave  it  you,  because  yoii 
might  laugh  at  it,  and  not  to  move  your  patience  with  it  in  this  sort ;  for  if  I  had  any  thought  that  it  woidd  have 
provoked  you  to  anger,  I  pray  God  he  may  show  his  wrath  as  great  towards  me  as  ever  he  did  to  the  daughter  of  any 
mother.  And  with  this  she  added  many  words  more,  as  she  could  do  well  enough,  to  pacify  the  feigned  cnger  and  ill 
opinion  that  I  had  conceived  of  her,  and  taking  her  letter  with  her,  she  departed  from  me.     This  having  passed  thus,  I 

•  This  fact,  hitherto  unnoticed,  is  obtained  from  the  later  editions  of  the  Arcadia, 

43 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEJf  OF  VEEONA. 


begnn  to  imagine  what  might  ensiie  thereof,  and  love,  methought,  did  pnt  a  certain  desire  into  my  mind  to  see  the  letter, 
though  modesty  aad  shame  forbade  me  to  ask  it  of  my  maid,  especially  for  the  words  that  had  passed  between  us,  as  you 
have  heard.  And  so  I  continued  all  that  day  until  night  in  Tarietie  of  many  thotights ;  but  when  Rosina  came  to  help  me 
to  bed,  God  knows  how  desirous  I  was  to  have  her  entreat  me  again  to  take  the  letter,  but  she  would  never  speak  unto 
me  about  it,  nor  (as  it  seemed)  did  so  much  as  once  think  thereof.  Yet  to  try  if  by  giving  her  some  occxsion  I  might 
prevail,  I  said  unto  her :  And  is  it  so,  Rosina,  that  Don  Felix-  without  any  regard  to  mine  htnour,  dares  wiite  imto  me 
These  are  things,  mistress,  said  she  demurely  to  me  again,  that  are  commonly  incident  to  love ;  wherefore  I  beseech 
you  pardon  me,  for  if  I  had  thought  to  have  angered  you  with  it,  I  would  have  first  pulled  out  the  balls  of  mine  eyes. 
How  eold  my  heart  was  at  that  blow,  God  knows,  yet  did  I  dissemble  the  matter,  and  suffer  myself  to  remain  that  night 
only  with  my  desire,  and  with  occasion  of  little  sleep.  And  so  it  was,  indeed,  for  that,  methought,  was  the  ongest  and  most 
painful  night  that  ever  I  passed.  But  when,  with  a  slower  pace  than  I  desired,  the  wished  day  was  come,  the  discreet 
and  subtle  Rosina  came  into  my  chamber  to  help  me  to  make  me  ready,  in  doing  whereof  of  purpcee  she  let  the  letter 
closely  {secretit/)  fall,  which,  when  I  perceived, — What  is  that  fell  iovm  ?  said  I,  let  me  see  it.  It  is  nothiiag,  mistress, 
said  she.  Come,  come,  let  me  see  it,  said  I.  What !  move  me  not,  or  else  tell  me  what  it  is.  Good  Lord,  misUess,  said 
she,  why  will  you  see  it :  it  is  the  letter  I  would  have  giran  you  yesterday.  Nay,  that  it  is  not,  said  1 :  wherefo"e  show 
it  me.  that  I  may  see  if  you  lie  or  no.  I  had  no  sooner  oaid  so,  but  she  put  it  into  my  hands,  saying,  God  never  gi^  e  ma 
g-)od  if  it  be  any  other  thing ;  and  although  I  knew  it  well  indeed,  yei  I  said,  '^Tiat .'  this  is  not  the  same,  for  I  know 
tliat  well  enough,  but  it  is  one  of  thy  lover's  letters  :    I  -mil  read  it,  to  see  in  what  need  he  standeth  of  thy  favour. 

It  is  by  no  means  impossible  that  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  as  we  now  possess  it,  has 
received  additions  fi-om  its  author's  hands  to  what  was  perhaps  originally  a  very  meagre  production. 
This  conjecture  would  well  agree  with  what  wc  know  to  have  been  the  dramatic  usage  of  the  time, 
and  it  seems  difficult  to  account  on  any  other  supposition  for  the  use  Shakespeare  has  made  of  the  tala 
of  Felismena.  The  absolute  origin  of  the  entu-e  plot  has  possibly  to  be  discovered  in  some  Italian 
novel.*  The  en-or  in  the  first  folio  of  Pad\ia  for  ilHan  in  Act  ii.  So.  5  has  perhaps  to  be  referred  to 
some  scene  in  the  original  novel.  Tieck  mentions  an  old  German  play  founded  on  a  tale  similar  to  the 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  but  it  has  not  yet  been  made  accessible  to  English  students,  and  we  have  no 
moans  of  ascertaining  how  far  the  resemblance  extends. 

Should  the  original  novel,  supposing  one  to  exist,  ever  be  discovered,  it  will  probably  be  found  to 
assimidate  more  to  the  ancient  tales  of  perfect  fiicndship  than  might  be  suspected  from  Sliakespeare'a 
piay.  In  ventui-ing  upon  this  conjecture,  I  have  been  guided  in  a  great  measure  by  the  romantic 
generosity  of  Valentine  in  the  last  act,  which  scarcely  looks  like  a  free  result  of  the  poet's  own  inven- 
tion. It  is  quite  true  he  might  have  foimd  similar  instances  in  several  old  friendship  tale?  but  it 
seems  more  natural  to  suppose  he  transferred  it  from  the  same  source  to  which  we  ai-e  indebted  for  the 
play,  than  that  (he  incident  was  introduced  from  another  copy.  That  any  editor  can  have  a  douDt  as 
to  Shakespeare's  intention  to  represent  Valentine's  generosity  so  great,  that,  in  the  excess  of  his  rapture 
for  the  repentance  of  Proteus,  he  gives  up  to  him  all  his  right  in  Silvia,  would  be  improbable,  had  we 
not  two  iat«  instances  of  attempts  to  explain  the  scene  in  a  different  manner ;  I  ut  any  interpretation 
n-hich  destroys  the  literal  meaning  of  Valentine's  gift, — 

And  that  my  love  may  appear  plain  and  free, 
All  that  was  mine  in  Silvia  I  give  thee. 

renders  Julia's  exclamation, — "0  me  unhappy!" — wliich  immediately  wUows,  entirely  unmeaning, 
Mr.  Collier  thinks  Valentine  suspected  Silvia's  purity  from  her  position  with  Proteus  in  the  forest,  and 
is  therefore  gi\ing  his  friend  a  present  no  longer  desii-able  to  himself!  It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine 
a  supposition  that  would  more  completely  destroy  the  poetrj'  and  romance  of  Valentine's  character. 

The  commentators  have  brouglit  much  curious  learning  t:  illustrate  the  question  of  the  date  at 
which  this  play  was  \\Tittcn  ;  but  their  arguments  are  for  the  most  part  founded  on  vague  generidities, 
such  as  notices  of  foreign  adventure  and  classical  allusions,  not  by  any  means  sufficiently  minute  to 
enable  us  to  conclude  any  particular  circumstances  were  intended  by  the  author.     Meres,  in  his  Wits 


t 


•  A  similarity  which  has  been  pointed  out  bctu'cen  the  incident  of  Valentino  timiing  captain  of  the  outlaws  and  a 
story  in  the  "  Arcadia"  is  of  the  slightest  kind ;  but  there  is  in  that  work  an  encomium  on  solitude  which  may  bo  compared 
with  Valentine's  soliloquy  in  Act  v.  Sc.  4. 


44 


THE  TWO  GEiNTLEMEN  OF  VEKOISA. 


jyetwiry,  1598,  says  "  Shakespeare  among  the  English  is  the  most  excellent  in  both  kinds     r  the  stacre; 

for  comedy,  witness  his  Oentlemen  of  Verona,,  his  Errors,  &o."  This  is  the  earhest  notice  of  the  \A'\\ 
that  has  come  do\vTi  to  us ;  but  most  critics  bcHevo  it  to  have  been  written  several  years  before  the 
pubhcation  of  the  Wits  Treasv/ry,  and  Mr.  Hudson  (Lectures  on  Shakespeare,  i.  220)  appears  to  con- 
sider it  the  poet's  earliest  dramatic  work. 

Although  probably  not  quite  tlie  "first  heir"  of  Shakespeare's  dramatic  invention,  tlie  Two 
Gentlemen  of  Verona  exhibits  a  deficiency  of  efifective  situation,  and  to  some  extent  a  crudity  of  con- 
struction, wliich  would  most  likely  have  been  avoided  by  a  practised  writer  for  the  stage.  But  these 
defects  are  tmnoticed  by  the  reader  in  the  richness  of  its  poetical  beauties  and  ovei-flowing  humoiu-, — its 
romimcc  and  pathos.  The  tale  is  based  on  love  and  friendship.  Valentine  is  the  ideal  personification 
of  both,  of  pui'e  love  to  Silvia,  and  romantic  attachment  to  the  fiiend  of  his  youth.  Proteus,  on  the 
contraiy,  selfish  and  sensual,  suiters  himself  to  be  guided  by  his  passions,  and  concludes  his  inconstancy 
to  his  love  with  perfidious  treacheiy  to  his  fiiend.  Valentine,  noble  and  brave,  but  timid  before  the 
mistress  of  his  affections,  adoiing  Sihaa's  glove,  and  too  diffident  even  to  intei-pret  her  stratagem  of  the 
letter :  Proteus,  daring  aU,  and  losing  his  integrity,  in  the  excess  of  a  tumultuous  passion.  If  Shakes- 
peare has  painted  these  elements  in  an  outline  something  too  bold  for  the  extreme  refinement  of  the 
present  day,  the  error  mast  be  ascribed  to  his  era  not  to  himseK;  and  if  it  be  also  objected  to  this  play, 
that  the  female  characters  are  genns  only  of  more  powerful  creations  in  Twelfth  Night  or  Cymbchne, 
the  reader  must  bear  in  mind  they  are  perhaps  more  suitable  to  the  extreme  simjilicity  of  t'ne  story, 
that  tlie  chief  object  of  the  dramatist  is  du-ected  to  the  development  of  the  characters  of  Valentine  and 
Protc:ns,  and,  above  all,  that  the  play  should  be  judged  by  itself.  There  are  few,  indeed,  who  would 
be  williiiw  to  miss  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  for  it  is,  nevertheless,  a  gem,  though  it  may  not  shine 
qmte  as  brilliantly  as  some  othei-s  in  the  Shokesperian  cabinet. 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED. 


DuKR  OF  MnAK,  father  to  Silvia. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  4.  Act  III.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2. 
Act  V.  sc.  2 ;  30.  4. 


Vaienttne. 

Appuirs,  Act  I.  so.  1.    Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  4.    Act  III.  bc.  1. 
Act  IV.  sc.  1.     Act  V.  EC.  4. 

Peoteus. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;   so.  3.     Act  II.  sc.  2  ;  so.  4 ;  so.  6. 

Act  III.  so.  1 ;  sc.  2.  Act  IV.  sc.  2 . 

Act  V.  sc.  2  ;  sc.  4. 

Antonio,  father  to  Proteus. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  3. 

TnuEio,  a  foolish  rival  to  Valentine. 

Appears,  Ai±  II.  so.  4.  Act  III.  sc.  1 ;  so.  2.  Act  IV.  sc.  2. 
ActV.  sc.  2;  sc.  4. 

EoLAMOira,  agent  for  Silvia  in  htr  escape. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  2.    Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Speed,  a  clownish  servant  to  Valentine. 

Appears,  Act  I.  so.  I.    Act  11.  so.  1 ;  sc.  4 ;  sc-  6. 
Act  III.  sc.  1.    Act  IV.  sc.  1. 
46 


Latince,  a  cloufnish  tenant  to  Protciis. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  J ;  so.  5.     Act  III.  so.  1 
Act  IV.  sc.  2. 

Pakihino,  servant  to  Antonio. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  3.     Act  II.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  3. 

Host  at  the  inn  where  Julia  lodges. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  2. 

Outlaws  with  Valentiae. 

Appear,  Act  IV.  so.  1.     Act  V.  sc.  3  ,  sc.  4. 

JtTLiA,  beloved  of  Proteus. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.  Act  II.  sc.  2;  sc.  7.  Act  IV   sc.  2. 
Act  V.  sc.  2  ;  sc.  4. 

Silvia,  leloved  of  Valentine. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  4.    Act  TV.  sc.  2.  Act  \   sc.  I 
BO.  3 ;  80.  4. 

LucErrA,  waiting-woman  to  Julia. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.    Act  II.  ec.  7. 

Servants,  Musicians. 

SCENE, — In    Verona,   in   iliLAV,    and   on  the 

FEONTIElta    of    ilANTUA. 


€^t  €m  §mi\mni  of  Wnmt 


ACT   L 


SCENE  I. — An  open  place  in  Veroaa. 

^nter  Vaientini;  and  PROiEua. 

T'al.  Cease  to  persuade,  my  loving  Proteus ; 
ilome-keeping  youth  have  ever  homely  wits : 
Wore  't  not  affection  chains  thy  tender  days 
To  the  sweet  glances  of  thy  honour'd  love, 
I  rather  would'entreat  thy  company, 
To  see  the  wonders  of  the  world  abroad, 
Than,  living  dully  sluggardiz'd  at  home, 
Wear  out  tliy  youth  with  shapeless  idleness. 
But,  since  thou  lov'st,  love  still,  and  tluive  therein. 
Even  as  1  would,  when  I  to  love  begin. 

Fro.  WUt  thou  be   gone  ?     Sweet  Valentine, 
adieu! 
Think  on  thy  Proteus,  when  thou,  haply,  seest 
Some  rare  note- worthy  object  in  thy  travel: 
Wish  me  partaker  in  thy  happiness. 
When   thou   dost   meet   good  hap :    and  in  thy 

danger. 
If  over  danger  do  envii'on  thee. 
Commend  thy  grievance  to  my  holy  prayers, 
For  I  "wUl  be  thy  beadsman,'  Valentine. 

Val.  And  on  a  love-book  pray  for  my  success.' 

Pro.  Upon  some  book  I  love,  I  '11  pray  for  thee. 

Val.  That 's  on  some  shallow  story  of  deep  love, 
How  young  Leander  oross'd  the  Hellespont. 

Fro.  That  's  a  deep  story  of  a  deeper  love ; 
For  he  was  more  than  over  shoes  in  love. 

Val.  'T  is  true ;  for  you  are  over  boots  in  love,' 
And  yot  you  never  sworn  the  Hellespont. 


Fro.  Over  the  hoots.'    nay,  give  mo  not  the 
boots. 

Val.  No,  I  wiU.  not,  for  it  boots  thee  not, — 

Fro.  ^Tiat  ? 

Val.  To  be  in  love,  where  scorn  is  bought  with 
groans; 
Coy  looks  ^vith  heart-sore  sighs ;   one  fading  mo- 
ment's mirth 
"With  twenty  watolrful,  weary,  tedious  nights : 
If  haply  won,  perhaps  a  hapless  gain ; 
If  lost,  why  then  a  grievous  labour  won ; 
However,  but  a  folly  bought  with  wit. 
Or  else  a  wit  by  folly  vanquished. 

Fro.   So,  by  your  circumstance,*  you  call  mo 
fool. 

Val.   So,  by  your  circumstance,  I  fear  you  '11 
prove. 

Fro.  'T  is  Love  you  cavil  at ;  I  am  not  Love. 

Val.  Love  is  your  master,  for  he  masters  you : 
And  he  that  is  so  yoked  by  a  fool, 
Methinks  should  not  be  chi-onicled  for  wise. 

Fro.  Yet  writers  say,  as  in  the  sweetest  bud 
The  eating  canker*  dwells,  so  eating  love 
Inhabits  in  the  finest  wits  of  all. 

Val.  And  writers  say,  as  the  most  forward  biid 
Is  eaten  by  the  canker  ere  it  blow, 
Even  so  by  love  the  yoimg  and  tender  wit 
Is  turn'd  to  foUy ;  blasting  in  the  bud. 
Losing  his  verdure  even  in  the  prime. 
And  all  the  fair  effects  of  future  hopes. 
But  wherefore  waste  I  time  to  cc'.ms»>l  thee, 

17 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OE  VERONA. 


SCKNE    1. 


That  art  a  votaiy  to  fond  desire  ? 
Once  more  adieu  !  my  father  at  the  road" 
Expects  my  ci/ming,  there  to  see  me  shipp'd. 
Pro.  And  thither  will  I  hring  tliee,'  Valentine. 
Pro.  Sweet  Proteus,  no ;   now  let  us  take  our 
leave. 
To  MQaii  let  me  hew  from  thee  by  letters, 
01'  thy  success  in  love,  and  what  news  else 
Bt'ii.leth  here  in  absence  of  thy  friend; 
And  I  likewise  will  visit  thee  with  mine. 

Pro    All  happiness  bei  hanoe  to  thee  in  Milan ! 
Vul.    ks  much  to  you  at  home !    and  so,  fare- 
well. 

[Exit  Vaienthte. 
Pro.  ll>i  after  honom-  hunts,  I  after  love : 
Be  leaves  his  friends  to  dignify  them  more; 
I  leave  myself,  my  friends,  and  all  for  love. 
Thou,  Julia,  thou  hast  mctamorphos'd  me, — 
Hade  me  neglect  my  studies,  lose  my  time, 
War  witli  good  counsel,  set  the  world  at  nought ; 
Made  wit  with  musing  weak,   heart   sick  with 
thought. 

Enter  Speed. 

Speed.  Sir   Proteus,   save  you !    Saw  you   my 

master  ? 
Pro.  But  near  he  parted  hence,  t"  embark  for 

MUan 
Speed.  Twenty  to  one  then  he  is  shipp'd  al- 
ready. 
Anil  have  play'd  the  sheep*  in  losing  him. 
pyo.  Indeed  a  sheep  doth  vciy  often  stray. 
An  if  the  shepherd  be  awhile  away. 

S}  eed.  You  conclude  that  my  master  is  a  shep- 
herd, then,  and  I  a  sheep. 
Pr.).  I  do. 
Sptfd.  Why,    then   my  homs   are   Ids   horns, 

whether  I  wake  or  sleep. 
Pro    A  siUy  answer,  and  fitting  well  a  sheep. 
Speed.  This  proves  me  BtUl  a  sheep. 
Pro.   True ;  and  thy  master  a  shepherd. 
Speed    Nay,  that  I  can  deny  by  a  oii'cumstance. 
Pro.  \t   shall  go  hard  but  I  'U   prove  it  by 

another. 
Speed.  I  Ths  shepherd  seeks  the  sheep,  and  not 
the  sheej  the  shepherd;  but  I  seek  my  master, 
and  my  i.iaster  seeks  not  me  :  therefore,  I  am  no 
sheep. 

Pro.  T.ho  sheep  for  fodder  follow  the  shepherd, 

tlu!  shefiherd  for  food  follows  not  the  sheep ;  thou 

for  waf;(;s  foUowest  thy  master,   thy  master  for 

wages  follows  not  iheo :  therefore,  thou  art  a  sheep. 

4« 


Speed.  Such  another  proof  wdU  make  me  en' 

'baa.' 
Pro.  But,  dost  thou  hear  ?  gav'st  thou  my  letter 

to  Julia  ? 
Speed.  Ay,   sir;    I,  a  lost  mutton,   gave  your 
letter  to  her,  a  lac'd  mutton ;°  and  she,  a  lac'd 
mutton,  gave  me,  a  lost  mutton,  nothing  for  my 
labour! 

Pro.  Here  's  too  small  a  pasture  for  such  store 
of  muttons. 

Speed.  If  the  ground  be  overcliarg'd,  you  were 
best  stick  her. 

Pro.  Nay,  in  that  you  are  a-stray;"   't  were 
best  'pound  you. 

Speed.  Nay,  sir,  loss  than  a  poimd  shall  serve  ■ 
me  for  can-jing  your  letter. 

Pro.  You  mistake ;   I  mean  the  pound,  a  pin- 
fold. 
Speed.  From  a  pound  to  a  pin  ?  fold  it  over  and 
over, 
'T  is  threefold  too  little  for  cairying  a  letter  to 
your  lover. 
Pro.  But  what  said  she  'i 
S^jeed.  She  did" — [lie  nods.'] 
Pro.  Did  she  nod  ? 
Speed.  I. 

Pro.  Nod,  I ;  why,  that 's  noddy. 
Speed.  You  mistook,  sir ;  I  say,  she  did  nod : 
and  you  ask  me  if  she  did  nod ;  and  I  say,  I. 
Pro.  And  that  set  together  is — ^uoddy. 
Speed.  Now  yoi:  have  taken  the  pains  to  set  it 
together,  take  it  for  your  pains. 

Pro.  No,  no,  you  shall  have  it  for  beaiing  the 

letter. 
Speed.  "Well,  I  perceive  I  must  be  fain  to  bear 

%vith  you. 
Pro.  "Why,  sir,  how  do  you  bear  with  me ' 
Speed.    MaiTy,    sir,    the  letter   very   orderly; 
having  nothing  but  thr  trord,  noddy,  for  my  paina. 
Pro.  Beshi-ew  me,  but  you  have  a  quick  wit. 
Speed.    And  yet  it  cannot  overtake  your  slow 

purse. 
Pro.  Come,   come,  opeji   the  matter  in  lirief: 
what  said  she  ? 

Speed.  Open  your  purse,  that  the  monoj-,  and 
the  matter,  may  be  both  at  once  delivered. 

Pro.  "Well,  sii',  here  is  for  your  pains  {ffiving 

him  money) :  What  said  she  ? 
Speed.  Truly,  sir,  I  think  you  "U  hardly  win  hw-. 
Pro.  "Wliy?      Couldst  tliou  perceive  so  much 

from  her  ? 
Speed.  Sir,  I  could  perceive  nothing  at  ail  from 


ACT  n. 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VEKONA. 


SOEITE   II. 


her:  no,  not  so  much  as  a  ducat  for  delivering 
j'our  letter :  And  being  so  hard  to  me  that  brought 
your  mind,  I  tear  she  '11  prove  as  hard  to  you  ia 
V.'lling  your  mind."  Give  her  no  token  but  stones, 
.(jr  she  's  as  hard  as  steel. 

I'lo.  Wliat I  s;ud  she  nothing ? 

Speed.  No,  not  so  much  as — "  Take  this  for  thy 
jiaius."  To  testify  your  bounty,  I  thank  you,  you 
liave  tostoru'd"  me;  iu  reqmtal  whereof,  hence- 
forth carry  your  letters  yourscK:  and  so,  sir,  I  'U 
uommcnd  you  to  my  master.  \_Exit. 

Pro.  Go,  go,  be  gone,  to  save  your  ship  from 
■wreck, 
Wliich  cannot  perish,  having  thee  aboard, 
13oing  destin'd  to  a  drier  death  on  shore  : — 
I  must  go  send'*  some  better  messenger ; 
I  fear  my  Julia  woidd  not  deign  my  hnes, 
Receiving  them  fi-om  such  a  worthless  post.'" 

\_Exit. 

'^  SCENE  II.— The  same.     Gm-den  of  3vlia's  House. 
Jjiitsr  JuuA  and  LrcEiiA. 

Jul.  But  say,  Lucetta,  now  we  are  alone, 
Wouldst  thou,  then,  counsel  me  to  fall  in  love .' 
Tmc.  Ay,  madam ;  so  you  stumble  not  unheed- 

fuUy. 
Jul.  Of  all  the  fair  resort  of  gentlemen, 
That  every  day  with  parle'°  encounter  me, 
in  thy  opinion  which  is  worthiest  love  ? 

Luc.  Please  you  repeat  their  names,  I  '11  show 
my  mind 
According  to  my  shaUow  simple  skill. 

Jul.  What  think' st  thou  of  the  fair  sii-  Egla- 

mour? 
Ltic.  As  of  a  knight  well-spoken,  neat  and  fine ; 
But,  were  I  you,  he  never  should  be  mine. 
Jul.  AVhat  think'st  thou  of  the  rich  Mercatio  ? 
Luc.  WeU  of  his  wealth ;  but  of  himself,  so,  so. 
Jul.  What  think'st  thou  of  the  gentle  Proteus  ? 
Luc.  Lord,  Lord !  to  see  what  folly  reigns  iu  us ! 
Jul.  How  now  !  what  means  this  passion  at  his 

name  ? 
Luc.    Pardon,    deaf   madam ;     't   is   a   passing 
shame, 
rhat  T,  -unworthy  body  as  I  am, 
Should  Lcn.sure"  thus  on  lovely  gentlemen. 
Jul    VVhy  not  on  Proteu.*,  as  of  all  the  rest  ? 
Lu^.  Then  thus :    of  many  good  I  think  him 

best. 
Jul.   Tour  reason? 

Luc.  1  have  no  other  but  a  woman's  reason ; 
I  think  him  so,  because  I  think  him  so. 
7 


Jul.  And  wouldst  thou  have  me  cast  mv  lovo  on 

him  ? 
Imc.  Ay,  if  you   thought  your  lovo  not  cast 

away. 
Jul.  Why,  he,  of  all  the  rest,  hath  never  mov'd 

me. 
Iau!.  Yet  he,  of  all  the  rest,  I  think,  best  loves 

ye. 
Jul.  His  little  speaking  shows  his  love  but  small. 
Luc.  Fire  that  's  closest  kept  bums  most  of  all. 
Jul.  They  do  not  love  that  do  not  show  theii' 

love. 
Luc.  0,  they  love  least  that  lot  men  know  their 

love. 
Jul.  I  would  I  knew  Ids  mind. 
Luc.  Peruse  this  paper,  madam. 

Jul.  "  To  Julia," — Say,  from  whom  ? 
Luc.  That  the  contents  will  show. 

Jul.  Say,  say,  who  gave  it  thee. 
Luc.   Sii'  Valentine's  page ;   and  sent,  I  think, 
from  Proteus : 
He  woidd  have  given  it  you,  but  I,  being  in  the 

way. 
Did  in  your  name  receive  it;  pai'don  the  fault.  I 
pray. 
Jul.  Now,  by  my  modesty,  a  goodly  broker ! " 
Dare  you  presimie  to  harbour  wanton  lines  ? 
To  whisper  and  conspire  against  my  youth  ? 
Now,  ti-ust  me,  't  is  an  office  of  great  worth. 
And  you'  an  officer  fit  for  the  place. 
There,  take  the  paper  !   see  it  be  return' d, 
Or  else  return  no  more  into  my  sight. 

Luc.  To  plead  for  love  deserves  more  fee  than 

hate. 
Jul.  WiU  ye  be  gone  ? 

Lmc.  \_Aside.'\  That  you  may  ruminate.     [JSxit 
Jul.  And  yet  I  would  I  had  o'erlook'd  the  letter. 
It  were  a  shame  to  caU  her  back  again. 
And  pray  her  to  a  fault  for  which  I  chid  her. 
"What  fool  is  she,  that  Icnows  I  am  a  maid, 
And  would  not  force  the  letter  to  my  view ! 
Since  maids,  in  modesty,  say  "No"  to  that 
Which  they  woidd  have   the  profferer  oonstme 

"Ay." 
Fie,  fie !  how  waj^ward  is  this  foolish  love, 
That,  like  a  testy  babe,  wiU  scratch  the  nurse, 
And  presently,  all  hirmbled,  kiss  the  rod ! 
How  churlislily  I  chid  Lucetta  hence. 
When  -n-illingly  I  woidd  have  had  her  here ! 
How  angerly"  I  taught  my  brow  to  frown, 
When  inward  joy  enforc'd  my  heart  to  smile 
My  penance  is,  to  call  Lucetta  back, 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VEEOjSTA. 


And.  isk  remission  for  my  folly  past: — 
What,  ho!  Luoetta! 

Jle-enter  Lttcetta. 

Zm  What  would  your  ludyship  ? 

Jul.  Is  't  near  dinner-time  ? 

Luc.  I  would  it  were ; 

That  yju  might  kiU  your  stomach™  on  your  meat, 
Ajid  not  upon  your  maid. 

Jul.  What  is  't  that  you  took  up  so  gingerly  ? 

Ltw.  Nothing. 

Jul.  Why  didst  thou  stoop  then  ? 

Lkc.  To  take  a  paper  up  that  I  let  fall. 

Jul.  And  is  that  paper  nothing  ? 

Lite.  Nothing  concerning  me. 

Jul.  Then  let  it  lie  for  those  that  it  concerns. 

Luc.  Madam,  it  will  not  lie  where  it  concerns. 
Unless  it  have  a  false  interpreter. 

Jul.  Some  love  of  yours  hath  writ  to  you  in 
rhyme. 

Luc    That  I  might  sing  it.  Madam,  to  a  time  : 
Give  me  a  note  :  your  ladyslup  can  set — 

Jul.  As  little  by  such  toys"'  as  may  be  possible : 
Best  sing  it  to  the  tune  of  "Light  o'  love."'" 

Licc.  It  is  too  heavy  for  so  light  a  tune. 

Jul.  Heavy  ?  beKke  it  hath  some  burden  then. 

Luc.  Ay;    and  melodious  were  it,  would  you 
sing  it. 

Jul.  And  why  not  yoii  ? 

Luc.  1  cannot  reach  so  high. 

Jul.  Let 's  see  your  song : — How  now,  minion  ? 

Luc.  Keep  tune  there  still,  so  you  wiU  sing  it 
out : 
And  yet,  methinks,  I  do  not  like  this  tune. 

Jul.  You  do  not  ? 

Luc.  No,  madam ;  't  is  too  sharp. 

Jul.  You,  minion,  are  too  saucy. 

Luc.  Nay,  now  you  are  too  flat. 
And  mar  the  concord  -with  too  harsh  a  descant :" 
There  wanteth  but  a  mean  to  fill  your  song. 

Jul.  The  mean  is  di'own'd  ^vith  your  imi'uly  base. 

Luc.  Indeed,  I  bid  the  base  for  Proteus.^ 

Jul.  This  babble  shall  not  henceforth  trouble  me. 
Here  is  a  coU.  with  protestation  ! — \_Tears  the  letter. 
Go,  get  you  gone,  and  let  the  papers  lie  : 
You  would  he  ting' ring  them,  to  anger  me. 

Lac.  She  makes  it  strange;   but  she  woiild  he 
best  pleas'd 
To  be  so  anger'd  with  another  letter.  [_Sxit. 

Jul  Nay,  would  I  were  so  anger'd  with  the  same! 
0  liatelul  hand.s,  to  tear  such  loving  words  ! 
liyurious  wasps    to  feed  on  such  sweet  honey, 
60 


And  kill  the  bees,  that  yield  it,  with  your  atings ' 

I  'U  kiss  each  several  paper  for  amends. 

Look,  here  is  writ — "  kind  Julia :" — unldnd  .Tulia 

As  in  revenge  of  thy  ingratitude^ 

I  throw  thy  name  against  the  bruising  stones. 

Trampling  contemptuously  on  thy  disdain  ! 

And  here  is  writ — "  love- wounded  Proteus :" — 

Poor  wounded  name  !  my  bosom,  as  a  bed. 

Shall  lodge    thee,   tiD    thy  wound   be   throughly 

heal'd ; 
And  thus  I  search"  it  with  a  sovereign  kiss. 
But  twice,  or  thrice,  was  Proteus  written  down. 
Be  calm,  good  wind,  blow  not  a  word  away, 
TUl  I  have  found  each  letter  in  the  letter. 
Except  mine  own  name  :  that  some  whirlwind  bcai 
Unto  a  ragged,  fearful,  hanging  rock. 
And  tlii'ow  it  thence  into  the  raging  sea  ! 
Lo,  here  in  one  line  is  his  name  twice  writ,— 
"  Poor  forlorn  Proteus,  passionate  Prote.is, — 
To  the  sweet  Julia ;"  that  I  'U  tear  away, — 
And  yet  I  ■noil  not,  sith  so  prettily 
He  couples  it  to  his  complaining  names ; 
Thus  will  I  fold  them  one  upon  another : 
Now  kiss,  embrace,  contend,  do  what  you  will. 

Re-enter  Luceiia. 
Lmc.  Madam,  dinner  is  ready,  and  your  father 

stays. 
Jul.  Well,  let  us  go. 
Zmc.  "WTiat,  shall  these  papers  Ue  like  tell-tales 

here  ? 
Jul.  K  you  respect  them,  best  to  take  them  up, 
Lm.  Nay,  I  was  taken  up  for  laying  them  down : 
Yet  here  they  shall  not  lie,  for  catching  cold.^ 
Jul.  I  see  you  have  a  month's  mind"''  to  them. 
Luc.  Ay,  madam,  you  may  say  what  sights  you 
see ; 
I  see  things  too,  although  you  juage  I  wink. 
Jul.  Come,  come;  wul  't  please  you  go  ?  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  HI.— The  same.     A  Room  in  Antonio'! 
House. 

Enter  Antonio  and  Panthino. 

Ant.  TeU  me,  Panthino,  what  sad  talk^  was  tliat 
Wherewith  my  brother  held  you  in  the  cloister  ? 

Pan.  'T  was  of  his  nephew  Proteus,  your  son. 

Ant.  Why,  what  of  him  ? 

Pan.  He  wonder'd  that  your  lordship 

Would  suffer  liim  to  spend  his  youth  at  home ; 
Wliile  other  men,  of  slender  reputation, 
Put  forth  their  sons  to  seek  preferment  out : 
Some,  to  the  wars,  to  try  their  fortune  there ; 


ACT    I 


THE  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA. 


SCENE   III. 


Some,  to  discover  islands  far  away , 
Some,  to  the  studious  universities. 

For  an}',  or  for  all  these  exercises, 

Ho  said  that  Proteus,  your  son,  was  meet ; 

A  nd  did  request  me  to  importune  you, 

Co  let  him  spend  his  time  no  more  at  homo, 

Wliich  would  bo  great  impeachment  to  liis  age, 

1 11  liaving  known  no  travel  in  his  youth. 

Ant.   Nor  necd'st  thou  much  importune  me  to 
that, 
WTiereon  this  month  I  have  been  hammering. 
I  have  consider'd  well  liis  loss  of  time. 
And  how  he  cannot  be  a  perfect  man. 
Not  being  tried  and  tutor'd  in  the  world  : 
Experience  is  by  industry  aohiev'd, 
.\j)d  perfected  by  the  s\vift  course  of  time  : 
Then,  tell  me,  whither  were  I  best  to  send  him  ? 

Pan.  I  think  your  lordship  is  not  ignorant. 
How  his  companion,  youthful  Valentine, 
Attends  the  emperor  in  his  royal  court. 

An,t.  I  know  it  well. 

Pan.  'T  were  good,  I  think,  your  lordship  sent 
him  thither : 
There  shall  he  practise  tUts  and  tournaments, 
Heiur  sweet  discourse,  converse  witli  nnlilemen, 
iVnd  be  in  eye  of  every  exercise 
Worthy  his  j'outh  and  nobleness  of  birth. 

Ant.  I  like  thy  coimsel ;  well  hast  thou  advis'd  : 
And,  that  thou  ma}'st  perceive  how  well  I  like  it. 
The  execution  of  it  shall  make  known  : 
Even  with  the  speediest  expedition, 
I  will  despatch  liim  to  the  emperor's  court. 

Pan.  To-morrow,    may    it    please    you,    Don 
Alphonso, 
With  other  gentlemen  of  good  esteem, 
Are  journeying  to  salute  the  emperor, 
ind  to  commend  their  service  to  his  ■will. 

Ant.  Good  company;  with  them  shall  Proteus  go : 
And, — in  good  time." — 'Now  will  we  break  with 
him.™ 

£nter  Peoteus. 

Pro.  Sweet  love  !  •  sweet  lines !  sweet  life  ! 
Here  is  her  hand,  the  agent  of  her  heart ; 
Here  is  her  oath  for  love,  her  honour's  pawn 
0,  that  our  fathers  would  applaud  our  loves, 
Or  seal  our  happiness  with  their  consents  ! 
O,  Ilavenly  JuHa ! 


Ant.  How  now  ?  what  letter  are  you  reading 
there  ? 

Pro.  May  't  please  your  lordship,  'lis  a  word  or 
two 
Of  commendations  sent  from  Valentine, 
Dcliv3r'd  by  a  friend  that  came  from  him. 

Ant.  Lend  me  the  letter  ;  let  me  see  what  ne  ws. 

Pro.  There  is  no  news,  my  lord  ;   but  that  ho 
writes 
How  happily  ho  lives,  how  well-belov'd, 
And  daily  graced  by  the  emperor ; 
Wishing  me  with  him,  partner  of  his  fortune. 

Ant.  And  how  stand  you  affected  to  his  wish  ? 

Pro.  As  one  relying  on  your  lordship's  will, 
And  not  depending  on  his  tnendly  wish. 

Ant.  My  will  is  something  sorted  ^^^th  his  ^vish 
Muse  not  that  I  thus  suddenly  proceed. 
For  what  I  ^viU,  I  will,  and  there  an  end. 
I  am  resolv'd  that  thou  shalt  spend  some  time 
With  Valcntinus  in  the  emperor's  court ; 
What  maintenance  he  from  his  friends  receives, 
Like  exhibition^'  thou  shalt  have  from  me. 
To-morrow  bo  in  readiness  to  go  : 
Excuse  it  not,  for  I  am  peremptory.  . 

Pro.  My  lord,  I  cannot  be  so  soon  provided ; 
Please  you,  dehberate  a  day  or  two. 

Atit.  Look,   what  thou  want'st  shall   be   sent 
after  thee : 
No  more  of  stay  ;  to-morrow  thou  must  go. — 
Come  on,  Panthino  ;  j'ou  shall  be  employ'd 
To  hasten  on  his  expedition.  \_Hxeunt  Ant.  and  Fas. 

Pro.  Thus  have  I  shunn'd  the  fire,  for  fear  of 
bm-ning. 
And  drench'd  me  in  the  sea,  where  I  am  drown'd 
I  fear'd  to  show  my  father  Julia's  letter. 
Lest  he  should  take  exceptions  to  my  love ; 
And,  with  the  vantage  of  mine  own  excuse, 
Hath  he  excepted  most  against  my  love. 
0,  how  this  spring  of  love  resembleth 

The  uncertain  glory  of  an  April  day ; 
WTiich  now  shows  all  the  beauty  of  the  sun, 
And  by  and  by  a  cloud  takes  all  away  ' 

Re-mter  Panthino. 

Pan.  Sir  Proteus,  your  father  colls  for  you  ; 
He  is  in  haste  ;  therefore,  I  pray  you,  go. 

Pro.  Why,  this  it  is  !  my  heart  accords  thereto; 
And  yet  a  thousand  times  it  answers,  No.   [Exeunt 

51 


ACT   II. 


THE    TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF   VERONA. 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  I. — Milan.     A  JZoom  in  the  Duke's  palace. 

Enter  Vaienixnb  and  Speed. 

Speed.  \_PicMng  xip  a  ghi^e.']     Sir,  your  glove? 
Val.  Not  mine;  my  gloves  are  on. 

Speed.  Why,  then  this  may  be  youi-s,  for  this 
is  but  one.'^ 

Val.  Ha !  lot  me  see :  ay,  give  it  me,  it's  mine : 
Sweet  ornament,  that  decks  a  thing  divine ! 
Ah  Silvia  I  SLl^-iai 

Speed.  [_C'alls.']  Madam  Silvia!  madam  Silvia! 

Val.  How  now,  sirrah? 

Speed.  She  is  not  within  hearing,  sir. 

Val.  Why,  sir,  who  bade  you  call  her? 

Speed.  Your  worship,  sir;  or  else  I  mistook. 

V(d.  Well,  you'll  still  be  too  forward. 

Speed.  And  yet  I  was  last  chidden  for  being  too 
slow. 

Val.  Go  to,  sir;  tell  me,  do  you  know  madam 
Silvia? 

Speed.  She  that  your  worship  loves? 

Val.  Why,  how  know  you  that  I  am  in  love  ? 

Speed.  MaiTy,  by  these  special  marks:     Tii-st, 
you    have   leai-n'd,    like    sir   Proteus,   to   wreath 
your  anus  like  a  malcontent;  to  relish  a  love-song, 
Hke  a  robin-redbreast;  to  walk  alone,  like  one  that 
had  the  pestilence;  to  sigh,  like  a  schoolboy  that 
had  lost  his  A. B.C.;  to  weep,  like  a  yoimg  wench 
that  had  buried  her  grandam;  to  fast,  like  one  that 
takes  diet;^  to  watch,  like  one  that  fears  robbing; 
to  speak  puling,  like  a  beggar  at  Hallo-miias.    You 
were  wont,  when  you  laughed,  to  crow  like  a  cook 
M'hen  you  walk'd,  to  walk  like  one  of  the  lions 
when  you  fasted,  it  was  presently  after  dinner 
when  you  look'd  sadly,  it  was  for  want  of  money 
and  now  you  are  metamorphos'd  with  a  mistress, 
that,  when  I  look  on  you,  I  can  hardly  think  you 
my  master. 

Val.  Are  all  these  things  perceiv'd  in  me? 

Speed.  Thoy  are  aU  i)ercei\'d  witliout  ye. 

Val.  Witliout  me  Ihey  cimnot. 

Speed.  Without  jou?    nay,    that's  certain,   for 
ndthout  vou  were  so  simple,  none  else  would :  but 
52 


you  are  so  without  these  follies,  that  these  follies 
are  within  you,  and  shine  through  you  like  the 
water  in  an  urinal,  that  not  an  eye  that  sees  you 
but  is  a  physician  to  comment  on  your  malady. 

Val.  But  teU  me  dost  thou  know  my  lady  Silvia? 

Speed.  She  that  you  gaze  on  so,  as  she  sits  at 
supper? 

Val.  Hast  thou  observed  that?  even  she  I  mean. 

Speed.  Why,  sir,  I  know  her  not. 

Val.  Dost  thou  know  her  by  my  gazing  on  her, 
and  yet  know'st  her  not? 

Speed.  Is  she  not  hard-favour'd,  sir? 

Val.  Not  so  fair,  boy,  as  well  favour'd. 

Speed.  Sir,  I  know  that  well  enough. 

Val.  What  dost  thou  knew? 

Speed.  Tliat  she  is  not  so  fair  as  (of  you )  we!  I 
favour'd. 

Val.  I  mean,  that  her  beauty  is  exquisite,  but 
her  favour  infinite. 

Speed.  That 's  because  the  one  is  painted,  and 
the  other  out  of  all  coimt . 

Val.  How  painted?  and  how  out  of  count? 

Speed.  Mari-y,  sir,  so  painted,  to  make  her  fah, 
that  no  man  counts  of  her  beauty. 

Val.  How  esteem' st  thou  me?  I  account  of  her 
beauty. 

Speed.  You  never  saw  her  since  she  was 
deform'd. 

Val.  How  long  hath  she  been  deform'd? 

Speed.  Ever  since  you  lov'd  her. 

Val.  I  have  lov'd  her  ever  since  I  saw  her;  and 
still  I  see  her  beautiful. 

Speed.  If  you  love  her,  you  cannot  see  her. 

Val.  Why? 

Speed.  Because  Love  is  bHnd.  0,  that  you  had 
mine  eyes ;  or  your  own  eyes  had  the  lights  they 
were  wont  to  have,  when  you  chid  at  sir  Proteus 
for  going  ungarter'd! 

Val.  Wliat  should  I  see  then  ? 

Speed.  Your  own  present  foUy,  and  her  passing 
(U'lbrmity:  for  ho,  being  in  love,  could  not  sec  to 
garter  bis  liose;  and  you,  being  in  hvc  cannot  sec 
to  put  on  your  hose. 


ACT    U. 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VEKONA. 


SCENK    I. 


Val.  Belike,  boy,  then  you  are  in  love;  for  last 
moming  you  could  not  see  to  wipe  my  shoes. 

Speed.  True,  sii-;  I  was  in  love  with  ray  bed:  I 
Ihauk  you,  you  swing'd  me  for  my  love,  which 
Diakcs  me  the  bolder  to  chide  you  for  yours. 

Val.  In  conclusion,  I  stand  aifectcd  to  her. 

Speed.  I  would  you  were  sot;  so  your  affection 
would  cease. 

Val.  Last  night  she  enjoin'd  me  to  write  some 
lines  to  one  she  loves. 

Speed.  And  have  you? 

Val.  I  have. 

Speed.  Are  they  not  lamely  writ? 

Val  No,  boy,  but  as  well  as  I  can  do  them; — 
Peace!  here  she  comes. 

Enter  Siltia. 

Speed.  0  excellent  motion  I'*  0  exceeding  pup- 
pet!    Now  will  he  interpret  to  her. 

Val.  Madam   and   mistress,   a  thousand   good- 
morrows. 

Speed.  0,  'give  ye  good  ev'n!  here's  a  million 
of  manners.  \^Aside. 

Sil.  Sir  Valentine  and  servant,"  to  you  two 
thousand. 

Speed.  He  should  give  her  interest,  and  she 
gives  it  him. 

Val.  As  you  enjoin'd  me,  I  have  vrrit  your  letter 
Unto  the  sect-ot  nameless  fi-iond  of  yours; 
Which  I  was  much  unwiUing  to  proceed  in, 
But  for  my  duty  to  your  ladyship. 

Sil.  I  thank  you,   gentle   servant,    't  is  very 
clerkly  done. 

Val.  Now  trust  me,  madam,  it  came  hardly  off; 
For,  being  ignorant  to  whom  it  goes, 
I  writ  at  random,  very  doubtfully. 

Sil.  Perchance  you  think  too  much  of  so  much 
pains? 

Val.  No,  madam;  so  it  stead  you,  I  will  write, 
Please  you  command,  a  thousand  times  as  much : 
And  yet, — 

Sil.  A  pretty  period!- Well,  I  guess  the  sequel; 
And  yet  I  wiU  not' name  it; — and  yet  I  care  not; — 
And  yet  take  this  again; — and  yet  I  thank  you; 
Meaning  henceforth  to  trouble  you  no  more. 

Speed.  And  yet  you  will;  and  yet  another  yet. 

\_Aside. 

Val.   What  means  yoiu-  ladyship?  do  you  not 
like  it? 

Sil.  Yes,  yes ;  the  lines  are  very  quaintly  writ, 
But  since  unwillingly,  take  them  ngain: 
Nay  take  them. 


Val.  Madam,  they  are  for  you. 

Sil.  Ay,  ay,  you  writ  them,  sir,  at  my  request 
But  I  will  none  of  them;  they  arc  for  you: 
I  would  have  had  thciu  wiit  more  movingly. 

Val.    Please    you,    I  '11    ■«Tite    your    ladyshif. 
another. 

Sil.  And  when  it  's  writ,  for  my  sake  read  it 
over  ; 
And  if  it  please  you,  so  :*°  if  not,  why,  so. 

Val.  If  it  please  me,  madam !  wliat  then  ? 

Sil.  Why,  if  it  please  you,  take  it  for  your  labour. 
And  so,  good  moirow,  servant.  [_£j:ii  Silvia. 

Speed.  0  jest  unseen,  inscrutable,  invisible, 
As  a  nose  on  a  man's  face,  or  a  weathercock  on  a 

steeple ! 
My  master  sues  to  her,  and  she  hath  taught  her 

suitor. 
He  being  her  pupU,  to  become  her  tutor. 
0  excellent  device !  was  there  over  heai'd  a  better, 
That  my  master,  being  scribe,  to  liimself  shoidd 
wiite  the  letter  ? 

Val.  How  now,  sir?  what,  are  you  reasoning 
with  yourself? 

Speed.  Nay,  I  was  rhyming ;  't  is  you  that  have 
the  reason.^' 

Val.  To  do  what? 

Speed.  To  be  a  spokesman  from  madam  Silvia. 

Val.  To  whom? 

Speed.  To  yourself:    why,   she  woos  you  by  a 
figm-e. 

Val.  What  figure? 

Speed.  By  a  letter,  I  should  say. 

Val.  TVTiy,  she  hath  not  writ  to  me  ? 

Speed.  What  need  she,  when  she  hath  made 
you  write  to  yourself?  Why,  do  you  not  percoivo 
the  jest  ? 

Val.  No,  believe  me. 

Speed.  No  boheving  j'ou,  indeed,  sir :  but  did 
you  perceive  her  earnest  ? 

Val.  She  gave  me  none,  except  an  angry  word. 

Speed.  Why,  she  hath  given  you  a  letter. 

Val.  That 's  the  letter  I  writ  to  her  friend. 

Speed.  And  that  letter  hath  she  dcUver'd,   and 
there  an  end.'' 

Val.  I  would  it  were  do  worse. 

Speed.  I  'U  warrant  you  't  is  as  well: 
For  often  have  you  writ  to  her ;  and  she,  in  modesty, 
Or  else  for  want  of  idle  time,  could  not  again  reply ; 
Or  fearing  else  some  messenger,  that  might  her  mind  discover 
Herself  hath  taught  her  love  himself  to  write  imto  her  lover.— 
AH  this  I  speak  in  print,''  for  in  print  I  foimd  it.— 
Why  muse  you,  sir  ?  't  is  dinner-time. 

53 


AM  n. 


THE  TWO  GENTLElLEaf  OF  VEEONA. 


BCEMK    II.' 


Fal.  1  have  din'd. 

Speed.  Ay,  but  hearken,  sir ;  though  the  came- 
leon  Love  can  feed  on  the  air,  I  am  one  that  am 
nourish'd  by  my  victuals,"  and  would  fain  have 
meat.  0,  be  not  like  your  mistress ;  be  moved, 
ie  moved."  _  l&emit. 

SCEOT2  II. — ^Verona.     A  room  in  Julia's  Some. 

Enter  Peoteus  and  Julia. 

Pro.  Have  patience,  gentle  Julia. 

Jul.  I  must,  where  is  no  remedy. 

Pro.  When  possibly  I  can,  I  will  return. 

Jul.  If  you  turn  not,  you  will  return  the  sooner : 
Keep  this  remembrance  for  thy  Julia's  sake. 

[  Giving  a  ring. 

Pro.  Why,  then  we  'U  make  exchange ; "  here, 
take  you  this.  [  Giving  her  another. 

Jul.  And  seal  the  bargain  with  a  holy  kiss. 

Pro.  Here  is  my  hand  for  my  true  constancy  ; 
And  when  that  horn-  o'erslips  me  m  the  day, 
WTierein  I  sigh  not  '  Jidia'  for  thy  sake. 
The  next  ensuing  hour  some  foul  mischance 
Torment  me  for  my  love's  forgetfulness  ! 
My  father  stays  my  coming ;  answer  not : 
The  tide  is  now  :  nay,  not  thy  tide  of  tears ; 
That  tide  wiU  stay  mo  longer  than  I  should : 

\_Exit  Julia. 
Julia,  farewell ! — Wliat !  gone  -without  a  word  ? 
Ay,  so  true  love  should  do :  it  cannot  speak ; 
For  truth  hath  better  deeds  than  words  to  grace  it. 

Enter  Paxthijto. 
Pan.  Sir  Proteus,  you  are  stay'd  for. 
Pro.  Go ;  I  come,  I  come : — 

Mas  !  this  parting  strikes  poor  lovers  dumb. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— The  same.     A  street. 

Enter  Lauxce,  leading  a  dog. 
Laim.  Nay,  't  wiU  be  this  hour  ere  I  have  done 
weeping ;  all  the  kind  of  the  Launccs  have  this 
very  fault.  I  have  receiv'd  my  proportion,  like 
the  prodigious  son,  and  am  going  with  sir  Proteus 
to  the  imperial's  court.  I  think  Crab  my  dog  be 
the  sourest-naturod  dog  that  lives :  my  mother 
weeping,  my  father  walling,  ray  sister  crjing,  our 
aiaid  howling,  our  cat  wringing  her  hands,  and 
sJl  our  house  in  a  great  perplexity,  yet  did  not 
this  cruel-hearted  cur  shed  one  tear :  he  is  a  stone, 
a  verj'  pebble-stone,  and  has  no  more  pity  in  him 
than  a  dog  :  a  Jew  would  have  wept  to  have  seen 
our  parting ;  why,  my  grandam,  having  no  eyes, 


look  you,  wept  herself  blind  at  my  parting.  Nay, 
I  'H  show  you  the  manner  of  it :  This  shoe  is  my 
father  ; — no,  this  left  shoe  is  my  father ;  no,  no, 
this  left  shoe  is  my  mother ; — nay,  that  caiuiot  be 
so  neither: — yes,  it  is  so,  it  is  so;  it  hath  the 
worser  sole.  This  shoe,  with  the  hole  in  it,  is 
my  mother,  and  this  my  father ;  A  vengeance  on 
't !  there  't  is  :  now,  sir,  this  staff  is  my  sister ; 
for,  look  you,  she  is  as  white  as  a  Uly,  and  aa 
small  as  a  wand :  this  hat  is  Nan,  our  maid ;  I 
am  the  dog  : — no,  the  dog  is  himself,  and  I  am  the 
dog, — 0!  the  dog  is  me,  and  I  am  myself;  ay,  so, 
so.  Now  come  I  to  my  father;  "Father,  your 
blessing ;"  now  should  not  the  shoe  speak  a  word 
for  weeping ;  now  should  I  kiss  my  father ;  wcU, 
he  weeps  on.  Now  come  I  to  my  mother,  (0, 
that  she  could  speak  now  like  an  old  woman ;") — 
well,  I  kiss  her; — why,  there  't  is;  here  's  my 
mother's  breath  up  and  down.  Now  come  I  to  my 
sister ;  mark  the  moan  she  makes :  now  the  dog 
all  this  while  sheds  not  a  tear,  nor  speaks  a  word ; 
but  see  how  I  lay  the  dust  with  my  tears 

Enter  Panthino. 

Pan.  Launce,  away,  away,  aboard!  Thy  master 
is  shipp'd,  and  thou  art  to  post  after  with  oars. 
What  's  the  matter?  why  weep'st  thou,  man? 
Away,  ass ;  you  'U  lose  the  tide,  if  you  taiTy  any 
longer. 

Zaun.  It  is  no  matter  if  the  ti'd  were  lost ;  for 
it  is  the  unkindest  ti'd  that  ever  any  man  ti'd. 

Pan.  What 's  the  unkindest  fide  ? 

Zaun.  Why,  he  that 's  ti'd  here ;  Crab,  my  dog. 

Pa?i.  Tut,  man,  I  mean  thou  'It  lose  the  flood ; 
and,  in  losing  the  flood,  lose  thy  voyage;  and,  in 
losing  thy  voyage,  lose  thy  master ;  and,  in  losing 
thy  master,  lose  thy  service ;  and,  in  losing  thy 
service, — Why  dost  thou  stop  my  mouth  ? 

Zaun.  For  fear  thou  should' st  lose  thy  tongue. 

Pan.  Where  should  I  lose  my  tongue  ? 

Zaun.  In  thy  tale. 

Pan.  In  thy  tail  ? 

Zaun.  Lose  the  ti'd,"  and  the  voyage,  and  Ihe 
master,  and  the  service,  and  the  tide ! — Why, 
man,  Lf  the  river  were  dry,  I  am  able  to  fill  it 
with  my  tears ;  if  the  wind  were  down,  I  co'.dd 
drive  the  boat  with  my  sighs. 

Pan.  Come,  come  away,  man ;  I  was  sent  to 
call  thee. 

Zaun,  '^ir,  call  me  what  thou  iar'st. 

Pan.  Wilt  thou  go? 

Zaun.  Well,  I  will  go.  [£xeuni 


^CT  11.                              THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.                              sckne  iv. 

.SCENE.  IV .—Milan.     A  Room  in  the  Duke's 

Unter  the  DtTKE. 

Palaee. 

Duke.  Now,  daughter  Silvia,  you  arc  hai-d  beset 

Sir  Valentine,  your  father  is  in  good  health  : 

Entei-  VALENTrsTE,  Sn,TiA,  Tburio,  and  Speed. 

What  say  you  to  a  letter  fi-om  your  friends 

Sil.  Servant! 

Of  much  good  news  ? 

Vul.  Mistress. 

Val.                 My  lord,  I  wiU  be  thankful 

Speed.  Master,  sir  Thiirio  frowns  on  you. 

To  any  happy  messenger  from  thence. 

Val  Ay,  boy,  it 's  for  love. 

Bu/ce.  Know  ye  Don  Antonio,''  your  coimtiyman? 

Speed.  Not  of  you. 

Val.  Ay,  my  good  lord ;  I  know  the  gentleman 

Val.  Of  my  mistress,  tlion. 

To  be  of  worth,  and  worthy  estimation, 

Speed.  'Twere  good  you  laiock'd  him. 

And  not  without  desert  so  wcU  reputed. 

Sil.  Servant,  you  are  sad. 

Diike.  Hath  he  not  a  son  ? 

Val.  Indeed,  madam,  I  seem  so. 

Val.  Ay,  my  good  lord  ;  a  son  that  well  deserves 

T/iu.  Seem  you  that  you  are  not  ? 

The  honour  and  regard  of  such  a  father. 

Val.  Haply  I  do. 

DuJce.  You  know  him  well  ? 

TJiu.  So  do  counterfeits. 

Val.  1  knew  him,  as  myself;  for  from  our  infancy 

Val.  So  do  you. 

We  have  convcrs'd  and  spent  our  hours  together  : 

77m.  What  seem  I  that  I  am  not  ? 

And  though  myself  have  been  an  idle  truant, 

Val.  Wise. 

Omitting  the  sweet  benefit  of  time 

Thti.  WTiat  instance  of  the  contrary  ? 

To  clothe  mine  age  with  angel-like  perfection, 

Val.  Your  foUy. 

Yet  hath  sir  Proteus,  for  that  's  his  name, 

Thu.  And  how  quote''  you  my  folly.' 

Made  use  and  fair  advantage  of  his  days ; 

Val.  I  quote  it  in  your  jerkin. 

His  years  but  young,  but  his  experience  old ; 

Thu.  My  jerkin  is  a  doublet. 

His  head  luimellowed,  but  his  judgment  ripe ; 

Val.  Well,  then,  I  'U  double  youi"  folly. 

.\nd,  in  a  word,  (for  far  behind  his  worth 

Thu.  How? 

Come  aU  the  praises  that  I  now  bestow,) 

Sil.  MTiat,  angry,   sir  Thurio?   do  you  change 

He  is  complete  in  feature,"  and  in  mind. 

Dolour  ? 

With  aU  good  grace  to  grace  a  gentleman. 

Val.  Give  him  leave,  madam;  he  is  a  kind  of 

Duke.  Beshrew  me,  sir,  but  if  he  make  this  good, 

cameleon 

He  is  as  worthy  for  an  empress'  love. 

Thu.  That  hath  more  mind  to  feed  on  your  blood, 

As  meet  to  be  an  emperor's  counsellor. 

than  live  in  your  air. 

Well,  sir ;  this  gentleman  is  come  to  me. 

Val.  You  have  said,  sir. 

With  commendation  from  great  potentates  ; 

Thu.  Ay,  sir,  and  done  too,  for  this  time. 

And  here  he  means  to  spend  his  time  awhile : 

Val.  I  know  it  well,  sir ;  you  always  end  ere 

I  think  't  is  no  unwelcome  news  to  you. 

you  begin. 

Val.  Should  I  have  wish'd  a  thing,  it  had  been  he. 

Sil.  A   fine  volley   of  words,  gentlemen,    and 

DuJce.  Welcome  him,  then,  according  to  his  worth , 

quickly  shot  off. 

Silvia,  I  speak  to  you :  and  you,  sir  Thurio  : — 

Val.  'T  is  indeed,  madam ;  we  thank  the  giver. 

For  Valentine,  I  need  not  cite  him  to  it  : 

Sil.  "Wlio  is  that,  scn'ant  ? 

I  wUl  send  him  hither  to  you  presently. 

Val.  Yourself,   sweet  lady ;  '  for  you  gave  the 

[_£xit  Duke. 

fire :  Sir  Thmio  borrows  his  wit  from  your  lady- 

Val. This  is  the  gentleman  I  told  your  ladyship 

ship's  looks,  and  spends  what  he  borrows  kindly 

Had  come  along  with  me,  but  that  his  mistress 

in  your  company. 

Did  hold  his  eyes  lock'd  in  her  crystal  looks. 

TIiu.  Sir,  if  you  spend  word  for  word  with  me. 

Sil.  Belike,  that  now  she  hath  enfranchis'd  them, 

I  shall  make  your  wit  banki'upt. 

Upon  some  other  pawn  for  fealty. 

V'_d.  I  know  it  well,  sir :"  you  have  an  exchequer 

Val.  Nay,  sure,  I  think  she  holds  them  piisoncxs 

of  words,  and,  I  think,  no  other  treasure  to  give 

stm. 

your  followers ;  for  it  appears,  by  their  bare  live- 

Sil. Nay,  then,  he  should  be  blind ;  and,  being 

ries,  that  they  live  by  your  bare  words. 

bUnd, 

Sil.  No  more,  gentlemen,  no  more  ;  here  comes 

How  could  he  see  his  w&y  to  seek  out  you  ? 

my  father. 

Val.  Why,  lady,  Love  hath  twenty  pair  of  eyes 

65 

'"     "        '  1 

AOT  n. 


THE   TWO    GENTLEMEN    OF    VERONA- 


TfiiL  They  say  that  Love  hath  not  an  eye  at  all — 
Vol.  To  see  such  lovers,  Thurio,  as  yourself; 
tlpon  a  homely  object  Love  can  mnk. 

Enter  Pkoteus. 

Sil.  Have   done,    have   done;  here   comes   the 
gentleman.    \JExeunt  Tmniio  and  Speed. 

Val.  "Welcome,  dear  Proteus! — Mistress,  I  be- 
seech you 
Confii-m  Lis  -wdoome  with  some  special  favour. 

Sil.  His  -n-orth  is  warrant  for  his  welcome  hither, 
If  this  be  he  you  oft  have  wish'd  to  hear  from. 

Val.  Mistress,  it  is :  sweet  lady,  entertain  him 
To  be  my  feUow-servant  to  your  ladyship. 

Sil.  Too  low  a  mistress  for  so  high  a  servant ! 

Pro.  E'ot  so,  sweet  lady  ;  but  too  mean  a  servant 
To  have  a  look  of  such  a  worthy  mish-ess. 

Val.  Leave  off  discoiirse  of  disability : — 
Sweet  lady,  entsrtain  him  for  your  servant. 

Pro.  My  duty  will  I  boast  of,  nothing  else. 

Sil.  And  duty  never  yet  did  want  his  meed ; 
Servant,  you  are  welcome  to  a  worthless  mistress. 

Pro.  I  'U  die  on  him  that  says  so,  but  yourself. 

Sil.  That  you  are  welcome  ? 

Pro.  That  you  ai-e  worthless." 

Re-enter  Thtjeio. 

Thu.  Madam,  my  lord™  your  father  would  speak 
with  you. 

Sil.  I  wait  upon  his  pleasxu-e.  Come,  Sir  Thurio, 
Go  with  me  : — once  more,  new  servant,  welcome  : 
I  'U  leave  you  to  confer  of  home  affairs ; 
When  vou  have  done,  we  look  to  heai'  from  you. 

Pro.  We  '11  both  attend  upon  your  ladyship. 

\Jixeunt  Silvia  and  Thxtrio. 

Val.  Now,  tcU  mc,  how  do  aU  from  whence  you 
came? 

Pro.  Your  friends  are  well,  and  have  them  much 
commended. 

Val.  And  how  do  yours  ? 

Pro.  I  left  them  all  in  healtli. 

Val.  How  does  your  lady  ?    and  how  thrive? 
your  love  ? 

Pro.  My  tales  of  love  wore  wont  to  weary  yon 
I  know  you  joy  not  in  a  love-discourse. 

Val.  Ay,  Proteus,  but  that  life  is  altcrd  now: 
r  have  done  penance  for  contemning  Love, 
Whose  high  imperious  thoughts"  have  punish'd  mf 
With  bitter  fasts,  with  penitential  groans. 
With  niglitly  tears,  and  daily  heart-soi-e  sighs; 
For,  in  revenge  of  my  contempt  of  love, 
Love  hath  cha.s'd  sleep  from  my  enthralled  eyes, 

nr. 


And  made  them  watchers  of  mine  own  heart's 

sorrow. 
0,  gentle  Proteus,  Love's  a  mighty  .crd; 
And  hath  so  hiunbled  «ie,  as,  I  confess. 
There  is  no  woe'-  to  his  correction, 
Nor  to  his  service  no  such  joy  on  earth! 
Now,  no  discourse,  except  it  be  of  love; 
Now  can  I  break  my  fast,  dine,  sup,  and  sleep, 
Upon  the  very  naked  name  of  Love. 

Pro.  Enough;  I  read  your  fortune  in  your  eye, 
Was  this  the  idol  that  you  worship  so? 

Val.    Even   she;    and  is  she  not  a  heavenly 
saint? 

Pro.  No;  but  she  is  an  earthly  paragon. 

Val.  Call  her  divine. 

Pro.  I  win  not  flatter  her. 

Val.  0,  flatter  mc,  for  love  delights  in  praises. 

Pro.  When  I  was  sick,  you  gave  me  bitter  piUs 
And  I  must  minister  the  like  to  you. 

Val.  Then  speak  the  truth  by  her ;  if  not  divine, 
Yet  let  her  be  a  principality,'' 
Sovereign  to  all  the  creatures  on  the  earth. 

Pro.  Except  my  mistress. 
Val.  Sweet,  except  not  any; 

Except  thou  wait  except  against  my  love. 

Pro.  Have  I  not  reason  to  prefer  mine  own? 
Val.  And  I  will  help  thee  to  prefer  her,  too  : 
She  shall  be  dignified  with  this  high  honour, — 
To  bear  my  lady's  train,  lest  the  base  earth 
Should  from  her  vestui'e  chance  to  steal  a  kiss. 
And,  of  so  great  a  favour  growing  proud. 
Disdain  to  root  the  summer-swelling  flower. 
And  ma]ce  rough  winter  everlastingly. 

Pro.    T\Tiy,    Valentine,    what   braggardism   is 

tills? 
Val.  Pardon  me,  Proteus:  aU  I  can  is  nothing 
To    her,     whose    worth    makes    other    worthies 

nothing; 
She  is  alone  !** 

Pro.  Then  let  her  alone. 
Val.  Not  for  the  world:  why,  man,  she  ia  miae 
own ; 
And  I  as  rich  in  having  such  a  jewel, 
As  twenty  sea-s,  if  all  their  sand  were  pearl, 
The  water  nectar,  and  the  rocks  pure  gold. 
Forgive  me,  that  I  do  not  di'eam  on  thee, 
Because  thou  secst  me  dote  upon  my  lovo. 
My  foolish  rivid,  that  her  father  likes, 
Only  for  his  possessions  are  so  huge. 
Is  gone  with  her  along;  and  I  nujst  after, 
For  love,  thou  know'st,  is  full  of  jealousy 

Pro.  Hut  she  loves  you? 


ACT   IL 


TKE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OIJ'  VEEONA. 


SCENE    V. 


Val.  Ay,  and  wo  aro  betroth'd:  Nay,  more,  our 
marriage  hour, 
With  all  tbe  cunning  manner  of  our  flight, 
DettTinin'd  of:  how  I  must  climb  her  window ; 
The  ladder  made  of  cords;  imd  all  the  means 
Plotted,  and  'greed  on,  for  my  happiness. 
Good  Proteus,  go  with  me  to  my  chamber. 
In  these  affairs  to  aid  me  -n-ith  thy  counsel. 

Ffo.  Go  on  before;  I  shall  inquire. you  forth: 
I  must  imto  the  road,  to  disembark 
Some  necessaries  that  I  needs  must  use; 
Ajid  then  I'll  presently  attend  you. 

Val.  Will  you  make  haste? 

Fro.  I  will.—  [Ikit  Vai. 

Even  as  one  heat  another  heat  expels, 
Or  as  one  nail  by  strength  drives  out  another, 
So  the  remembrance  of  my  former  love 
Is  by  a  newer  object  quite  forgotten. 
Is  it  her  mien,  or  Valentinus'  praise," 
Her  true  perfection,  or  my  false  transgression, 
That  makes  mo,  reasonless,  to  reason  thus? 
She  is  fair;  and  so  is  Julia,  that  I  love — 
That  I  did  love,  for  now  my  love  is  thaw'd ; 
Wliich,  like  a  waxen  image  'gainst  a  fire, 
Bears  no  impression  of  the  thing  it  was. 
Methinks,  my  zeal  to  Valentine  is  cold, 
And  that  I  love  him  not,  as  I  was  wont: 
0 !  but  I  love  his  lady  too-too  much,  *' 
And  that's  the  reason  I  love  him  so  little 
How  shall  I  dote  on  her  with  more  advice," 
That  thus  without  advice  begin  to  love  her! 
T  is  but  her  picture^'  I  have  yet  beheld. 
And  that  hath  dazzled  my  reason's  light; 
But  when  I  look  on  her  perfections, 
There  is  no  reason  but  I  shall  be  bHnd. 
If  I  can  check  my  erring  love,  I  wiU; 
If  not,  to  compass  her  I'U  use  my  skill.         l^Hxit. 

SCENE  V.     A  street  in  Milan. 
Enter  Speed  mid  LirrNCE. 
Speed.  Launoe!   by  mine   honesty,  welcome  to 

Milan. 
Lmm.  Forswear  not  thyself,  sweet  youth;  for  I 
urn  not  welcome.  I  reckon  this,  always — that  a 
man  is  never  undone,  till  he  be  hang'd;  nor  never 
welcome  t«  a  place,  till  some  certain  shot  be  paid, 
and  the  hostess  say,  'Welcome.' 

Speed.  Come  on,  you  madcap,  I'll  to  the  ale- 
house with  you  presently;  where,  for  one  shot  of 
five-pence,  thou  shalt  have  five  thousand  welcomes. 
Hut,  sirrah,  how  did  thy  master  part  with  madam 
Julia? 

a 


Zaun.  Marry,  after  they  clos'd  in  earnest,  tliey 
parted  very  fairly  in  jest. 

Speed.  But  shall  she  marry  him? 

Zaun.  No. 

Speed.  How  then?    Shall  he  marry  her? 

Zaun.  No,  neither. 

Speed.  What,  are  they  broken  ? 

Zatm.  No,  they  are  both  as  whole  as  a  fish. 

Speed.  Why,  then,  how  stands  the  matter  wtb 
them? 

Zaun.  Marry,  thus;  when  it  stands  well  ■ndth 
him,  it  stands  well  with  her. 

Speed.  What  an  ass  art  thou!  I  understand 
theo  not. 

Zaun.  What  a  block  art  thou,  that  thou  canst 
not!  My  staff  understands  me. 

Speed.  'Wliat  thou  say' st? 

Zaun.  Ay,  and  what  I  do,  too:  look  thee,  I'll 
but  lean,  and  my  staff  understands  me.°° 

Speed.  It  stands  under  thee,  indeed. 

Zjaun.  Wliy,  stand-under  and  imder-stand  is  aU 
one. 

Sjjeed.  But  tell  me  true,  will 't  be  a  match  ? 

Zaun.  Ask  my  dog:  if  he  say  ay,  it  will;  if  he 
say  no,  it  will;  if  he  shake  his  tail,  and  say  no- 
thing, it  vriU. 

Speed.  The  conclusion  is  then,  that  it  wUl. 

Zaun.  Thou  shalt  never  got  such  a  secret  fj'om 
me,  but  by  a  parable. 

Speed.  'T  is  well  that  I  get  it  so.  But,  Launco, 
how  say'st  thou,  that  my  master  is  become  a 
notable  lover? 

Zaun.  I  never  knew  him  otherwise. 

Speed.  Than  how? 

Zaun  A  notable  lubber,  as  thou  reportest  him 
to  be. 

Speed.  Why,  thou  whoreson  ass!  thou  mistak'st 

me. 

Zaun.  Why,  fool,  I  meant  not  thee,  I  meant 
thy  master. 

Speed.  I  tell  theo  my  master  is  become  a  hot 
lover. 

Zaun.  Why,  I  tell  thee,  I  care  not  though  ho 
bum  himself  iu  love.  If  thou  wUt  go  with  mo 
to  the  ale-house,  so  :  if  not,  thou  art  a  Hebrew,  n 
Jew,  and  not  worth  the  name  of  a  Christian. 

Speed.  T\Tiy? 

Zaun.  Because  thou  hast  not  so  much  charity  m 
thee  as  to  go  to  the  ale*"  with  a  Christian  :  Wili 
thou  go  ? 

Speed.  At  thy  service.  [Kmint 

67 


TKE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OE  VEROiNA. 


SCENE   VI,—  VTl. 


t<CENE  VI. — ilLaii.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  Peotetjs. 

Pro.  To  leave  my  Jiilia,  shall  I  be  forsworn ; 
To  love  fair  Silvia,  shall  I  be  forsworn ; 
To  -wrong  my  friend,  I  shall  be  much  forsworn  ; 
And   ev'n  that  pow'r,  which  gave  me   first  my 

oath, 
Provokes  me  to  this  threefold  peijury. 
Love  bade  me  swear,  and  Love  bids  me  forswear : 

0  sweet  suggesting  Love !  if  thou  hast  sinn'd, 
Teach  me,  thy  tempted  subject,  to  excuse  it. 
A.t  fh'st  I  did  adore  a  twinkling  star, 

But  now  I  worship  a  celestial  sun. 

Unheedful  vows  may  heedfully  be  broken ; 

And  he  wants  wit  that  wants  resolved  will 

To  Icaru  his  wif''  t'  exchange  the  bad  for  better. — 

Fie,  fie,  unreverend  tongue  !  to  call  her  bad. 

Whose  sovereignty  so  oft  thou  hast  preferr'd 

With  twenty  thousand  soul-confirming  oaths. 

1  cannot  leave  to  love,  and  yet  I  do ; 

But  there  I  leave  to  love,  where  I  should  love. 

Julia  I  lose,  and  Valentine  I  lose : 

If  I  keep  them,  I  needs  must  lose  myself; 

If-I  lose  them,  thus  find  I  by  their  loss. 

For  Valentine,  myself ;  for  JuUa,  SUvia. 

I  to  myself  am  dearer  than  a  friend, 

For  love  is  still  most  precious  in  itself : 

Arid  Silvia,  (witness  Heaven,  that  made  her  fair!) 

Shows  Julia  but  a  swarthy  Ethiope. 

I  will  forget  that  Julia  is  alive, 

Rememb'ring  that  my  love  to  her  is  dead  ; 

And  Valentine  I  'U  hold  an  enemy, 

Aiming  at  Silvia  as  a  sweeter  friend. 

I  cannot  now  prove  constant  to  myself, 

Without  some  treachery  us'd  to  Valentine  : — 

This  night,  he  mcaneth  with  a  corded  ladder 

To  climb  celestial  Silvia's  chamber--window, 

Myself  in  counsel,  his  competitor  -.^ 

Now  presently  I  '11  give  her  father  notice 

Of  their  disguising,  and  pretended  flight  ;■" 

Who,  all  onrag'd,  will  banish  Valentine, 

For  Thurio,  he  intends,  shall  wed  his  daughter : 

But,  Valentine  being  gone,  I  'U  quickly  cross, 

By  some  sly  trick,  blunt  Thurio's  duU  proceeding. 

Love,  lend  me  wings  to  make  ray  purpose  swift, 

Aa  thou  hast  lent  me  wit  to  plot  tliis  drift !  [Exit. 

SCENE  VII. — ^Verona.    A  Room  in  Julia's  Home. 

Enter  Julia  and  Lucetta. 
Jul.  Counsel,  Lucetta!  gentle  girl,  assist  me  ! 
And,  ov'n  in  kind  love,  I  do  conjure  thee," — 
68 


Who  art  the  table"  wherein  all  my  thoughts 
Are  visibly  character'd  and  engrav'd, — 
To  lesson  me;  and  tell  me  some  good  mean. 
How,  witli  my  honour,  I  may  undertake 
A  journey  to  my  loving  Proteus. 

Lue.  Alas!  the  way  is  wearisome  and  long. 
Jul.  A  true-devoted  pilgrim  is  not  weary 
To  measure  kingdoms  with  his  feeble  steps; 
Much  less  shall  she  that  hath  Love's  wings  to  fly; 
And  when  the  flight  is  made  to  one  so  dear, 
Of  such  divine  perfection,  as  sir  Proteus. 

Ltcc.  Better  forbear,  till  Proteus  make  return. 
Jul.  0,  know'st  thou  not,  his  looks  are  my  soul  a 
food  } 
Pity  the  dearth  that  I  have  pined  in. 
By  longing  for  that  food  so  long  a  time. 
Didst  thou  but  know  the  inly  touch  of  love, 
Thou  would' st  as  soon  go  kindle  fire  with  snow, 
As  seek  to  quench  the  fire  of  love  with  words. 

Luc.  I  do  not  seek  to  quench  your  love's  hot  fire. 
But  qualify  the  fu-e's  extreme  rage, 
Lest  it  should  bum  above  the  bounds  of  reason. 
Jul.  The  more  thou  damm'st  it  up,  the  more  it 
bums; 
The  current  that  with  gentle  murmur  glides, 
Thou  know'st,  being  stopp'd,  impatiently  doth  rogo; 
But,  when  his  fair  course  is  not  hindered, 
He  makes  sweet  music  with  th'  enamell'd  stones, 
Giving  a  gentle  kiss  to  eveiy  sedge 
He  overtaketh  in  Ins  pilgrimage ; 
And  so  by  many  winding  nooks  he  strays. 
With  willing  sport,  to  the  wild  ocean. 
Then  let  me  go,  and  hinder  not  my  course : 
I  'U.  be  as  patient  as  a  gentle  stream. 
And  make  a  pastime  of  each  weary  step, 
TUl  the  last  step  have  brought  me  to  my  love ; 
And  there  I  'U  rest,  as,  after  much  turmoil, 
A  blessed  soul  doth  in  Elysium. 

Luc.  But  in  what  habit  will  you  go  along  i 
Jul.  Not  like  a  woman,for  I  would  prevent 
The  loose  encounters  of  lascivious  men : 
Gentle  Lucetta,  fit  me  with  such  weeds 
As  may  beseem  some  well-reputed  page. 

Ltw.  Why,  then yourlad\sliipmustoutyour hair. 
Jul.  No,  girl ;  I'll  knit  it  up  in  silken  strings,. 
With  twenty  odd-conceited  true-love  knots : 
To  be  fantastic  may  become  a  y  ,iuth 
Of  gri\iter  time  than  I  shall  sho,v  to  bo. 

Luc.   What  fashion,  madam,  ehjl  I  make  youi 

breeches  ? 
Jul.  Tliat  fits  as  well  as — '•'  Tell  me,  ffood  ray  lord. 
What  compass  will  you  wciir  yom-  farthingalo  ?  *' 


ACT    III. 


THE   TWO   GKNTLKMEN   OF    VKKUNA. 


SCENE   I. 


V\'liy,  ov'n  -vrhat  fashion  thou  best  lik'st,  Lucetta. 

Lite.  You  must  needs  have  them  mth  a  cod-piece, 
madam. 

Jid.    Out,    out,    Lucetta!"    that  \vill   be    ill- 
favour'd. 

Luc.  A  round  hose,  madam,  now  's  not  worth 
a  piu,  unless  you  have  a  cod-picco  to  stick 
pins  on. 

Jul.  Lucetta,  as  thou  lov'st  me,  let  mo  have 
What  tliou  think'st  meet,  and  is  most  mauuoily. 
But  tell  me,  wench,  how  wiU  the  world  repute 

me, 
For  undertaking  so  unstaid  a  journey  ? 
[  fear  mo  it  wiU  make  me  scandaUz'd. 

Lm.  If  you  think  so,  then  stay  at  home,  and  go 
not. 

Jid.  Nay,  that  I  will  not. 

Lm.  Then  never  dream  on  infamy,  but  go. 
Lf  Proteus  like  youi-  journey,  when  you  come. 
No  matter  who  's  displeas'd  when  you  are  gone  ; 
I  fear  me  he  will  scarce  be  pleas'd  withal. 

Jul.  That  is  the  least,  Lucetta,  of  my  fear : 
K  thousand  oaths,  an  ocean  of  bis  tears, 


And  instances  of  infinite**  of  lovo, 
Wan'ant  me  welcome  to  my  I'roteus. 

Imc.  All  these  are  een'imts  to  deceitful  'o.'ia. 

Jul.  Base  men,  that  use  them  to  so  base  tffecf , 
But  truer  stars  did  govern  Proteus'  birth : 
His  words  are  bonds.  Ids  oaths  ai'e  oracles ; 
His  love  sincere,  his  thoughts  immacidate  ; 
His  tears,  pure  messengers  sent  from  his  heart; 
His  heart  as  far  from  fi'aud  as  lieaven  from  earth. 

Luc.  Pray  heav'n  he  prove  so,  when  you  come 
to  him  ! 

Jul.  Now,  as  thou  lov'st  me,  do  hira  not  that 
wrong. 
To  bear  a  hard  opinion  of  his  truth  : 
Only  deserve  my  love,  by  loving  Iiim  ; 
And  presently  go  with  me  to  my  chamber, 
To  take  a  note  of  what  I  stand  in  need  of, 
To  fVimish  me  upon  my  longing  journey. 
All  that  is  mine  I  leave  at  thy  dispose, 
ily  goods,  my  lands,  my  reputation ; 
Only,  in  lieu  thereof,  despatch  me  hence : 
Come,  answer  not,  but  to  it  presently ; 
I  am  impatient  of  my  tarriance.  [ficfwni 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I. — Milan.     An  Ante-room  in  the  Duke's 
Pahme. 

Enter  Duke,  TnuBto,  and  Peotetjs. 

Duhe.  Sir  Thurio,  give  us  leave,  I  pray,  awhile ; 
We  have  some  secrets  to  confer  about. 

\_Exit  Tmmio. 
Now,  tell  me,  Proteus,  what  's  your  wHL  with  me? 

Pro.  ily  grario«s  lord,    that   which   I   would 
discover, 
The  law  of  fiiendship  bids  me  to  conceal : 
But,  when  I  call  to  mind  your  gracious  fevours 
Done  to  me,  undesemng  as  I  am. 
My  duty  pricks  me  on  to  utter  that 
"Which  else  no  worldly  good  should  draw  from  me. 
Know,  worthy  prince,  sir  Valentine,  my  friend. 
This  night  intends  to  steal  away  your  daughter ; 
Myself  am  one  made  privy  to  the  plot. 
I  know  you  have  detennin'd  to  bestow  her 
On  Thurio,  whom  your  gentle  daughter  hates ; 
And  should  she  thus  be  stol'n  away  from  you, 
It  ^ould  be  much  vexation  to  your  age. 


Thus,  for  my  duty's  sake,  I  rather  choso 
To  cross  my  friend  in  his  intended  drift. 
Than,  by  concealing  it,  heap  on  your  head 
A  pack  of  sorrows,  which  would  press  you  down 
Being  iinprevented,  to  your  timeless  gi-ave. 

Buhc.  Proteus,  I  thank  thee  for  thine  honest  care 
Which  to  requite,  command  me  whUo  I  live. 
This  love  of  theirs  myself  have  often  seen, 
Haply,  when  they  have  judg'd  me  fast  asleep ; 
And  oftentimes  have  purpos'd  to  forbid 
Sir  Valentine  her  company,  and  my  court : 
But,  fearing  lest  my  jealous  aim  might  err. 
And  so,  unworthily,  disgrace  the  man, 
(A  rashness  that  I  ever  yet  have  shunn'd,) 
I  gave  liim  gentle  looks,  thereby  to  find 
That  which  thyself  hast  now  disclos'd  to  me. 
And,  that  thou  mayst  perceive  my  fear  of  this, 
Knowing  that  tender  youth  is  soon  suggested," 
I  nightly  lodge  her  in  an  upper  tow'r. 
The  key  whereof  myself  have  ever  kept; 
And  thence  she  cannot  be  convey'd  away. 

Pro.  Know,  noble  lord,  they  have  devis'd  a  mean 

59 


ACT    111. 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEl^  OF  VEKONA. 


oOENK    1. 


How  he  her  chamber-window  will  ascend, 
And  with  a  corded  ladder  fetch  her  down  ; 
For  which  the  youthful  lover  now  is  gone, 
A-iid  tliis  way  comes  he  with  it  presently  ; 
Where,  if  •'^  please  you,  you  may  intercept  him 
But,  good  my  lord,  do  it  &o  cunningly, 
That  my  discovery  he  not  simed  at ;™ 
For  love  of  you,  not  hate  "xnto  my  friend, 
Hath  made  me  publisher  of  this  pretence. 

Buke.  Upon  mine  honour,  he  shall  never  know 
That  I  had  any  light  from  thee  of  this. 

Pro.  Adieu,  my  lord;  sir  Valentine  is  coming. 

[_Exit. 

Unter  Vaientine. 

Buhe.  Sir  Valentine,  whither  away  so  fast  ? 
Val.  Please  it  your  grace,  there  is  a  messenger 
That  stays  to  bear  my  letters  to  my  Mends, 
Ajid  I  am  going  to  deliver  them. 
Bulce.  Be  they  of  much  import  ? 
Val.  The  tenor  of  them  doth  but  signify 
My  health,  and  happy  being  at  your  court. 

Ihike.  Nay,  then,   no  matter ;  stay  with  me  a 
while ; 
I  am  to  break  with  thee  of  some  affairs, 
That  touch  me  near,  wherein  thou  must  be  secret. 
'T  is  not  unkno^\'n  to  thee,  that  I  liave  sought 
Tj  match  my  fiiend,  sir  Thurio,  to  my  daughter. 
Vd.  I  know  it  well,  my  lord;  and,  sure,  the 
match 
Were  rich  and  honourable  ;  besides,  the  gentleman 
Is  fuU  of  virtue,  bounty,  worth,  and  qualities 
Beseeming  such  a  wife  as  your  fair  daughter  : 
Canjiot  your  grace  -win  her  to  fancy  him  ? 

Bulce.  No,    trust   me ;  she   is   pee-i-ish,    sullen, 
froward. 
Proud,  disobedient,  stubborn,  lacking  duty  ; 
Neither  regarding  that  she  is  my  child, 
Nor  fearing  me  as  if  I  were  her  father  : 
And,  may  I  say  to  thee,  this  pride  of  hers, 
Upon  advice,  hath  drawn  my  love  from  her ; 
jViid,  wlicre"'  I  thought  the  remnant  of  mine  age 
Shoidd  ha'.'e  been  cherish'd  by  her  chUd-hke  duty, 
I  now  am  full  resolv'd  to  take  a  wife, 
And  turn  her  out  to  who  will  talie  her  in  : 
Then  let  her  beauty  be  her  wedding-dow'r. 
For  me  and  my  possessions  she  esteems  not. 

Val.  "Wliat  would  your  grace  have  me  to  do  in  this? 
Buke.  There  is  a  lady,  of  Verona,  here, 
Wiora  I  affect ;  but  she  is  nice  and  coy. 
And  nought  esteems  my  aged  elo(juence  : 
tfow,  tliorcfore,  would  I  have  thee  to  my  tutor, 

60 


(For  long  agone  I  have  forgot  to  court : 
Besides,  the  fashion  of  the  time  is  chang'd ;) 
How,  and  which  way,  I  may  bestow  myself 
To  be  regarded  in  her  sun-bright  eye. 

Val.  Win  her  with  gifts,  if  she  respect  not  words 
Dumb  jewels  often,  in  their  silent  kind, 
More  than  quick  words,  do  move  a  woman's  mind 
Buke.  But  she  did  scorn  a  present  that  I  sent  her. 
Val.  A  woman  sometime  scorns  what  best  con- 
tents her : 
Send  her  another ;  never  give  her  o'er ; 
For  scorn  at  first  makes  after-love  the  more. 
If  she  do  frown,  't  is  not  in  hate  of  you. 
But  rather  to  beget  more  love  in  you  : 
If  she  do  chide,  't  is  not  to  have  you  gone ; 
For  why,  the  fools  are  mad,  if  left  alone. 
Take  no  repulse,  whatever  she  doth  say : 
For  "get  you  gone,"  she  doth  not  mean  "  away?" 
Flatter,  and  praise,  commend,  extol  tlieir  graces ; 
Though  ne'er  so  black,  say  they  have  angels'  faces. 
That  man  that  hath  a  tongue,  I  say,  is  no  man, 
If  with  his  tongue  he  cannot  win  a  woman. 

Buke.  But  she  I  mean  is  promis'd  by  her  friends 
Unto  a  youthfol  gentleman  of  worth. 
And  kept  severe!}-  from  resort  of  men, 
That  no  man  hath  access  by  day  to  her. 

Val.  Why,  then  I  would  resort  to  her  by  night 
Buke.  Ay,  but  the  doors  be  loek'd,  and  key: 
kept  safe, 
That  no  man  hath  recourse  to  her  by  night. 

Val.  WTiat  lets"   but   one   may  enter   at   he: 

window  ? 
Buke.  Her  chamber  is  aloft,  far  from  the  ground. 
And  built  so  sheh-ing,  that  one  cannot  cUmb  it 
Without  apparent  hazard  of  his  hfe. 

Val.  WTiy,  then,  a  ladder,  quaintly  made  of  cords 
To  cast  up  ■n'ith  a  pair  of  anchoring  hooks, 
Would  serve  to  scale  another  Hero's  tow'r. 
So  bold  Leander  would  adventure  it. 

Buke.  Now,  as  thou  art  a  gentleman  of  blood 
Advise  me  where  I  may  have  such  a  ladder. 
Val.  WTien  would  you  use  it?  pray,  sir,  tcU  me 

that. 
Buke.  This  very  night ;  for  Love  is  like  a  child 
That  longs  for  everytliing  that  he  can  come  by. 

Val.  By  seven  o'clock  I  'U   get   you    sutli   a 
ladder. 

Buke.  But,  hark  thee ;  I  will  go  to  her  alone  ; 
How  shall  I  best  convey  the  ladder  thither  ? 
Val.  It  wiQ  bo  light,  my  lord,  that  you  maj 
bear  it 
Under  a  cloak  that  is  of  any  length. 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VEEONA 


SCOTS   L 


Duke.  A  cloak  as  long  as  thine  will  serve  the 

turn? 
Val.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 
Lttke.  Then  let  me  see  thy  cloak: 

['11  get  me  one  of  such  another  length. 

Val.  ^Tiy,  any  cloak  will  serve  the  tura,  my 

lord. 
Dii.ke.  How  shall  I  fashion  me  to  wear  a  cloak? — 
r  pray  thee,  let  me  feci  thy  cloak  upon  me. — 
What  letter  is  tliis  same?    Wlxat's  here?— "To 

SUvia"? 
And  here  an  engine  fit  for  my  proceeding! 
rU  be  so  bold  to  break  the  seal  for  once.     [Reads. 
"My  thoujjlits  do  harbour  with  my  Silvia  nightly; 
And  slaves  they  are  to  me,  that  send  them  flying  : 
0,  could  their  master  come  and  go  as  lightly, 

Hmiself  would  lodge  where  senseless  they  are  lying. 
My  herald  thoughto  in  thy  pure  bosom  rest  them ; 

While  I,  their  king,  that  thither  them  importune, 
D )  curse  the  grace  that  with  such  grace  hath  bless'd  them. 

Because  myself  do  want  my  servants'  fortune  : 
I  cm-se  myself,  for  they  are  sent  by  me,''^ 
That  they  should  harbour  where  their  lord  should  be." 

What 's  here  ? 

"  Silvia,  this  night  I  will  enfranchise  thee :" 
T  is  s;  ;  and  here  's  the  ladder  for  the  purpose. 
Why,  Phaeton,  (for  thou  art  Merops'  son,) 
Wilt  thou  aspire  to  guide  the  heavenly  car, 
AjkI  with  thy  daring  folly  bum  the  world  ? 
Wilt  thou  reach  stars,  because  they  shine  on  thee  ? 
Go,  base  intruder !  overweening  slave ! 
Bestow  thy  fawning  smiles  on  equal  mates  ; 
And  tliink  my  patience,  more  than  thy  desert, 
Is  privilege  for  thy  departure  hence  : 
Thank  me  for  this,  more  than  for  all  the  favoirrs, 
Whicli,  aU  too  much,  I  have  bestowed  on  thee. 
But  if  [hou  hnger  in  my  territories, 
Longer  than  swiftest  expedition 
Will  give  thee  time  to  leave  our  royal  court, 
By  heaven,  my  wrath  shall  far  exceed  the  love 
I  ever  bore  my  daughter,  or  thyself. 
Be  gone  !  I  wiU  not  hear  thy  vain  excuse  ; 

But,  as  thou  lov'st  thy  life,  make  speed  from  hence. 

[_Exit  DnEE. 
Val.  And  why  not  death,   rather   than  living 
torment  ? 

To  die,  is  to  be  banish'd  from  myself ; 

And  Sihia  is  myself :  banish'd  from  her, 

Is  self  from  self :  a  deadly  banishment ! 

What  light  is  light,  if  Silvia  be  not  seen? 

Wliat  joy  is  joy,  if  SilWa  be  not  by  ? 

Unless  it  be  to  think  that  she  is  by, 

And  feed  upon  the  shadow  of  perfection. 


Except  I  be  by  Silvia  in  the  night, 
There  is  no  music  in  the  nightingale ; 
Unless  I  look  on  Silvia  in  the  day. 
There  is  no  day  for  me  to  look  upon  : 
She  is  my  essence ;  and  I  leave  to  bo, 
If  I  be  not  by  her  fair  influence 
Foster'd,  iUuinin'd,  cherish'd,  kept  alive. 
I  fly  not  death,  to  fly  his  deadly  doom  :" 
Tarry  I  here,  I  but  attend  on  death; 
But,  fly  I  hence,  I  fiy  away  from  Ufe. 

Enter  Photeus  and  Launcis. 

Pro.  Hun,  boy ;  run,  run,  ;md  seek  him  out. 
Laun.  So-hough ! — so-hough ! " 
Pro.  "VMiat  seest  thou? 
Laun.  Him  we  go  to  find: 

There's  not  a  hair  on's  head,  but 't  is  a  Valeatina 
Pro.  Valentine? 
Val.  No. 

Pro.  Who  then  ?  his  spirit? 
Val.  Neither. 
Pro.  What  then? 
Val.  Nothing. 

Laun.  Can  nothing  speak?  Master,  shall  I  strike  ] 
Pro.  Who  woidd'st  thou  strike? 
Lann.  Nothing. 
Pro.  Villain,  forbear ! 
Laiuu.  Why,   sir,   I'U  stiike  notliing :    I  pray 

you,— 
Pro.  Sirrah,  I  say,  forbear:  Friend  Valentine,  a 

word. 
Val.  My  ears  are  stopp'd,  and  cannot  hear  good 
news, 
So  much  of  bad  already  hath  possess'd  them. 

Pro.  Then  in  dimib  silence  wiU  I  bury  mine. 
For  they  are  harsh,  untuneable,  and  bad. 
Val.  Is  Silvia  dead? 
Pro.  No,  Valentine. 

Val.  No  Valentine,  indeed,  for  sacred  Silvia! — 
Hath  she  forsworn  me? 
Pro.  No,  Valentine. 

Val.  No  Valentine,  if  Silvia  have  forsworn  me! 
What  is  your  news? 

Laun.  Sir,  there  is  a  proclamation  that  you  are 
vanished. 

Pro.  That  thou  art  banish'd, — 0,  that's  the  news 
From  hence,  from  SUvia,  and  from  me,  thy  friend 

Val.  0,  I  have  fed  upon  this  woe  already. 
And  now  excess  of  it  will  make  me  surfeit. 
Doth  Silvia  know  that  I  am  banished? 

Pro.  Ay,  ay;  and  she  hath  ofiered  to  t'no  doom 
(Which,  unrevers'd,  stands  in  effectual  force) 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


SCENE    I. 


A.  sea  of  melting  pearl,  whieli  some  call  tears: 
Tliose  at  her  father's  chmHsh  feet  she  tender'd; 
With  them,  upon  her  knees,  her  humble  self; 
■^''ringing  her  hands,  whose  whiteness  so  became 

them. 
As  if  but  now  they  waxed  pale  for  woe : 
Uut  neither  bended  knees,  pure  hands  held  up, 
Sad  sighs,  deep  gi-oans,  nor  silver-shedding  tears. 
Could  penetrate  her  imcompassionate  sire; 
But  ValentLQe,  if  he  be  ta"en,  must  die. 
Besides,  her  intercession  chaf'd  him  so, 
fllicn  slie  for  thy  repeal  was  suppliant, 
That  to  close  prison  he  commanded  her, 
With  many  bitter  threats  of  'biding  there. 

Val.  No  more;  imless  the  next  word  that  thou 
speak'st 
llave  some  mab'gnant  power  upon  my  life : 
If  so,  I  pray  thee,  breathe  it  in  mine  ear, 
As  ending  anthem  of  my  endless  dolour. 

Pro.  Cease  to  lament  for  that  thou  canst  not  help. 
And  study  help  for  that  which  thou  lament' st 
Time  is  the  nurse  and  breeder  of  all  good. 
Here  if  thou  stay,  thou  canst  not  see  thy  love ; 
Besides,  thy  staying  will  abridge  thy  life. 
Hope  is  a  lover  ?_  'taff;  walk  hence  with  that, 
.\.x^^  manage  it  against  despairing  thoughts. 
Thy  letters  may  be  here,  though  thou  art  hence : 
Wliich,  being  ^rat  to  me,  sh;dl  be  deUver'd 
Even  ia  the  milk-white  bosom  of  thy  love. 
The  time  now  serves  not  to  expostulate : 
Come,  I'U.  convey  thee  througli  the  city  gate; 
And,  ere  I  part  with  thee,  confer  at  large 
Of  all  that   may  concern  thy  love-affairs: 
As  thou  lov'st  Silvia,  though  not  for  thyself, 
Regard  thy  danger,  and  along  with  me. 

T'al.  I  pray  thee,  Launce,  an'  if  thou  seest  my 
boy, 
Bid  him  make  haste,  and  meet  me  at  the   north 
gate. 
Fro.  Go,  sirrah,  find  him  out.     Come,  Valentine. 
Val.  0  my  deal-  Silvia!  hapless  Valentine! 

[^Uxeunt  Valentixe  and  Pkoteus. 
Zaun.  I  am  but  a  fool,  look  you;  and  yet  I  have 
the  wit  to  think  my  master  is  a  kind  of  a  knave : 
but  that's  iJl  one,  if  he  be  but  one  knave.'"  He 
lives  not  now,  that  knows  me  to  be  in  love :  yet  I 
um  in  love;  but  a  team  of  horse  shall  nut  pluck 
that  Irom  me;  nor  who  't  is  I  love,  and  yet  't  is  a 
woman :  but  what  woman,  I  wiU  not  tell  myself; 
and  yet  "t  is  a  mUk-maid;  yet  't  is  nut  a  maid, 
(or  she  hath  had  gossips:'"  yet  't  is  a  maid,  lor  she 
.s  hor  master's  maid,  and  serves  for  wages.  She 
CZ 


hath  more  qualities  than  a  water-spaniel, — which 
is  much  in  a  bare  Christian.  Here  is  the  catelog 
\pulling  Old  a  paper']  of  her  conditions.  Impiimis, 
"She  can  fetch  and  carry."  WTiy,  a  horse  can  do 
no  more:  nay,  a  horse  cannot  fetch,  but  only  carrj-; 
therefore  is  she  better  than  a  jade.  Item,  "She 
can  mUk;"  look  you,  a  sweet  virtue  in  a  maid  with 
clean  hands. 

Enter  Speed. 

Speed.  How  now,  signior  Launce  1  what  news 
■ndth  your  mastership? 

Laun.  With  my  master's  ship  1  why,  it  is  at  sea. 

Speed.  Well,  your  old  vice  still;  mistake  the 
word :  What  news,  then,  in  your  paper  ? 

Laun.  The  black'st  news  that  ever  thou'heard'st. 

Speed.  Why,  man,  how  black  ? 

Laun.  WTiy,  as  black  as  ink. 

Speed.  Let  me  read  them. 

Laun.  Fie  on  thee,  jolt-head!  thou  canst  not  read. 

Speed.  Thou  liest :  I  can. 

Laun.  I  will  try  thee.  Tell  me  this:  Who  begot 
thee? 

Speed.  Marry,  the  son  of  my  grandfather. 

Laun.  0  illiterate  loiterer!  it  was  the  son  of  thy 
grandmother:  this  proves  that  thou  canst  not  road. 

Speed.  Come,  fool,  come :  try  me  in  thy  paper. 

Laun.  There;  and  St  Nicholas  be  thy  speed  I '^ 

Speed.  Item,  "She  can  milk?"" 

Laun.  Ay,  that  she  can. 

Speed.  Item,  "She  brews  good  ale." 

Laun.  And  thereof  comes  the  proverb, — Blessing 
of  your  heart,  you  brew  good  ale. 

Speed.  Item,  "She  can  sew." 

Laun.  That's  as  much  as  to  say,  can  she  so? 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  can  knit." 

Laun.  WTiat  need  a  man  care  for  a  stock  wi  th  a 
wench,  when  she  can  knit  him  a  stock?'* 

Speed,  Item,  "She  can  wash  and  scour." 

Laun.   A  special  \-irtue;   for  then  she  need  not 
be  wash'd  and  scour'd. 

Speed.  Item,  "She  can  spin." 

Laun.  Then  may  I  set  the  world  on  wheels, 
when  she  can  spin  for  her  liraig. 

Speed.  Item,  "She  hath  many  nameless  virtues." 

Laun.  That's  as  much  as  to  say,  bastard  wtucs 
that,  indeed,  know  net  thcii-  fatliers,  and  therefore 
have  no  names. 

Speed.  Here  follow  her  vices. 

Laun.  Close  at  the  heels  of  her  vii-tues. 

Speed.  Item,  "She  is  not  to  be  fasting,  in  re- 
spect of  her  breath." 


t^ 


f^' 


,   ( 


tMCWurrcu    a:?  iLaucc. 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VEROKA. 


SCEITG  li. 


Ziiun.  Well,  that  fault  may  be  mended  with  a 
breakfast.    Read  on. 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  hath  a  sweet  mouth." 

Zaun.  That  makes  amends  for  her  sour  breath. 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  dotli  talk  in  her  sleep." 

Zmm.  It's  no  matter  for  ihat,  so  she  sleep  not 
La  her  talk 

Speed.  1  .6m,  "  She  is  slow  in  words." 

Laim.  0  villain,"  that  set  this  down  among 
her  vices !  To  be  slow  in  words  is  a  woman's  only 
virtue :  I  pray  thee,  out  with  't,  and  place  it  for 
her  chief  virtue. 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  is  proud." 

LauH.  Out  -svith  that,  too ;  it  was  Eve's  legacy, 
and  cannot  be  ta'en  from  her. 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  hath  no  teeth." 

Zaun.  I  eare  not  for  that  neither,  because  I 
love  crusts. 

Speed.  Itt^m,  "  She  is  curst." 

Z^aun.  Well;  the  best  is,  she  hath  no  teeth  to  bite. 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  will  often  praise  her  liquor."'^ 

Zaun .  If  her  liquor  be  good,  she  shall :  if  she 
mH  not,  I  will ;  for  good  things  sliould  be 
praised. 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  is  too  liberal." 

Zdiiu.  Of  her  tongue  she  cannot,  for  that  's 
u'rit  down  she  is  slow  of :  of  her  jjui'se  she  shall 
not,  for  that  I  'II  keep  shut:  now  of  another 
thing  she  may,  and  that  cannot  I  help.  Well, 
proceed. 

Speed.  Item,  "  She  hath  more  hair  than  wit, 
and  more  faidts  than  hairs,  and  more  wealth  than 
faults." 

Zaun.  Stop  there !  I  'U  have  her !  She  was 
mine,  and  not  mine,  frndce  or  thrice  in  that  last 
article.     Rehearse  that  once  more. 

Speed.  Item,   "  She  hath  more  hair  than  wit," — 

Zaun.  More  hair  thau  wit, — it  may  be ;  I  'U 
prove  it.  The  cover  of  the  salt  hides  the  salt," 
and  therefore  it  is  more  than  the  salt ;  the  hair 
that  covers  the  wit  is  more  than  the  wit,  for  the 
greater  hides  the  less.     What 's  next  ? 

Speed. — "  And  more  faults  than  hairs," — 

Zaun.  That 's  monstrous :  0,  that  that  were  out ! 

Speed. — "  And  more  wealth  than  faults." 

Zaun.  Wliy,  that  word  mak_'s  tlie  faults  gracious: 
Well,  I  'H  have  her :  Ani  if  it  be  a  match,  as 
nothing  is  impossible, — 

Speed.  "What  then  ? 

Zaun.  Why,  then  v.-ill  I  tcU  thee, — that  thy 
master  stays  for  thoe  at  the  north  gate. 

Speed  Eor  me  ? 


Zaun.  For  thoe  ?  ay :  who  art  thou  ?  he  hath 
stay'd  for  a  better  man  than  thoe. 

Speed.  And  must  I  go  to  him .' 

Z,au».  Thou  must  run  to  him,  for  thou  hast 
stay'd  so  long,  that  going  wiU  scarce  serve  the 
turn. 

Speed.  Why  didst  not  toll  me  sooner  ?  'pox  of 
your  love-letters !  [Hxii 

Zaun.  Now  will  he  be  swing'd  for  reading  mj 
letter !  An  unmannerly  slave,  that  will  thrust 
himself  into  secrets  ! — 1 11  after,  to  rejoice  in  the 
boy's  correction.  \_Exit. 

SCENE  II.— 7^  game.     A  Room  in  the  Duke's 
Palace. 

Eni&r  Duke  and  Tmrnio. 

3uke.  Sir  Thurio,  feiir  not  but  that  she  wUl 
love  you. 
Now  Valentine  is  banish'd  from  her  sight; 

Thu.  Since  his  exile,  she  hath  despis'd  me  most, 
Forsworn  my  company,  and  raU'd  at  me. 
That  I  am  desperate  of  obtaining  her. 

Z)uJce.  This  weak  impress  of  love  is  as  a  figure 
Trenched  in  ice,"  which  with  an  hour's  heat 
Dissolves  to  water,  and  doth  lose  his  foi-m. 
A  little  time  wiU  melt  her  frozen  thoughts. 
And  worthless  Valentine  shiJl  be  forgot. — 

[^Enter  Proteus 
How  now,  sir  Proteus  ?     Is  your  coimti'jTnan, 
According  to  oui-  proclamation,  gone .' 

Pro.  Gone,  my  good  lord. 

Z)ul:e.  My  daughter  takes  his  going  grievously.  '^ 

Pro.  A  little  time,  my  lord,  -n-ill  kill  that  grief. 

Dulce.  So  I  believe  ;  but  Thurio  thinks  not  so. — 
Proteus,  the  good  conceit  I  hold  of  thee, 
(For  thou  hast  shown  some  sign  of  good  desert) 
Makes  me  the  better  to  confer  with  thee. 

Pro.  Longer  than  I  prove  loyal  to  your  grace. 
Let  me  not  live  to  look  upon  your  grace. 

Bide.  Thou  know'st  how  wiUingly  I  would  effect 
The  match  between  sir  Thurio  and  my  daughter. 

Pro.  I  do,  my  lord. 

Duke.  And  also,  I  think,  thou  art  not  ignorant 
How  she  opposes  her  against  my  will. 

Pro.  She  did,  my  lord,  when  Valentine  was  hero 

Duke.  Ay,  and  perversely  she  persevers  so. 
What  might  we  do,  to  make  the  girl  forget 
The  love  of  Valentine,  and  love  sir  Thurio  ^ 

Pro.  The  best  way  is,  to  slander  Valentine 
With  falsehood,  cowardice,  and  poor  descent. 
Three  things  that  women  highly  hold  in  hate. 

Bvh.  Ay,  but  she'll  think  that  it  is  spoke  in  hate. 

63 


ACT    III. 


TIEE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VEEONA. 


80KKT.  n. 


Pro.  Ay,  if  his  enemy  deliver  it : 
Therefore  it  must  with  circumstance  be  spoken 
By  one  whom  she  esteemeth  as  his  friend. 

Diih.  Then  you  must  undertake  to  slander  him. 

Fro.  And  that,  my  lord,  I  shall  be  loth  to  do  : 
T  is  an  iU  office  for  a  gentleman, 
Especially  against  his  very**  friend. 

Dukn.  "Where  your  good  word  cannot  advantage 
him, 
Ycm'  slander  never  can  endamage  him  ; 
Tnciefore  the  office  is  indifferent. 
Being  entreated  to  it  by  youi'  friend. 

Prt.  Tou  have  prevail' d,  my  lord  :  if  1  can  do  it. 
By  aught  that  I  can  speak  in  his  dispraise. 
She  shall  not  long  conrinue  love  to  him. 
But  say,  this  weed  her  love  from  Valentine, 
It  follows  not  that  she  will  love  sir  Thurio. 

TJiu.  Therefore,  as  you  unwind  her  love  from  him, 
Lest  it  should  ravel,  and  be  good  to  none, 
You  must  provide  to  bottom  it  on  me  f 
Which  must  be  done  by  praising  mc  as  much 
As  you  in  worth  dispraise  sir  Valentine. 

Duke.  And,  Proteus,  we  dare  tru<t  you  in  this 
kind ; 
Because  we  know,  on  Valentine's  report, 
You  are  ah'eady  Love's  finn  votary, 
And  cannot  soon  revolt  and  change  your  mind. 
Upon  this  warrant  shall  you  have  access 
Wliere  you  with  Silvia  may  confer  at  large ; 
For  she  is  limipish,  heavy,  melancholy. 
And.  for  your  friend's  sake,  will  be  glad  of  you ; 
\Vhere  you  may  temper  her,  **  by  your  persuasion, 
To  hate  young  Valentine,  and  love  my  friend. 

Pro.  As  much  as  I  can  do,  I  wiU  effect : — 

Be:',  you,  sir  Thuri'    ero  not  sharp  enough ; 
64 


Tou  must  lay  Hme,  to  tangle  her  desires, 
By  wailful  sonnets,  whose  composed  rhymes 
Should  be  fall  fraught  with  serviceable  vows. 

Jjuke.  Ay,  much  is  the  force  of   heaven-bred 
poesy. 

Pro.  Say  that  upon  the  altar  of  her  beauty 
Tou  sacrifice  your  tears,  your  sighs,  your  heart : 
Write  till  yoiu-  ink  be  dry ;  and  with  your  tears 
Moist  it  again  ;  and  frame  some  feeling  line. 
That  may  discover  such  integrity  : " 
For  Oi'pheus'  lute  was  strung  with  poets'  Biac\VB, 
Whose  golden  touch  could  soften  steel  and  etonos, 
Make  tigers  tame,  and  huge  leviathans 
Forsake  unsounded  deeps  to  dance  on  sands. 
After  your  dire  lamenting  elegies. 
Visit  by  night  your  lady's  chamber-window 
With  some  sweet  consort  -.^    to  their  instruments 
Tune  a  deploiing  dump ;°'  the  night's  dead  silence 
Win  well  become  such  sweet  complaining  grievance, 
This,  or  else  nothing,  will  inherit  her. " 

Duke.  This  discipline  shows  thou  hast  been  in 
love. 

HTm.  And  thy  advice  this   night  I'  U  put  in 
practice. 
Therefore,  sweet  Proteus,  my  direction-giver, 
Let  us  into  the  city  presently 
To  sort^^  some  gentlemen  well  sldll'd  in  music ; 
I  have  a  sonnet  that  will  serve  the  turn, 
To  give  the  onset  to  thy  good  advice. 

Duke.  About  it,  gentlemen. 

Pro.  We  '11  wait  upon   your  grace   til]    after 
supper ; 
And  afterward  determine  our  proceedings. 

Duke.  Even  now  about  it ;  I  wiU  pardon  you." 

i. Exeunt, 


rut;   TWO   (iENTMCMBN    Ui'     VKRO.NA 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I. — A  Forest,  noar  Iklilan. 

Enter  certai7i  Outlaws. 

1  Out.  Fellows,  stand  fast;  I  see  a  passenger. 

2  Out.  If  there  be  tea,  shrink  not,  but  down 

with  'em. 

Enter  Vaientdte  and  Speed. 

0  Old.  Stand,  sir,  and  throw  us  that  you  have 

about  you: 
if  not,  we  '11  make  you  sit,  and  rifle  you. 

Speed.  Sir,  we  are  undone !  these  are  the  villains 
that  aU  the  travellers  do  fear  so  much. 

Val.  My  friends, — 

1  Old.  That's  not  so,  sir;  we  are  your  enemies. 

2  Out.  Peace !  we  "U  hear  him. 

3  Out.  Ay,  by  my  beard,  will  we;  for  he  is  a 

proper  man !  '* 
Val.  Then  know,  that  I  have  little  wealth  to  lose; 
A  man  I  am,  cross'd  with  adversity; 
My  riches  are  these  poor  habUiments, 
Of  whieli  if  you  should  hero  disfumisu  me, 
Tou  take  the  sum  and  substance  that  I  have. 

2  Old.  Whither  travel  you? 
Val.  To  Verona. 

1  Out.  "Whence  came  you? 
Val.  From  Milan. 

3  Out.  Have  you  long  sojoum'd  there? 

Val.  Some  sixteen  months;  and  longer  might 
have  etay'd. 
If  crooked  fortune  had  not  thwarted  me. 

1  Out.  What,  were  you  banish'd  thence? 
Val.  I  was. 

2  Out.  For  what  offence? 

Tal.    For  that  which   now   torments   mo   to 
rehearse ; 
1  kill'd  a  man,  whose  death  I  much  repent; 
But  yet  I  slew  him  manfully  in  fight, 
Without  false  vantage,  or  base  treachery. 

'  Out.  Why,  ne'er  repent  it,  if  it  were  done  so: 
But  were  you  banish'd  for  so  small  a  fault? 

Val.  I  was,  and  held  me  glad  of  such  a  doom. 

1  Out.  Have  you  the  tongues? 


Val.  My  youthful  travel  therein  made  me  happy; 
Or  else  I  had  been  often  miserable. 

3  Out.  By  the  bare  scalp  of  Eobin  Hood's  fat 
friar," 
This  fellow  were  a  king  for  our  wild  faction! 

1  Out.  AVe  '11  have  him;  sirs,  a  word. 

Speed.  Master,  be  one  of  them;  it's  an  honour- 
able kind  of  thievery. 
Val.  Peace,  villain! 

2  Out.  Tell  us  this:    Have  you   anything   to 

tike  to? 
Val.  Nothing  but  my  fortime. 

3  Out.  Know,  then,  that  some  of  us  are  gentlemen, 
Such  as  the  fury  of  imgovcm'd  youth. 

Thrust  from  the  company  of  awful  men:" 
Myself  was  from  Verona  banished. 
For  practising  to  steal  away  a  lady. 
An  heir,  and  near  allied  unto  the  duke. 

2  Out.  And  I  from  Mantua,  for  a  gentleman, 
Whom,  in  my  mood,'*  I  stabb'd  unto  the  heart. 

1  Out.  And  I,  for  such  like  petty  crimes  as  these. 
But  to  the  purpose, — for  we  cite  our  faults, 
That  they  may  hold  excus'd  our  lawless  lives, 
And,  partly,  seeing  you  are  beautified 

With  goodly  shape;  and  by  your  own  report 
A  linguist;  and  a  man  of  such  perfection, 
As  we  do  in  our  quality  much  want. 

2  Out.  Indeed,  because  you  are  a  banish'd  man, 
Tlierefore,  above  the  rest,  we  parley  to  you: 

Are  you  content  to  be  our  general? 

To  make  a  virtue  of  necessity, 

And  live,  as  we  do,  in  this  wilderness  ? 

3  Out.  What  say'st  thou  ?  wilt  thou  be  of  our 

consort  ? 
Say,  ay,  and  be  the  captain  of  us  all : 
Wo  'U  do  thee  homage,  and  be  rul'd  by  tnee, 
Love  thee  as  our  commander,  and  our  king. 

1  Out.  But  if  thou  scorn  our  courtesy,  thou  diest 

2  Out.  Thou  shalt  not  live   to  brag  what  we 

have  offer'd. 
Val.  I  take  your  offer,  and  will  live  with  you. 
Provided  that  you  do  no  outrages 
On  sUly  women,  ^  or  poor  passengers. 


THE   TWO   GENTLEMEiV  OF   VEKONA. 


8  Out.  I'so,  -we  detest  sucli  vilo  base  practices. 
Come,  go  -n-itli  us,  we  '11  bring  thee  to  our  crews, 
And  show  thee  all  the  ti'easure  we  have  got ; 
Wbich,  with  ourselves,  all  rest" at  thy  dispose. 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE  n.— Milan.     The  court  of  the  Palace. 
Enter  Peoieus. 

Pro.  Abeady  have  I  been  false  to  Valentine, 
And  now  I  must  be  as  unjust  to  Tiiurio. 
Under  the  colour  of  commending  him, 
I  have  access  my  own  love  to  prefer ; 
But  Silvia  is  too  fair,  too  true,  too  holy, 
To  be  comipted  with  my  wortliless  gifts. 
When  I  protest  true  loyalty  to  her, 
She  twits  me  with  my  falsehood  to  my  friend: 
When  to  her  beauty  I  commend  my  vows. 
She  bids  me  tuinli  how  I  have  been  forsworn 
In  breaking  fiith  with  Julia  whom  I  lov'd : 
And,  notwithstanding  all  her  sudden  quips, '°° 
P-ho  least  whereof  would  quell  a  lover"  s  hope, 
yet,  spaniel-like,  the  more  she  spurns  my  love. 
The  more  it  grows,  and  fiwneth  on  her  still. 
Cut   here    comes   Tliurio  :  now  must  we  to  her 

window, 
And  give  some  evening  music  to  her  ear. 

Erder  Tnunio  and  Musicians. 

Tim.  How  now,  sir  Proteus;  are  you  crept 
before  us? 

Pro.  Ay,  gentle  Thui-io ;  for  you  know  that  love 
Will  creep  in  service  where  it  cannot  go. 

Tim.  Ay,  but  I  hope,  sir,  that  you  love  not  here. 

Pro.  Sir,  but  I  do;  or  else  I  would  be  hence. 

Thu.  T\Tio?    Sil\-ia? 

Pro.  Ay,  SUvia, — for  your  sake. 

TIm.  I  thank  j-ou  for  your  own.  Now,  gentlemen, 
Let's  tune,  and  to  it  lustily  awhile. 

Enter  Host,  at  a  distance;  and  Julia,  in  lay's  clothes. 

Host.  Now,  my  young  guest!  mcthinks  yoTi  're 
allyohoOy;  I  pray  you,  why  is  it  ? 

Jul.  MaiTy,  miae  host,  because  I  cannot  be  merry. 

Host.  Come,  we  '11  have  you  merry:  I'  11  biing 
you  where  you  shall  hear  music,  and  see  the  gen- 
tleman that  you  ask'd  for. 

Jul.  But  shall  I  hear  him  speak? 

Host.  Ay,  that  you  shall. 

Jul.  That  wUl  be  music !  \_Music  plays. 

Host.  Hark!  hark! 
,       Jul.  Is  he  among  these? 

Host.  Ay:  but  peace,  let 's  hear  'em. 
06 


SONG. 

AVho  is  Silvia  ?  what  is  she. 

That  all  our  swains  commend  faer  ? 
Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she, 

The  heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her,^^' 
That  she  might  admired  be. 
Is  she  kind  aa  she  is  fair  .* 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness  • 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair. 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness ; 
And,  being  help'd,  inhabits  there. 
Then  to  Silvia  let  us  sing. 

That  Sil\'ia  is  cxceUiug ; 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing. 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling : 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 

Host.  How  now?  are  you  sadder  than  you  were 
before  ? 
How  do  you,  man?  the  music  likes  you  not. 

Jul.  You  mistake;  the  musician  likes  me  act. 

Host.  Why,  my  pretty  youth  ? 

Jul.  He  plays  false,  father. 

Host.  How?  out  of  tune  on  the  strings? 

Jul.  Not  so;  but  yet  so  false  that  he  gi-ieves  nn 
very  heart-stiings. 

Host.  You  have  a  quick  ear. 

Jul.  Ay,  I  would  I  were  deaf!  it  makes  in'- 
have  a  slow  heai't. 

Host.  I  perceive  you  delight  not  in  musis. 

Jul.  Not  a  whit, — when  it  jars  so. 

Host.  Hark,  what  fine  change  is  in  the  m  .isii, ! 

Jul.  Ay,  that  change  is  the  spite! 

Host.  You  would  have  them  always  play  but 
one  thing. 

Jul.  I  would  always  have  one  play  but  one  thing. 
But,  host,  doth  this  sir  Proteus,  that  we  talk  on. 
Often  resort  imto  this  gentlewoman? 

Host.  I  tell  you  what  Launce,  his  man,  told  me, 
he  lov'd  her  out  of  aU  nick.'"^ 

Jul.  WTiere  is  Launce? 

Host.  Gone  to  seek  his  dog ;  which,  to-morrow, 
by  his  master's  command,  he  must  carry  for  a  pre- 
sent to  his  lady. 

Jul.  Peace!  stand  aside!  the  company  parts. 

Pro.  Sir  Thiu-io,  fear  not  you !  I  -n-ill  so  plead, 
That  you  shall  say  my  cunning  drift  cxcela. 

Tim.  Where  meet  we? 

Pro.  At  saint  Gregory's  well. 

Thit.  Farewell.    \_Exeunt  Tkvkio  snd  Mmiciam 

Silvia  appears  alove,  at  her  window. 

Pro.  Madam,  good  ev'n  to  your  ladyship 
<S'i7.  I  thank  you  for  your  music,  gentlemen: 
WTio  is  that,  tliat  spake? 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VEEONA. 


UCEXE  JI. 


Pro..  One,  lady,  if  you  knew  his  pure  heart's 
tnilh, 
Tou  vould  nuiukly  Icam  to  know  him  by  his  voice. 
SU.  Sir  Proteus,  as  I  take  it. 
Pro    Sir  Proteus,  gcntlo  lady,  and  your  servant. 
SU.  "Wliat  's  your  will  r 
Pro.  That  I  may  compass  youi-s."" 
Sil.  You  have  yoTir  wish;  my  will  is  even  this, — 
That  presently  j'ou  hie  you  homo  to  bed. 
Thou  subtle,  pcrjur'd,  false,  disloyal  man! 
Think'st  thou,  I  am  so  shallow,  so  conceitless. 
To  be  seduced  by  thy  flattery. 
That  hast  dccciv'd  so  many  with  thy  vows? 
Return,  retiuii,  and  make  thy  love  amends. 
For  me, — ^by  this  pale  queen  of  night  I  swear, 
I  am  so  flir  froin  granting  thy  request. 
That  I  des])ise  thee  for  thy  wrongful  suit; 
And  by  and  by  intend  to  chide  myself. 
Even  for  this  time  I  spend  in  talking  to  thee. 

Pro.  I  grant,  sweet  love,  that  I  did  love  a  lady; 
But  she  is  dead. 

Jul.  'T  were  f;Jse,  if  I  should  speak  it; 
For  I  am  siu-e  she  is  not  buried.  \^Asido. 

SU.  Say  that  she  be;  j-et  Valentine,  thj' friend 
Survives;  to  whom,  thyself  art  ■natness, 
I  am  botroth'd :  And  art  thou  not  asham'd 
To  ■rnong  him  with  thy  importunacy  ? 
Pro.  I  likewise  hear  that  Valentine  is  dead. 
SU.  And  so  suppose  am  I;  for  in  his  grave 
Assure  thj-sclf  my  love  is  biuied. 
Pro.  Sweet  lady,  let  me  rake  it  from  the  earth. 
Sil.  Go  to  thy  lady's  grave,  and  call  her's  thence; 
Or,  at  the  least,  in  her's  sepulchre  thine. 

Jul.  He  heard  not  that.  [Aside. 

Pro.  Madam,  if  your  heart  bo  so  obdurate, 
Vouchsafe  me  yet  your  picture  for  my  love. 
The  pictm-e  that  is  hanging  in  your  chamber; 
To  that  I  '11  speak,  to  that  I  '11  sigh  and  weep: 
For,  since  the  substance  of  your  perfect  self 
Is  else  devoted,  I  am  but  a  shadow. 
And  to  your  shadow  will  I  make  true  love. 
Jul.  If  't  were  a  substance,  you  would,  sure, 
deceive  it,' 
A.nd  make  it  but  a  shadow,  as  I  am.  [Aside, 

Sil.  I  am  verj-  loth  to  be  your  idol,  sir; 
Hut,  since  your  falsehood  shall  become  you  well 
Td  worship  shadows,  and  adore  false  shapes. 
Send  to  me  in  the  morning,  and  I'll  send  it: 
And  80,  good  rest. 

Pro.  As  wi'etches  have  o'er  night. 

That  wait  for  execution  in  the  mom. 

[Exeunt  Peoteus;  and  Silvia,  from  above. 


Jul.  Host,  will  you  go? 

Host.  By  my  halidora,'"  I  was  fast  asleep. 

Jul.  Pray  you,  where  lies  sir  Proteus? 

Host.  Marry,  at  my  house:  Trust  me,  I  think 
't  is  almost  day. 

Jul.  Not  so;  but  it  hath  boon  the  longest  night 
That  e'er  I  watch'd,  and  the  most  heaviest. 

[Exeunt, 

Enter  Eglamouk. 

Effl.  This  is  the  hour  that  madam  Silvia 
Entreated  me  to  caU,  and  know  her  mind; 
There's  some  great  matter  she'd  employ  mo  in. — 
Madam,  madam! 

Silvia  appears  above,  at  her  tcindow. 

Sil.  TVTiocaUs? 

E(jl.  Tour  servant,  and  your  friend; 
One  that  attends  your  ladyship's  command. 

Sil.  Sir    Eglamour,    a   thousand    times  good 
moiTow. 

Eijl.  As  many,  worthy  lady,  to  yourself. 
According  to  your  ladyship's  impose,'"* 
I  am  thus  early  come,  to  know  what  service 
It  is  your  pleasure  to  command  me  in. 

Sil.  0  Eglamour,  thou  art  a  gentleman, 
(Think  not  I  flatter,  fur  I  swear  I  do  not,) 
Valiant,  mse,  remorseful,""'  well  accomplish'd. 
Thou  art  not  ignorant  what  dear  good  will 
I  bear  unto  the  banish'd  Valentine ; 
Nor  how  my  father  would  enforce  me  marry 
Vain  Thurio,  whom  my  very  soul  abliorr'd. 
Thyself  hast  lov'd;  and  I  have  heard  thee  say 
No  grief  did  ever  come  so  near  thy  heart 
As  when  thy  lady  and  thy  true  love  died. 
Upon  whose  grave  thou  vow'dst  pure  chasti'',y. 
Sir  Eglamoui',  I  would  to  Valentine, 
To  Mantua,  where,  I  hoar,  he  makes  abode; 
And,  for  the  ways  are  dangerous  to  pass, 
I  do  desire  thy  worthy  company, 
Upon  whose  faith  and  honour  I  repose. 
Urge  not  my  father's  anger,  Eglamour, 
But  think  upon  my  grief, — a  lady's  grief, — 
And  on  the  justice  of  my  fl}Tng  hence. 
To  keep  me  from  a  most  unholy  match, 
ViTiioh   heaven,   and    fortune   still    reward   with 

plagues: 
I  do  desire  thee,  even  from  a  heai-t 
As  full  of  sorrows  as  the  sea  of  sands. 
To  bear  me  company,  and  go  with  me  : 

67 


ACT  IV. 


THE   TWO   GENTLEXfEN   OF   VERONA. 


If  not,  to  hiile  what  I  have  said  to  thee. 
That  I  may  venture  to  depart  alone. 

Egl.  iladam,  I  pity  much  your  grievances  ; 
Wiich  since  I  know  they  virtuously  are  plac'd, 
I  give  consent  to  go  along  with  you; 
ReckiEg  as  little  what  betideth  me, 
As  much  I  wish  all  good  bcfortune  you. 
When  will  you  go  ? 

Sil.  This  evening  coming. 

Egl.  Where  shall  I  meet  you  ? 

Sil.  At  friar  Patrick's  cell. 

Where  I  intend  holy  confession. 

Egl.  I  will  not  fail  your  ladyship : 
Good  morrow,  gentle  lady. 

Sil.  Good  morrow,  kind  sir  Eglamour. 

[Exeunt. 

Elder  Latince,  with  Ids  dog. 

Zaun.  WTien  a  man's  servant  shall  play  the  cur 
with  him,  look  you,  it  goes  hard:  one  that  I 
brought  up  of  a  puppy ;  one  that  I  sav'd  from 
di'owning,  when  three  or  four  of  his  blind  brothers 
and  sisters  went  to  it !  I  have  taught  him — even 
as  one  would  say  precisely.  Thus  I  would  teach  a 
dog.  I  was  sent  to  deliver  liim,  as  a  present  to 
mistress  SQvia,  from  my  master ;  and  I  came  no 
Eoouer  into  the  dining-chamber,  but  he  steps  me 
to  her  trencher,""  and  steals  her  capon's  leg.  0, 
't  is  a  foul  thing  when  a  ewe  cannot  keep  himself 
Ln  all  companies !  I  would  have,  as  one  should 
say,  ouo  that  takes  upon  him  to  be  a  dog  indeed, 
to  be,  as  it  were,  a  dog  at  aU  things.  If  I  had 
not  had  more  wit  than  he,  to  take  a  favlt  upon  me 
that  he  did,  I  tliink  verily  he  had  been  hang'd 
for 't ;  sure  as  I  live  he  had  suffer'd  for't:  you 
shall  judge.  He  thrusts  me  himself  into  the 
company  of  three  or  four  gentleman-like  dogs, 
under  the  duke's  table:  ho  had  not  been  there 
(bless  the  mark !)  a  pissing  wliile,  but  aU  the 
chamber  smelt  him.  "Out  with  the  dog,"  says 
one;  "What  cur  is  that?"  says  another;  "Wliip 
him  out,"  says  the  third;  "Hang him  up,"  says  the 
dake.  I,  having  been  acquainted  with  the  smell 
before,  know  it  was  Crab;  and  goes  me  to  the  fel- 
low that  whips  the  dogs:  "Friend,"  quoth  I, 
"you  mean  to  whip  the  dog?"  "Ay,  marry,  do  I," 
quoth  he.  "You  do  him  the  more  wrong,"  quoth 
I ,  '  't  was  I  did  the  thing  you  wot  of."  He 
makes  me  no  more  ado,""  but  wliips  me  out  of  the 
chamber.  How  many  masters  would  do  this  for 
his  servant?  Nay,  I'll  bo  sworn,  I  have  satin 
tho  stocks  for  puddings  he  liath  stol'n,  otherwise  he 

68 


had  been  executed:  I  have  stood  on  the  piUory  for 
geese  he  hath  kill'd,  otherwise  he  had  sulTer'd  for't: 
thou  think'st  not  of  tliis  now ! — Nay,  I  remember 
the  trick  you  serv'd  me  when  I  took  my  leave  of 
madam  Silvia;  did  not  I  bid  thee  still  mark  me,  and 
do  as  I  do?  'When  didst  thou  see  me  heave  up 
my  leg,  and  make  water  against  a  gentlewoman's 
farthingale?  didst  thou  ever  see  me  do  such  a 
trick  ? 

Enter  Pboteus  and  Juija. 

Fro.  Sebastian  is  thy  name?   I  like  thee  well, 
And  wiU  employ  thee  in  some  service  presently. 

Jul.  In  what  you  please. — I  'U  do  what  I  can. 

Pro.  I  hope  thou  wilt. — How  now,  you  whore- 
son peasant;  [_To  Launce. 
"Where  have  you  been  these  two  days  loitering  ? 

Lmm.  Marry,  su-,  I  carried  mistress  Silvia  the 
dog  you  bade  me. 

Pro.  And  what  says  she  to  my  little  jewel? 

Laun.  Marry,  she  says,  your  dog  was  a  cur;  and 
tells  you  currish  thanks  is  good  enough  for  such  a 
present. 

Pro.  But  she  receiv'd  my  dog? 

Laun.  No,  indeed,  did  she  not:  hero  have  1 
brought  him  back  again. 

Pro.  "What,  didst  thou  offer  her  this  from  me  ? 

Laun.  Ay,  sir;  the  other  squirrel ""  was  stol'n 
from  me  by  the  hangman's  boys  in  the  market- 
place: and  then  I  offer'd  her  mine  own,  who  is  a 
dog  as  big  as  ten  of  yours,  and  therefore  the  gift 
the  greater. 

Pro.  Go,  get  thee  hence,  and  find  my  dog  again, 
Or  ne'er  return  again  into  my  sight. 
Away,  I  say:  Stayest  thou  to  vex  me  here? 
A  slave,  that  still  an  end""  tm-ns  me  to  shame. 

\_Exit  Lacsck. 
Sebastian,  I  have  entertained  thee. 
Partly,  that  I  have  need  of  such  a  youth, 
That  can  with  some  discretion  do  my  business, 
For  't  is  no  ti^usting  to  yon  foolish  lout; 
But,  chiefly,  for  thy  face  and  thy  behaviour, 
Wliich  (if  my  augury  deceive  me  not) 
Witness  good  bringing  up,  fortune   and  truth : 
Therefore  know  thee,  for  tliis  I  entertain  thee. 
Go  presently,  and  take  this  ring  with  thee, 
Deliver  it  to  madam  Silvia: 
She  lov'd  me  well,'"  delivered  it  to  me. 

Jul.  It  seems  }''ou  lov'd  not  her   to  leave  bei 
token : 
She  is  dead,  belike? 

Pro.  Not  so,  I  think  she  lives. 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  YEllONA. 


BCEJfB   LL 


Jul.  Alas! 

Pro.  Wty  dost  thou  cry,  iilas! 

Jul.  I  cannot  choose  but  pity  her. 

Pro.  Wherefore  shouldst  thou  pity  her? 

Jal.  Because,  methLuks,  that  she  lov'd  you  as 
weU 
As  you  do  love  your  lady  Silvia: 
She  dreams  on  liim  that  has  forgot  her  love; 
Vou  dote  on  her  that  cares  not  for  your  love. 
'T  i^  pity  love  should  he  so  contrary, 
And  thinking  on  it  makes  mo  cry,  alas! 

Pro.  Well,  give  her  that  ring,  and  therewithal 
This  letter; — that's  her  chamber. — TeU  my  lady, 
[  claim  the  promise  for  her  heavenly  picture. 
Vour  message  done,  hie  home  unto  my  chamber. 
Where  thou  shalt  find  me,  sad  and  solitary. 

[Exit  Pro. 

Jul.  How  many  women  would  do  such  a  message  ? 
Alas,  poor  Proteus!  thou  hast  entcrtain'd 
A  fox  to  be  the  shepherd  of  thy  lambs: 
Alas,  poor  fool!  why  do  I  pity  him. 
That  with  his  very  heart  despiseth  me? 
Because  he  loves  her,  he  despiseth  me: 
Because  I  love  him,  I  must  pitj-  him, 
niis  ring  I  gave  him,  when  he  parted  from  me. 
To  bind  him  to  remember  my  good  will: 
And  now  am  I  (unliappy  messenger) 
To  plead  for  that,  vrhich  I  would  not  obtain; 
To  carry  that,  which  I  woidd  have  refus'd; 
To  praise  his  faith,  which  I  woidd  have  disprais'd. 
I  am  my  master's  true  confirmed  love. 
But  cannot  be  time  servant  to  my  master, 
Unless  I  prove  false  traitor  to  mj-self. 
Yet  win  I  woo  for  him, — but  yet  so  coldly. 
As,  heaven  it  knows,  I  would  not  have  him  speed. 

Eriter  SrLvi.v,  attended. 

Gentlewoman,  good  day!    I  pray  you,  be  my  mean 
To  bring  me  where  to  speak  with  madam  Silvia. 

Sil.  "^Miat  would  you  with  her,  if  that  I  be  she? 

Jul.  If  you  be  she,  I  do  entreat  your  patience 
To  hear  me  speak  the  message  I  am  sent  on. 

Sil.  From  whom? 

Jul.  From  my  master,  sir  Proteus,  madam. 

Sil.  0 ! — he  sends  you  for  a  picture  ? 

Jul.  Ay,  madam. 

Sil.  Ursida,  bring  my  picture  there. 

\_The  picture  is  brought. 
tro,  give  your  master  this ;  tell  him,  from  me. 
One  Julia,  that  his  changing  thoughts  forget. 
Would  better  fit  his  chamj)cr,  than  this  shadow. 

Jul.  iladara,  please  you  peruse  tliis  letter. — 


Pardon  me,  madam;  I  have  unadvis'd 
Deliver'd  you  a  paper  that  I  should  not: 
This  is  the  letter  to  your  ladyship. 

Sil.  I  pray  thee,  let  me  look  on  that  again. 

Jul.  It  may  not  be,   good  madam,  pardon  rac. 

Sil.  There,  hold 
I  will  not  look  upon  yoirr  master's  lines: 
I  know  they  arc  studied  with  protestations, 
And  full  of  new-found  oaths,  which  ho  will  break 
As  easily  as  I  do  tear  his  paper. 

Jul.  Madam,  he  sends  your  ladyship  this  ring. 

Sil.  The  more  shame  for  him  that  he  sends  i'. 
me; 
For,  I  have  heard  him  say  a  thousand  times. 
His  Julia  gave  it  him  at  his  departure : 
Though  his  false  finger  have  profan'd  the  ring, 
Mine  shall  not  do  his  Julia  so  much  -^NTong. 

Jul.  She  thanks  you. 

Sil.  Wliat  say'st  thou  ? 

Jul.  I  thank  you,  madam,  that  you  tender  her  ■ 
Poor  gentlewoman !  my  master  wrongs  her  much 

Sil.  Dost  thou  know  her  ? 

Jul.  Almost  as  well  as  I  do  know  myself: 
To  think  upon  her  woes  I  do  protest 
That  I  have  wept  a  hundi'ed  several  times. 

Sil.  Belike,  she  thinks  that  Proteus  hath  for- 
sook her. 

Jul.  I  think  she  doth,  and  that  "s  her  cause  oi 

SOITOW. 

Sil.  Is  she  not  passing  f;iir? 

Jul.  She  hath  been  tairer,  madam,  than  she  is 
When  she  did  think  my  master  lov'd  her  well, 
She,  in  my  judgment,  was  as  fair  as  you ; 
But  since  she  did  neglect  her  looking-glass, 
And  threw  her  sun-expeUiiig  mask  away. 
The  air  hath  starv'd  the  roses  in  her  checks, 
And  pinch'd  the  lily-tincturo  of  her  face,"* 
That  now  she  is  become  as  black  as  I. 

Sil.  How  tall  was  she  ? 

Jul.  About  my  statiu-e  :  for,  at  Pentecost, 
When  aU  our  pageants  of  delight  were  play'd. 
Our  youth  got  me  to  play  the  woman's  part. 
And  I  was  trimm'd  in  madam  Julia's  go-nn; 
Which  served  me  as  fit,  by  all  men's  judgments 
As  if  the  ganuent  had  been  made  for  me: 
Therefore,  I  know  she  is  about  my  height. 
And,  at  that  time,  I  made  her  weep  a-good  "=■  _ 
For  I  did  play  a  lamentable  part; 
Madam,  't  was  Ariadne,  passioning 
For  Theseus'  perjury  and  unjust  flight, — 
"\Miich  I  so  lively  acted  with  my  tears. 
That  my  poor  mistress,  moved  therewithal, 

69 


TKE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VEKONA. 


SCEKE   I. II. 


Wept  bitterly;  and,  would  I  miglit  be  dead, 
If  I  in  thought  felt  not  her  very  sorrow ! 

Sil.  She  is  beholden  to  thee,  gentle  youth ! — 
Alas,  poor  lady  !  desolate  and  left ! — 
I  weep  myself  to  think  upon  thy  words. 
Here,  youth,  there  is  my  purse ;  I  give  thee  this 
For  thy  sweet  mistress'  sake,  because  thou  lov'st  her. 
Farewell.  {^Exit  Silvia. 

Jul.  And  she  shall  thank  you  for  't,  if  e'er  you 
know  her. 
A  virtuous  gentlewoman,  mild,  and  beautiful. 
I  hope  my  master's  suit  vriil  be  but  cold, 
Since  she  respects  my  misti'oss'  love  so  much. 
Alas,  how  love  can  trifle  with  itself ! 
Here  is  her  picture:  Let  me  see;  I  think, 
If  I  had  such  a  tire,  this  face  of  mine 
Were  full  as  lovely  as  is  this  of  hers : 
And  yet  the  painter  flatter" d  her  a  little, 


Unless  I  flatter  with  myself  too  much. 

Her  hair  is  auburn,  mine  is  perfect  yellow: 

If  that  be  all  the  difference  in  liis  love, 

I'  U  got  me  such  a  colour'd  periwig."' 

Hei  eyes  are  grey  as  glass;"*  and  so  are  mine: 

Ay,  but  her  forehead's  low,  and  mine's  as  high. 

"What  should  it  be,  that  he  respects  in  her, 

But  I  can  make  respective"'  in  myself. 

If  this  fond  Love  were  not  a  blinded  god? 

Come,  shadow,  come,  and  take  this  shadow  up. 

For  't  is  thy  rival.     0  thou  senseless  form, 

Thou  shalt  be  worshipp'd,  Idss'd,  lov'd  and  ador  d 

And,  were  there  sense  in  his  idolatry, 

lly  substance  should  be  statue"'  in  thy  stead. 

I  'U  use  thee  kindly  for  thy  mistress'  sake, 

That  us'd  me  so;  or  else,  by  Jove  I  vow, 

I  should  have  scratch'd  out  your  unseeaig  eyes. 

To  make  my  master  out  of  love  with  thee!    [^Erit. 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  l.—The  same.     An  Alhey. 
Enter  Eglamofs. 

Egl.  The  sun  begins  to  gild  the  western  sky. 
And  now  it  is  about  the  very  hour 
That  Silvia,  at  friar  Patrick's  ccU,  should  meet  me. 
She  wiU  not  fail;  for  levers  break  not  hours. 
Unless  it  bo  to  come  before  their  time ; 
So  much  they  spar  their  expedition. 

Enter  SIL■^^A. 

See  where  she  comes :  Lady,  a  happy  evening  ! 

S}'l.  Amen,  amen  !  go  on,  good  Eglamour, 
Out  at  the  postern  by  the  abbey- wall; 
I  feav  I  am  attended  by  some  spies. 

Egl.  Fear  not:  the  forest  is  not  three  leagues  ofi': 
If  we  recover  that,  we  are  sui'e  enough.    [_Exeu7it. 

SCENE  II. — The  same.     A  Room  in  the  Duke's 
Palace. 

Enter  TuuKio,  Pkoteus,  and  Julia. 

TliU.  Sir  Proteus,  what  says  Silvia  to  my  suit? 
Pro.  0,  sir,  I  find  her  milder  than  she  was; 
And  yet  she  takes  exceptions  at  your  person. 
Tkd.  WHiat,  that  my  leg  is  too  long  ? 
jRro.  No,  that  it  is  too  little. 
70 


TJm.  I  'U  wear  a  boot,  to  make  it  somcvrhai 
rounder. 

Jul.  But  Love  will  not  be  fpurr'd  to  what  il 
loathes.  [_Aiide. 

Tim.  What  says  she  to  my  face? 

Pro.  She  says  it  is  a  fair  one. 

Tim.  Nay,  then  the  wanton  lies ;  my  face  is  black. 

Pro.  But  peails  are  fair ;  and  the  old  saying  is. 
Black  men  are  pearls  in  beauteous  ladies'  eyes. 

Jul.  'T  is  true,  such  pearls  as  put  out  ladies'  eyes; 
For  I  had  rather  wink  than  look  on  tliem.    \_Ai>i(Je. 

Tim.  How  likes  she  my  discourse? 

Pro.  Ill,  when  you  talk  of  war. 

Thu.  But  well,  when  I  discourse  of  love  ami 
peace? 

Jul.  But  better,  indeed,  when  you  hold  youi 
peace.  [Aside, 

Tim.  Wliat  says  she  to  my  valour? 

Pro.  0,  sir,  she  makes  no  doubt  of  that. 

Jul.  Slie  needs  not,  when  she  knows  it  oowardioo 

[.Isiib 

Thu.  AMiat  says  she  to  my  birth  ' 

Pro.  That  you  are  well  deriv'd. 

Jul.  Ti-ue;  from  a  gentleman  to  a  fool.    [Aside. 

Thu.  Considers  she  my  possessions  ? 

Pro.  0,  ay;  and  pities  them. 

Tim.  'Wherefore? 


TIIE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VEEONA. 


SCE.NIi    II :. — iV. 


Jul.  That  micli  an  ass  eliould  owe  them.  \_Aside. 
Pro.  That  they  are  out  by  lease.'" 
Jul.  Here  comes  the  dulic. 

Enter  Duke. 

Duke.  How  now,  sir  Troteus?  how  now,  Thurio? 
Which  of  you  saw  sir  Eglamour  of  late? 

Thu.  Not  I. 

Pro.  Nor  I. 

Duke.  Saw  you  my  daughter  ? 

Pro.  Neither. 

Buhe.  AVhy,  then,  she's  fled  unto  that  peasant 
Valentine ; 
And  Eglamour  is  in  her  company. 
'T  is  true;  for  friar  Laurence  met  them  both, 
As  he  in  penance  wander'd  tlirough  the  forest: 
Him  lie  Icnow  well,  and  guess'd  that  it  was  she. 
But,  being  mask'd,  he  was  not  sm-e  of  it: 
Besides,  she  did  intend  confession 
At  Patrick's  cell  this  even,  and  there  she  was  not: 
These  likelihoods  confi'in  her  flight  from  hence, 
riiorcfoi'e,  I  pray  you,  stand  not  to  discourse. 
But  mount  you  presently;  and  meet  with  me 
Upon  the  rising  of  the  mountain-foot 
That  leads  towards  Mantua,  whither  the}'  are  fled. 
Despatch,  sweet  gentlemen,  and  follow  me.   \_Exit. 

TIm.  Why,  this  it  is  to  be  a  peevish  girl,'" 
That  flies  her  fortune  when  it  follows  her; 
I  '11  after,  more  to  be  reveng'd  on  Eglamour, 
Tiuui  for  the  love  of  reckless  Silvia.  \_Exit. 

Pro.  Ajid  I  will  foUow,  more  for  Silvia's  love. 
Than  hate  of  Eglamour  that  goes  -with  her.  \_Exit. 

Jul.  And  I  will  foUow,  more  to  cross  that  love. 
Than  hate  for  Silvia,  that  is  gone  for  love.    \_Exit. 

SCENE  lll.—ne  Forest. 
Enter  Silvia  and  Outlaws. 

1  Out.  Come,  come;  be  patient;  we  must  bring 
you  to  our  captain. 

Sil.   A  thousand  more  mischances  than  this  one 
Have  leani'd  me  how  to  brook  this  patiently. 

2  Out.  Come,  bring  her  away. 

1   Oat.  "NMicrc  is  the  gentleman  that  was  with 
■K-r  ? 

:3  Out.  Eeing  nimble-footed,  he  hath  outrun  us, 
ii;it  Moses  and  Valerius'™  follow  him. 
tin  thou  with  her  to  the  west  end  of  the  wood, 
rheru  is  our  captain:  ^ve  'II  follow  Llm  that's  fled. 
I'iie  thicket  is  beset,  he  cannot  'scape. 

1  Out.  Come,  I  must  bring  you  to  our  captain's 


Fear  not;  he  bears  an  honourable  mind. 
And  will  not  use  a  woman  lawlessly. 

Sil.  0  VtJenthie,  tliis  I  endure  fur  thee.  \^Exc'uni 

SCENE  IV.— Another  part  of  the  Forest. 
Enter  Valesidte. 
Val.  How  use  doth  breed  a  habit  in  a  man ; 
This  shadowy  desert,  unfrequented  woods, 
I  better  brook  than  flourishmg  peopled  towns : 
Here  can  I  sit  alone,  unseen  of  any, 
And  to  the  nightingale's  complaining  notes 
Time  my  disti-esscs,  and  record  my  woes.'^' 

0  thou  that  dost  inhabit  in  my  breast. 
Leave  not  the  mansion  so  long  tcnantless; 
Lest,  gi-owing  ruinous,  the  building  fall. 
And  leave  no  momoiy  of  what  it  was ! 
Eepair  me  with  thy  presence,  Silvia; 

Thou  gentle  nymph,  cherish  thy  forlorn  swain! 

[_A  noise  outside. 
What  hallooing,  and  what  stir,  is  this  to-day? 
These  arc  my  mates,  that  make  their  wills  their  lav,--, 
Have  some  unhappy  passenger  in  chase : 
They  love  me  well;  yet  I  have  much  to  do, 
To  keep  them  from  uncivil  outrages. 
Withdraw  thee,  Valentine;  who's  this  comes  here ! 

\_Steps  aside. 

Enter  Pkoteus,  Silvia,  and  Julia. 

Pro.  Madam,  this  ser\-ice  I  have  done  for  you, 
Thougli  you  respect  not  aught  yom'  servant  doth. 
To  hazard  life,  and  rescue  you  from  liim 
That  would  have  forc'd  your  honour  and  your  love, 
Vouchsafe  me,  for  my  meed,  but  one  fair  look; 
A  smaller  boon  than  this  I  cannot  beg. 
And  less  than  this,  I  am  sure,  you  cannot  give. 

Val.  How  like  a  dream  is  this  I  see  and  hear! 
Love,  lend  me  patience  to  forbear  awhile.    [Aside. 

Sil.  0  miserable,  unhappy  that  I  am! 

Pro.  TJnliappy  were  you,  madam,  ere  I  came; 
But,  by  my  coming,  I  have  made  you  happy. 

Sil.  By  thy  approach  thou  mak'st  me  most  un- 
happy. 

Jul.  And   me,  when   he  appro.achcth   to   yoiii 
presence.  {Aside. 

Sil.  Had  I  been  seized  by  a  hungry  lion, 

1  would  have  been  a  breakfast  to  the  beast, 
Eather  than  have  false  Proteus  rescue  me ! 
0,  heaven  be  judge  how  I  love  Valentine, 
T\Tiose  life  's  as  tender  to  me  as  my  soul; 
And  full  as  much  (for  more  there  cannot  bo) 
I  do  detest  false  perjm-'d  Proteus; 
Therefore  be  gone,  solicit  me  no  more. 

71 


THE  TWO  GENTLEilEiV  OF  VEEOIS'A. 


80ENE    IV. 


Pro.  What  dangerous  action,  stood  it  next  to 
death, 
Would  I  not  undergo  for  one  calm  look? 
0,  't  is  the  curse  in  love,  and  still  approv'd,"* 
When  women  cannot  love  where  they're  belor'd. 
SU.  "When  Proteus  cannot  love  where  he  's  be- 
lov'd. 
Read  over  Julia's  heart,  thy  first  best  love, 
For  whose  dear  sake  thou  didst  then  rend  thy 

faith. 
Into  a  thousana  oaths,  ana  all  those  oaths 
Descended  into  perjury  to  love  me. 
Thou  hast  no  ftiith  left  now,  unless  thou  'dst  two, 
And  that  's  far  worse  than  none;   better  have 

none 
Than  plural  faith,  which  is  too  much  by  one ; 
Thou  counterfeit  to  thy  true  friend  1 

Pro.  In  love 

Who  respects  friend  \ 

Sil.  All  men  but  Proteus. 

Pro.  Nay,  if  the  gentle  spirit  of  moving  words 
Can  no  way  change  you  to  a  milder  form, 
1  '11  woo  you  like  a  soldier,  at  arm's  end ; 
And  love  you  'gainst  the  nature  of  love,  force  you. 
Sil.  O  heaven ! 

Pro.  I'll  force  thee  yield  to  my  desire. 

Val.  Ruffian,  let  go  that  rude  uncivil  touch ; 
Tliou  friend  of  an  ill  fashion  I 
Pro.  Valentine ! 

Val.  Tliou  common  friend,  that 's  without  faith 
or  love ; 
(For  such  is  a  friend  now  ;)  treacherous  man ! 
Thou  hast  beguil'd  my  hopes;  nought  but  mine  eye 
Could  have  persuaded  me:    Now  I  dare  not  say 
I  have  one  friend  alive ;  thou  would'st  disprove  me. 
Who  should  be  trusted,  when  one's  r'ght  hand  "* 
Is  perjured  to  the  bosom  1     Proteus, 
1  am  sorry  I  must  never  trust  thee  more, 
But  count  the  world  a  stranger  for  thy  sake. 
The  private  wound   is  deepest:     O   time  most 

accurs'd  ! 
'Mongst  all  foes  that  a  friend  should  be  the  worst. 

Pro.  My  shame  and  guilt  confound  mc.'" — 
Forgive  me,  Valentino ;  if  hearty  sorrow 
Be  a  sufficient  ransom  for  oflence, 
I  tender  't  here ;  I  do  as  truly  suffer 
As  e'er  I  did  commit. 

Val.  Then  I  am  paid  , 
And  once  again  I  do  receive  thee  honest : — 
Who  by  repentance  is  not  satisfud 
Is  nor  of  heaven,  nor  earth,  for  these  are  plcas'd ; 
By  peniijnicc  th'  Eternal's  wrath  's  appeas'd. — 
73 


And,  that  my  love  may  appear  plain  and  free, 
AH  that  was  mine  in  Silvia  I  give  thee. 
Jul.  0  me,  unhappy! 

\_Strv^gles  to  hide  her  griej 
Pro.  Look  to  the  boy. 

Fal.  Wby,  boy! 

Why,  wag!  how  now  ?  what's  the  matter  ?     Look 
up;  speak. 
Jul.  0  good  sir,  my  master  charg'd  me  to  de- 
liver a  ring  to  madam  Silvia;  which,  out  of  my 
neglect,  was  never  done. 

Pro.  Where  is  that  ring,  boy? 
Jtil.  Here  't  is :  this  is  it.  {_Gkcs  a  ring 

Pro.  How !  let  mo  see : — ^Why,  this  is  the  mg 
I  gave  to  Julia. 

Jul.  0,  cry  you  mercy,'"''  sir,  I  have  mistook ; 
This  is  the  ring  you  sent  to  Silvia. 

[_Shcws  another  ring. 
Pro.  But  how  cam'st  thou  by  this  ring?  at  my 
depart,  I  gave  this  unto  Julia. 

Jul.  And  Julia  herself  did  give  it  me ; 
And  Julia  herself  hath  brought  it  hitlier. 
Pro.  How!   Julia! 

Jul.  Behold  her  that  gave  aim"'  to  all  thy  oaths. 
And  entertain'd  them  deeply  in  her  heai-t: 
How  oft  hast  thou  with  perjury  cleft  the  root? 
0  Proteus  let  this  habit  make  thee  blush! 
Bo  thou  asham"d,  that  I  have  took  upon  me 
Such  an  immodest  raiment,  if  shame  live'" 
In  a  disguise  of  love: 
It  is  the  lesser  blot,  modesty  finds, 
Women  to  change  their  shapes,  than  men  their 
minds. 
Pro.  Than  men  their  minds!  't  is  true;  0  hea- 
ven !  were  man 
But  constant,  he  were  perfect :  that  one  error 
Fills  him  with  faults;  makes  him  run  thiwgh  all 

th'  sins : 
Inconstancy  falls  off  ere  it  begins: 
What  is  in  Silvia's  face,  but  I  may  spy 
More  fi'csh  in  Julia's  with  a  constant  eye? 
Val.  Come,  come,  a  hand  from  either : 
Let  mo  be  bless'd  to  make  this  happy  close ; 
'T  were  pity  two  such  friends  should  bo  long  foes. 
Pro.  Bear  witness,  heaven,   I  have  my   wisl 

for  ever. 
Jul.  And  I  mine. 

Erder  Outlaws,  with  the  Duke  and  Thurio. 

Out.  A  prize,  a  prize,  a  prize ! 
Val.  Forbear,  forbear,  I  say;  it  is  my  lord  the 
duko 


THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


SCENB   IV 


Vour  grace  is  welcome  to  a  man  disgrac'd, 
Banished  Valentine. 

Diihe.  Sir  Valentine ! 

Thu.  Yonder  is  Silvia;  and  Silvia's  mine. 

Val.  Thurio,  give  back,  or  else  embrace  thy 
death; 
Come  not  within  the  measure  of  my  wrath : 
Do  not  name  Silvia  thine ;  if  once  again, 
MUan  shall  nat  behold  thee.     Here  she  stands; 
Take  but  possession  of  her  with  a  touch; — 
I  dare  thee  but  to  breathe  upon  my  love. 

Thu.  Sir  Valentine,  I  care  not  for  her,  I; 
I  hold  him  but  a  fool  that  will  endanger 
His  body  for  a  girl  that  loves  him  not : 
I  claim  her  not,  and  therefore  she  is  thine. 

Duke.  The  more  degenerate  and  base  art  thou, 
To  make  such  means  for  her  as  thou  hast  done, 
And  leave  her  on  such  slight  conditions. — 
Now,  by  the  honour  of  my  ancestry, 
I  do  applaud  thy  spirit,  Valentine, 
And  think  thee  worthy  of  an  empress'  love! 
Know  then,  I  hero  forget  all  former  griefs. 
Cancel  all  grudge,  repeal  thee  home  again. — 
Plead  a  new  state  in  thy  unrivaU'd  merit. 
To  which  I  thus  subscribe, — Sir  Valentine, 
rhou  art  a  gentleman,  and  well  deriv'd; 
TalvG  thou  thy  Silvia,  for  thou  hast  deserv'd  hw. 

Val.  I  thank  your  glace;  the  gift  hath  made  me 

happy, 
now  besoeeh  you,  for  vour  daughter's  sake, 

10 


To  grant  one  boon  that  I  shall  ask  ol  you. 

JDuke.  I  grant  it,  for  thine  own.  whatc'er  it 

be. 
Tal.  These   banish'd  men,   that  I  have  kep' 
withal, 
Are  men  endu'd  with  worthy  qualities : 
Forgive  them  what  they  have  committed  here, 
And  let  them  be  recall'd  from  their  exile : 
They  arc  reformed,  civil,  full  of  good. 
And  fit  for  great  employment,  worthy  lord. 
Bulce.  Thou  hast  prevaU'd;  I  pardon  them,  and 
thee; 
Dispose  of  them,  as  thou  Imow'st  their  deserts. 
Come,  let  us  go;  we  will  include  all  jars 
With  triumphs,  mirth,  and  rare  solemnity. 

Val.  And,  as  we  walk  along,  I  dare  be  bold 
With  our  discourse  to  make  your  grace  to  smUe: 
What  think  you  of  this  page,  my  lord  ? 

Duke.  I  think  the  boy  hath  grace  in  him;  he 

blushes. 
Val.  I  warrant  you,  my  lord,  more  grace  than 

boy. 
Duh.  What  mean  you  by  that  saying? 
Val.  Please  you,  I  '11  tell  you  as  we  pass  along, 
That  you  will  wonder  what  hath  fortuned. — 
Come,  Proteus;  't  is  your  penance,  but  to  hear 
The  story  of  your  loves  discovered : 
That  done,  our  day  of  marriage  shall  be  yoiu's; 
One  feast,  ono  iouse,  one  mutual  happiacss. 

[Exeunt 
73 


NOTES  TO  THE  TWO  GEl^TLEMEN  OE  VEHONA. 


'  /  will  be  thy  beads-man. 

A  bcada-man  wag  one  who  offered  prayers  for  anoiher. 
A  loiig  account  of  the  term  is  given  by  Douce. 

'  Pray  for  my  success. 

5fr  Knight  places  a  note  of  interrogation  after  thij,  with 
what  object  I  am  at  a  los3  to  discover.  The  second  folio 
reads  " i/<»/ success." 

'  Give  me  not  the  boots. 

A  cx)mmou  old  familiar  phrase,  meaning,  do  not  ridicule 
nif.  It  is  found  in  many  of  our  dramatists,  and  in  Cot- 
grave  ;  but  Mr.  Knight  not  only  adopts  the  absurdity  of 
referring  it  to  the  ancient  species  of  torture  called  the 
boots,  but  gives  us  a  representation  of  the  punishment,  and 
thinks  Proteus  means  to  say— do  not  torture  me  to  confess 
to  those  love-delinquencies  of  which  you  accuse  me !  Even 
the  German  critics,  who  are  so  fond  of  ingeniously  finding 
meanings  for  Shakespeare  the  author  could  never  have 
intended,  will  not,  I  suspect,  ventui-e  to  adopt  this  explana- 
tion. The  very  magnitude  of  the  ahsui-dity  renders  it 
diflicult  to  disprove  it  in  adecjuate  language,  and  the  cor- 
rection of  tliis,  with  others  of  a  similar  kind  for  which  wo 
i,-e  indebted  to  Jlr.  Knight,  must  be  left  to  the  increasing 
biowledge  of  the  language  used  by  Shakespeare.  "//  Itrj 
Va  baiUd  belle,  he  hath  sold  him  a  bargalne,  he  hath  given 
him  the  boots,  a  gleeke  or  gudgeon,"  Cotgrave's  Die. 

*  So,  by  your  circumstance. 

■We  have  nere  a  play  on  the  word  circumstance.  Proteus 
u»es  it  in  the  sense  of  circumstance  of  words,  Valentine  in 
that  of  circumstance  of  deeds  or  conduct.  "  To  use  great 
circumstance  of  woordes,  to  goe  about  the  bushe,"  Baret's 
("Jvearie,  1580. 

'  The  eating  canker  dwells. 

Mr.  Knight  displays  a  good  deal  of  learning,  Arabic, 
Hebrew,  and  Greek,  on  this  word.  It  may,  therefore,  be 
necessary  to  obsci-vc  that  the  term,  in  Shakespeare's  time, 
was  generally  appUed  to  any  kind  of  caterpillar. 

«  At  the  road. 

A  bay  or  open  harbour  for  sliips.     Coles  translates  it  by 
tinus.    'JTiP  word  occurs  again  in  Act  ii.  Sc.  4. 
14 


1  Thither  wiU  Ib-ing  thee. 

That  is,  thither  will  I  accompany  thee.  This  phrass 
also  occurs  in  Hall's  Chronicle,  and,  slightly  modified,  is 
still  in  use  in  the  North  of  England. 

^  And  I  have  playd  the  sheep. 
Sheep  was  pronounced  like  ship,  and  sometimes  similarly 
spelt.  I  have  noted  the  orthography  ship  for  sheep  several 
times  amongst  the  records  of  the  Corponation  of  Stratford- 
on-Avon.  So  the  old  proverb,  "  Lose  not  the  sheep  for  a 
ha'porth  of  tar,"  has  been  corrupted  into,  "  spoil  not  the 
ship  for  a  ha'porth  of  tar,"  and  is  now  usually  imderstood 
in  the  latter  sense. 

'  A  lac'd  mutloru 

This  was  a  common  cant  term  for  a  courtezan.  Speed, 
in  his  eagerness  to  quibble,  and  remembering  his  recei^■ing 
no  pay,  is  not  very  complimentary.  Mr.  Knight  remarks 
that  the  designation  is  received  by  Proteus  very  patiently, 
and  seems  to  doubt  its  meaning  in  the  above  sense.  But 
the  whole  scene  tends  to  exhibit  Proteus  as  a  mere  sensual 
lover,  one  bandying  coarse  allusions.  AVe  meet  with 
nothing  of  the  kind  in  the  subsequent  dialogue  between 
Valentine  and  Speed.  I  fear  Mr.  Kiught,  in  his  reasoning 
on  this  play,  has  not  sufficiently  borne  in  mind  the  different 
consistencies  of  the  passions  of  the  two  lovers. 

'"  You  are  a-stray. 
Another  pun,  depending  on  the  adjective  astray  being 
taken  also  as  a  substantive.  A  stray  animal  was  called  a  stray 

"  Speed.   She  did. 

Mr.  Halliwell,  has  introduceJ  this  and  the  next  line 
spoken  by  Proteus,  in  preference  to  Theobald's  alteration. 
Some  addition  to  the  text  is  absolutely  neocss.uy,  and 
TheobalJ's  does  not  agi-ee  with  what  Speed  says  after- 
wards,— "You  mistook,  sir;  I  say,  she  did  nod:  and  yoii 
ask  me  if  she  did  nod ;  and  I  say,  I." 

'-  In  teltiny  your  mind. 
That  is,  as  hard  to  you  when  you  tell  your  mind  to  her 
i.e.  address  her. 

"  You  have  testem'd  mc. 
Given  me  a  testem,  a  coin  which  appears  to  have  fl'ic- 
tuatcd  in  value,  but  which  was  in  Shakeepef  *'?  time  worth 
sixponce,  or  thereabouts. 


NOTES  TO  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OE  YEKONa. 


' '  /  must  go  send. 

Mr.  Knight  reads,  without  any  authority,  "  I  must  go 
find;"  an  ai'b'trary  Tariation  from  the  original  quite  un- 
called for. 

"  Such  a  worthless  post. 

A  post  was  a  messenger  who  carried  a  letter,  a  postman 
hcfore  post-oiEces  were  established. 

i«  Every  day  with  park. 

Parle,  speech ;  used  by  Shakespeare  both  as  a  substan- 
tive and  verb.     It  was  formerly  used  instead  of  parley. 

"  Should  censure  thus. 

That 's,  should  pass  opinion  in  this  manner.  The  term 
censure  in  this  sense  should  be  borao  in  mind  by  readers  of 
the  old  dramatists. 

'8  A  goodly  broker. 

A.  broker  was  a  go-between,  and  sometimes  used  in  a 
Btill  worse  sense. 

^^  Angerly. 

The  old  adverb  for  angrily.  It  occurs  again  in  Macbc''i, 
and  King  John.  "Argerly,  irate,  iracunde,''  Bartt's 
Alvcarie,  1580 

Stomach. 

Passion  or  ill-temper.  Lucetta  plays  upon  the  double 
meaning  of  the  word.     It  is  also  Xised  for  appetite. 

-'  As  little  by  such  toys. 

That  is,  set  as  little  by,  keep  as  little  account  of.  Julia 
lakes  up  the  last  seutenee  in  a  different  sense. 

"  Light  o'  love. 

A  favourite  old  time,  the  music  to  which  is  given  by 
Hawkins.  It  is  mentioned  more  particularly  in  Much  Ado 
About  Nothing,  iii.  4. 

^  With  too  harsh  a  descant. 

"  Descant  signified  formerly  what  we  now  denominate 
variations,"  Malone.  Blount  defines  it,  "  to  run  division 
or  variety  with  the  voice  upon  a  musical  ground  in  tnie 
measure;  to  sing  off  of  a  ground," — Glossographia,  16S1. 
The  mean  is  the  tenor. 

^  /  bid  the  base  for  Proteus. 

Tliat  is,  I  challenged  him  to  pursue.  The  allusion  is 
probably  to  the  old  gapie  of  prisoners'  base,  now  called 
I'lisoners'  Bars,  a  particular  aceoimt  of  which  is  given  by 
Btrutt. 

They  after  both,  and  boldly  bad  him  base, 

Spe7iser's  Faerie  Queene. 

''  And  thus  I  search  it. 

Search  is  here  a  technical  term  refciring  to  the  wound. 
"  To  search  wounds,  specitlo  tentare  vulnus,"  Coles. 

-*  For  catching  cold. 

That  is,  lest  they  should  catch  cold.  So  in  the  fifty- 
second  sonnet,  ,/b;  blunting,  i.e.  for  fear  of  blunting. 


-'  You  have  a  month's  mind  to  them. 

A  month's  mind,  a  strong  inclination.  "  I  have  a  month's 
mind  to  peep  a  little  too,"  Ben  Jonson's  Magnetic  Lady, 
"  It  is  perfectly  nauseating,"  saj'B  Gilford,  "  tc  look  at  the 
trash  which  always  accompanies  the  mention  t.f  this  woi'd 
in  the  notes  on  our  old  draniatiat.s." 

'9  What  end  tali. 

That  is,  what  serious  talk.  Sad  was  frequently  used  iii 
this  sense. 

25  In  good  time. 

This  phi'ase,  equivalent  to  a  propos,  is  spoken  at  the 
sight  of  I'roteus.  "  In  good  time,  opportune,"  tiaret'e 
Alvcarie,  1580. 

*'  Now  will  we  break  with  hm. 

Break  the  subject  to  him.  "  To  brcalto  talko  or  comnui- 
nication,  incidere  sermonem,"  Baret,  ibid.  The  phrase 
occurs  again  in  Much  Ado  About  Xothing,  i.  1. 

3'  Exhibition. 

Allowance.  The  phrase  is  still  used  in  the  TTniversities. 
"  And  then,  widow,  you  must  settle  on  yotir  son  an  eshJn- 
lion  of  forty  pounds  a  year,"  Wycherley's  Plain  Dealer. 

'-  This  is  but  one. 

A  play  on  words,  one  being  anciently  pronounced  on  or 
vice  versa.    Lord  Burghley  often  wrote  on  for  one. 

3'  Like  one  tltat  taiss  diet. 

Under  the  severe  regimen  fonnerly  required  for  a  disease 
^hich  need  not  be  particularly  mentioned. 

•'^  O  excellent  motion  ! 

A  motion  was  a  puppet-show.  Exceeding  puppet,  n 
great  puppet.  "  That  exceeding  gyant,"  Gayton's  Notes 
upon  Don  Quixot,  1654,  p.  33.  Speed  says  that  Valentine 
\\-ill  be  the  interpreter  of  the  puppet-show. 

35  Sir  Valentine  and  servant. 

Servant  is  here  used  for  suitor  or  wooer,  a  common  sense 
of  the  word  in  old  plays ;  yet  it  woiJd  seem  to  be  merelj 
used  for  admirer  in  act  ii.  se.  4. 

3°  1/  it  please  you,  so. 

The  reader  will  please  to  bear  in  mind  that  the  word  sn 
constantly  occurs  iu  all  our  old  dramatis  ts  as  a  sort  of  ex- 
pletive, nearly  or  quite  equivalent  to  the  modern,  very  well, 
let  it  be  so.  This  note  is  necessary,  because  it  would  apjieaj 
Mr.  Knight  is  not  acquainted  with  this  trite  word  as  Sf: 
used  ;  yet  it  should  be  known  to  the  most  casual  reader  o 
old  En-glish  plays. 

3'  '  r  is  you  that  have  the  reason. 

A  story  is  told  of  a  gentleman  bringing  a  foolish  tract  in 
manuscript  to  Sir  Thomas  More,  to  obtain  his  opinion  upon 
it.  Su:  Thomas  strongly  adrised  him  to  put  it  into  verse, 
and  it  appears  the  author  followed  his  recommendation. 
"  Xow  it  is  somewhat  like,"  said  More,  "  new  it  i£  rhythm 
before  it  was  neither  rhythm  nor  reason." 


KOTES  TO  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OE  YEEONA. 


'■  Ar.d  there  a.i  end. 

Equivalent  to,  one  there'  an  end,  as,  indeed,  the  second 
folio  reads.     Speed  liies  rhjniing. 

''  Speak  in  print. 

With  cjtaetnees.  "  To  do  a  thing  in  print,  graphice  et 
eipiisitc  ag!re,"  Coles.  Speed  Eays  he  is  speaking  with 
exactness  what  he  has  read  in  print. 

*^  Nourished  by  my  victuals. 

Of  the  same  opinion  was  a  character  in  Cartwright's 
comedy  of  the  Siege : — "  We're  no  such  subtle  feeders  as 
to  make  meals  on  air,  sup  on  a  blast,  and  think  a  fresh 
gale  second  course." 

**  Be  movedj  be  moved. 

That  is,  be  persuaded.  "To  move,  suadeo,"  Coles. 
Malone's  explanation  can  scarcely  be  correct,  for  Sihia 
certainly  has  some  consideration  for  her  lover. 

*-  We  'II  make  e  ickange. 

The  exchange  of  rings  was  a  solenm  mode  of  private 
contracts  between  lovers.  The  custom  is  again  alluded  to 
in  Turelfth  Night. 

^  O,  that  &he  could  speak  now  like  an  old  rcoinan  1 

The  old  copies  read  a  would  woman,  so  evidently  a  corrup- 
tion we  are  thrown  upon  conjecture.  I-aunce  is  spcaMng 
tere  of  the  shoe,  and  to  make  the  representation  more 
distinct,  wishes  it  could  speak  like  an  old  woman.  Pope  is 
the  author  of  this  reading.  Theobald  conjectures,  a  wood 
woman,  an  emendation  he  is  very  fond  of,  introducing  it 
again  unnecessarily  into  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  but 
the  subsequent  part  of  the  passage  appears  to  agree  better 
with  Pope's  emendation.  "  Here's  my  motlier's  breath  vp 
and  down,"  i.e.  exactly,  in  eveiy  respect.  The  same  phrase 
occurs  Lu  Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  ii.  1. 

"  Lose  the  ti'd. 

The  original  has  tide,  which  must  be  exprci^sod  by  tid, 
but  Collier  and  Knight,  not  marldng  the  elision,  have  ren- 
dered the  joking  more  obscur'i.  Mr.  Knight  here  prints 
tide,  but  the  order  would  show  tliis  to  be  incorrect. 

*'  HoiD  tpiite  you  my  fully? 

Quote,  observe.  The  quibble  is  founded  on  quote  being 
pronounced  cole  or  coat.  It  was  often  so  spelt,  a'.;  in  the 
ifope  of  Lucrece,  1.591,  Ap.  Malone, 

Will  cote  my  loathsome  trespass  in  my  looks. 

'°  /  know  it  well,  sir, 

Mr.  Knight  prints  this  speech  as  verse,  and  his  arrange- 
ment must  for  once  be  exhibited  to  the  reader  as  i  good 
though  by  no  means  remarkable)  specimen  of  that 
foUtor's  metre-tinkering, — 

1  know  it  v.-ell,  sir :  you  have  an  exchequer  of  words. 
And,  I  think,  no  other  treasure  to  give  your  followers ; 
For  it  appear",  by  their  bare  liveries, 
That  they  live  by  your  bai'e  words. 

The   cadence   of  tlie  two    last  linos   is   admirable !    See 

70 


remarks  on  a  similar  perversion  at  p.  39.     This  has  net 
even  the  excuse  of  Dr.  Johnson's  earless  vereiHer, — 
"  Lay  your  knife  and  your  fork  across  your  plate !" 

"  Know  ye  Do>i  Antonio? 

The  second  folio  reads  ynu,  a  variation  which  dee:  ncl 
well  deserve  a  note,  but  Collier  and  Knight  for  gome  reasor 
have  adopted  it. 

*'  Complete  in  feature. 

Feature  is  here  applied  to  personal  beauty  generally,  no', 
merely  to  the  face.  "  The  featiue  and  fashion,  or  the  pro- 
portion and  figure  of  the  whole  bodie,"  Baret's  Alvearie, 
1580. 

^^  That  you  are  worthless. 

Dr.  Johnson  reads,  "  No,  that  you  are  worthless,"  but 
although  this  emendation  may  give  greater  power  to  the 
reply,  we  are  clearly  not  warranted  in  so  wide  a  depanure 
from  the  original  without  much  greater  necessity.  Douce 
says  the  measure  is  not  defective,  though  the  harmony  is. 

5°  Madam,  my  lord. 

This  speech  is  assigned  to  a  servant  by  Theobald,  but  is 
rightly  restored  ly  Collier  and  Knight  to  Thurio,  who 
either  retires  at  the  entrance  of  Proteus,  and  now  re-enters, 
or  steps  to  the  door  and  reeeivus  the  message. 

*'  Whose  high  imperious  thoughts. 

The  impenal  or  commanding  thoughts  of  love.  " /ra- 
pcriosus,  imperious,  lordoly,  stately,  full  of  comniaunde- 
mentes,"  Elyot's  Dictionarie,  1559. 

'-  Ao  woe  to. 

That  is,  compared  to.  The  idiom  is  common.  So,  in  on 
old  ballad, — 

There  is  no  comfort  in  the  world 
To  women  that  are  kind. 

*^  Let  her  be  a  principalluf. 
"Principalities,"    says   an   old  writer,   "arc  the   second 
order  of  the  second  hierarchy  of  angels."      The  term  here 
appears  to  be  used  in  a  more  general  sense. 

^  She  IS  alone. 
That  is,  unique  in  her  perfections. 

*^  Is  it  her  fnicn,  or  Valentinus  praise. 

The  old  copy  is  hopelessly  coiTupt,  reading,  "  It  is  mine 
or  Valentine's  praise ;"  and  the  second  folio  makes  the 
matter  worse.  The  above  is  Blakcway's  happy  emendation, 
and  will  be  preferred  by  all  readers  of  any  taste  to  War- 
burtou's,  "  Is  it  mine  eye."  Mien  was  formorly  some- 
times printed  mine. 

^^  I  love  his  lady  too-t^io  muc/t 

This  is  Uio  original  reading,  which,  acccroing  to  Mr. 
Halliwell,  is  a  genuine  compound  c-rchaism,  used  botli  as 
nn  adjective  and  adverb,  meaning  excessive  or  excessively. 
He  was  Ihc  first  to  notice  this  in  the  Papers  of  the  Shako- 
speare  Society  a  few  years  ago,  but  the  truth  has  been  di>^ 
nuted  even  against  an  overwiielniing  amount  of  evidence, 
BO  dillicult  is  it  to  23tabliab  a  novelty  in  tbece  matterB. 


NOTES  TO  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VEIiONA. 


<"  M'ith  more  advice. 

With  more  consideration,  on  better  knowledge  of  her. 

!»  Picture. 

Ilero  used  figuratively  for  her  person,  whicb  he  has  only 
yet  glanced  at. 

''  Mij  staff  understands  me. 
Thia  absurd  quibble  was  a  favourite  in  the  olden  time, 
nie  coblers  say  in  the  bf.Uad, — 

Our  work  doth  th'  owners  understand; 
Thus  still  we  ai'e  on  the  mending  hand. 

^  Go  to  the  ah. 

That  is,  the  ale-house,  not  the  rural  festival  so  called, 
iiough  the  latter  is  the  more  ordinary  meaning.  "  I  am 
the  spirit  of  the  dead  man  that  was  slain  in  thy  company, 
whoa  we  were  drunk  together  at  the  ale,"  Greene's  Looking 
Glass  for  London  and  England. 

°'  To  learn  his  wit. 

To  learn  in  the  sense  of,  to  teach,  is  common  in  old 
nriters,  and  is  still  a  provincial  mode  of  expression. 

*'  His  competitor. 

His  confederate  or  partner ;  not  rival,  as  stated  by  Dr. 
J.hnson.  The  word  is  used  in  the  same  sense  in  Twelfth 
Night,  iv.  2. 

"  Pretended  Jliyht. 

lutended  flight  Shakespeare  generally  uses  the  word  in 
his  sense. 

^  And,  ev'n  in  kind  love,  I  do  conjure  thee. 

Mr.  Knight  alters  the  contracted  ev'n  of  the  first  folio  to 
erf 71,  to  obt;iin  the  present  pronunciation  of  conjure;  but 
Shakespeare  has  the  accent  on  the  first  syllable  of  this 
word  in  passages  that  decide  the  pronunciation. 

"  Who  art  the  table. 
Alluding  to   the  tables  or  tablets   universally  used  for 
memoranda  in  Shakespeare's  time.       The  poet  elsewhere 
writes,  "  unclasp  the  tables  of  thcii'  thoughts." 

^  Farthingale. 

The  farthingale  was  properly  the  broad  roll  used  for 
maldng  the  gown  ridiculously  full  about  the  hips,  though 
the  term  was  sometimes  applied  to  the  gown  itself  when  so 
widened.  See  a  drawing  of  one  in  Fairholt's  Costume  in 
England,  p.  256.  Holmes,  describing  gowns  of  this  fashion, 
says  they  were  "  broad  shouldered,  narrow  wasted,  wide 
breeched,  and  gathered  in  plaits  and  trusses  to  make  it  full 
in  the  skirt. '  The  codpiece,  that  monstrous  appendage  to 
the  male  costume,  is  fully  described  by  Bulwer. 

"  Out,  Out,  Lucetta! 
Tnh  is  equivalent  to,  Jie,  jie !    The  exclamation  is  com- 
aion  in  Shakespeare  and  all  our  old  dramatists. 

«8  Of  infinite. 

That  is,  of  the  infinity.  "  It  is  past  the  infinite  of  thought," 
Mucb  Ido  About  Nothing,  ii.  3. 


"'  Is  soon  suggested. 

That  is,  tempted.  'We  have  jiu^t  had,  "  0  sweet  suggest- 
ing Love,"  ii.  6. 

'°  Be  not  aimtA  at. 

Aimed  at,  i.e.  suspected.  Jealous  aim  just  previously  il^ 
jealous  suspicion.     Pretence,  design. 

"  Wliere  J  lliought. 

Whereas  I  thought.  "Cum  nihil  proccipi  posse  dicamua, 
where  wo  affirme  that  there  can  bo  nothing  prescribed," 
Phraseologla  Puerilis,  10G7. 

"•  What  lets. 

■WTiat  hinders.  The  verb  let,  to  hinder,  is  very  common 
in  early  boo'ss,  and  occurs  in  Romans,  i.  13. 

"'  ^or  they  are  sent  by  me. 

For,  for  that,  because.  llis  thoughts  rest  in  Silvia's 
bosom, — referring  to  the  custom  of  ladies  canying  letters 
in  a  pocket  in  the  fore  part  of  their  stays.  Proteus  after- 
wards promises  to  deliver  Valentine's  letters  "  even  in  the 
milk-white  bosom  of  thy  love." 

As  for  ftlerops,  a  little  below,  the  reader  may  be  referred 
to  Ovid,  TiTst.  in.  iv.  30,  Metara.  i.  763,  ii  184.  "  Merops, 
maritus  Clj-menes,  pater  putativus  Phaethontis  et  rex 
Ethiopia?,"  not.  ad  ibid. 

'*  IJly  not  death,  to  fly  his  deadly  doom. 

I  do  not  escape  from  Death  by  flying  from  his  deadly 
sentence. 

'^  So-hough  I  sO'hough  I 

So  the  old  copy,  altered  by  modem  editors  to  so-ho.  The 
original,  however,  expresses  the  old  hunting  cry  when  the 
hare  was  found,  and  exhibits  more  clearly  Launce's  foolish 
quibble.  "  So-howe,  the  hare  ys  fownde,  boema,  lepus  est 
inventus,"  Prompt.  Parv. 

"'  That's  aU  one,  if  he  be  but  one  knave. 

The  copious  notes  on  this  passage  in  the  variorum  edition 
show  it  was  not  understood  by  the  commentators,  and  Mr. 
Collier  conjectures  Launce  is  thinking  of  the  four  knaves  oi 
a  pack  of  cards,  a  suggestion  of  which  I  cannot  observe  the 
use  or  probability.  Launce  is  merely  as  usual  pumiing 
and  say  J,  "  if  he  be  but  one  knave,  that's  all  one." 

"  For  she  hath  had  gossips. 

Gossips  were  sponsors  at  baptism,  and  the  women  who 
attended  confinements.  Launce's  quibbles  are  sometimes 
scarcely  worth  explanation. 

'*  Saint  Nicholas  be  thy  speed! 

Saint  Nicholas  was  a  patron  saint  of  scholars,  thieves 
sailors,  and  virgins !  Brand  has  a  chapter  abc  it  him,  which 
may  be  consulted  by  those  who  are  curious  ir  such  matters 
He  is  of  course  here  addressed  as  the  patijn  of  scholars 
"  Be  thy  speed,"  a  pun  of  Launce's  on  Speed's  name. 

"  Item,  she  can  milk. 
All  editors  read  imprimix,  but  the   "  cati-.og"  was  not 
intended  to  blunder,  however  Launce  and  Speed  might.      I 

77 


NOTES  TO  THE  TWO  GEN1XE5LEN  OF  VEHONA. 


Uiink  my  altcraticn  will  be  considered  right  by  any  one 
who  will  carefully  read  the  preceding  speeches. 

so  She  can  knit  him  a  stock. 

That  is,  a  stocking,  or  rather,  as  Mr.  Fairholt  says,  a 
covering  fur  the  leg. 

61  O  villain. 

This,  and  other  speeches  of  Launce,  are  set  down  as 
verse  by  Mr.  Knight! 

6-  She  wHl  often  praise  her  liquor. 

That  is,  says  Johnson,  show  how  well  she  liies  it  by 
drinking  often.  The  same  writer  explains  liberal,  licentions 
and  gross  in  language. 

^  The  cover  of  the  salt  hides  the  salt. 

The  salt  was  a  large  piece  of  plate,  with  a  cover  to  keep 
the  salt  clean,  and  was  an  important  article  on  the  table  of 
our  ancestors.  In  Lady  Shirley's  will,  1G34,  a  silver  salt 
"of  the  value  of  fyve  poundes"  is  mentioned.  A  salt- 
cellar was  a  smaller  and  distinct  article,  and  frequently 
made  of  tin. 

**  Trenched  in  ice. 

That  iS;  cut  or  carved  in  ice. 

"  Takes  his  goi^g  grievously. 

That  is,  heavily,  with  grief.  It  is  worthy  of  remark  that 
(i»  second  folio  reads  heavily,  and  Malone  says  some  copies 
3f  Ihe  first  folio  have  the  same  reading ;  but  I  have  some 
suspicion  this  is  an  error,  arising  perhaps  from  an  imperfect 
copy  having  been  made  up  fi-oni  the  second  edition.  The 
booksellers  have  played  innimierable  tricks  with  that  "  tri- 
umjjhantly  trading  ai-ticle,"  the  first  folio  Shakespeare. 

^  His  very  friend. 

His  true  or  imdoubted  friend.  Slassinger  calls  one  of 
his  plays,  A  very  woman.  Perhaps  undoubted  is  the  best 
explanation  of  the  word  as  it  is  used  in  old  plays. 

*'  To  bottom  it  on  me. 

Alluding  to  the  bottom  of  thread,  or  ball  of  thread 
wound  upon  a  cylindrical  body. 

''  You  may  temper  her. 

That  is,  mould  her,  like  wax,  to  whatever  shape  you 
please     Malone. 

''  Tliat  may  discover  such  integrity. 

Integrity  is  here  used  for  sincerity.  This  explanation 
will  rcnd(!r  the  passage  much  clearer. 

00  \yiiji  some  srveel  consort. 

Consort.is  the  old  word  for  concert.  It  is  translated  by 
ccmcentus  in  Coles'  Lat.  Diet.  It  must  not  be  confused 
with  consort  in  Act  iv.  sc.  1,  which  there  merely  means  a 
K>mpany. 

"'  A  deploring  dump. 

4  dump  woa  a  mournful  piece  of  music. 
78 


«  WiU  inherit  her. 

That  is,  will  obtain  possession  of  her.     The  word  OCCUIJ 
in  a  similar  sense  in  Titus  Andronicus,  ii,  3. 


*  To  sort. 


To  choose  or  select 


5'  /  wilt  pardon  you. 

A  conventional  phrase.  The  Duke  excuses  their  further 
attendance. 

^^  He  is  a  proper  man. 

A  good-looking  or  well-proportioned  man.  "Proper  ol 
pretie,"  Barefs  Alvearie,  1580.  According  to  an  old 
ballad, — 

Then  said  the  prentices  proper  and  tall, 

For  Essex's  sake  we  ynil  die  all. 

'°  By  the  hare  scalp  of  Robin  Hood's  fat  friar. 

The  fat  fiiar  was  of  course  Friar  Tuck,  one  of  Robin 
Hood's  merry  companions.  Skelton  alludes  to  him  in  the 
following  lines, — 

Another  bade  shave  halfe  my  berde. 
And  boyes  to  the  pylery  gan  me  plucke, 
And  wolde  have  made  me  freer  Tucke, 
To  preche  cute  of  the  pylery  hole. 

"  The  company  of  awful  men, 

Shakespeare  in  this,  and  in  two  other  passag;fl,  appears 
to  use  awful  in  the  sense  of  lawful.  The  term  occurs  Li  a 
similar  sense  in  Vittoria  Corombona,  1612. 

'*  JJTwm,  in  my  mood. 

Mood,  without  an  adjective,  generally  used  iu  the  soTise 
of  anger  or  resentment.     For  whom  read  who. 

^'  On  silly  women. 

Silly  here  means  inoffensive,  weak,  timid.  It  is  still  used 
in  the  Northern  dialects. 

'""  AU  her  sudden  quips. 

Quips  are  taunts,  scoffi.  This  common  word  wui  uui 
require  a  second  notice.  **  Merrie  quipps,  or  taimtcs  wittily 
spoken,"  Baret's  Alvearie,  1.5S0.  Coles  translates  quip  by 
scomma. 

""  Such  grace  did  lend  licr. 

Lend  in  this  and  several  other  passages  is  used  in  the 
archaic  sense,  to  give.  (.\.  S.) 

'«  Out  of  all  nick. 

Out  cf  all  reckoning.  Alluding,  says 'Warl: arton,  to  the 
ancient  mode  of  reckoning  on  tallies. 

"5  Ttiat  I  may  compass  yours. 

Compass,  perform.  Tliis  seems  the  most  natural  ex- 
planation, and  consonant  with  Silvia's  reply.  "  Ho  will 
easily  bo  able  to  compass  that,  id  autan  facile  C(mse(pii 
poterit,"  Coles.  Compass,  however,  in  Act  ii.  Sc.  4.  ovi' 
dently  means,  to  obtain. 


NOTES  TO  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OE  VEEONA. 


104  By  my  halidom. 

An  oath  which  had  become  provincial  in  Shakespeare's 
time,  und  only  occurs  once  in  his  plays.  It  is  the  Anglo- 
Saiou  hiilig-d(1m,  sacrament. 

105  Your  ladyship's  impose. 

Impose,  i.o.  injunction,  command. 

1™  Remorseful,  i.e.  pitiful,  or  compassionate. 

i"'  He  steps  me  to  her  trencher. 

The  pronoun  me  is  here  redundant.  This  idiom  is  Tcry 
coiumnn  in  all  old  plays,  and  occurs  frequently  in  Shakes- 
peare.    Keep  himself,  i.e.  restrain  himself. 

1"'  He  makes  me  no  more  ado. 

That  is,  he  makes  no  more  ado.  This  construction  is 
very  common  in  Shakespeare.  For  his  servant;  so  the  old 
copies,  and  no  doubt  Launee's  phraseology. 

■"'  The  other  squirrel. 

Speaking  ironically  of  Proteiis's  dog,  who  was  only  one- 
tenth  the  size  of  Launee's. 

ii»  Still  an  end. 

That  is,  continually,  perpetually.  The  phrase  is  TCry 
common  in  old  plays. 

Ill  Deliver'd  it  to  me. 

li'^o  is  imderstood  before  the  verb.  We  have  already 
li.id  1  Bimilar  eonsti-uction  at  p.  38,  note  "8.  To  leave,  in 
1  ho  nest  Une,  i.e.  to  part  with. 

"2  And  pinch' d  the  lily  tincture  of  her  face. 

Tint  or  complexion.  "  The  tincture  of  your  neck  is  not 
all  so  pure,"  Cynthia's  Revels.  Mr.  Knight  thinks  pinch'd 
means  painted,  an  absurdity  gathered,  I  suppose,  from 
Bi'cket's  Shakespeare's  Himself  Ayain,  ii.  300,  a  work 
replete  with  the  most  childish  eonjeetui'es.  The  word 
never  bore  that  signification  in  England,  although  Mr. 
Becket  pretended  to  discover  it  in  Chaucer. 

1"  I  made  her  weep  a-good. 

A-good,  in  good  earnest,  heartily.  "  This  mery  aunswer 
made  them  ail  laugheagood,"  Plutarch  by  North,  1579. 

Ill  A  cohur'd  periwig. 

Periwigs  were  worn  by  ladies  as  well  as  gentlemen. 
They  were  extremely  fashionable  about  the  year  1595.  See 
Fairholt's  Costmne  in  England,  p.  577.  Ilolmes  mentions 
fivo  diiferent  kinds  of  periwigs. 

■1'  Her  eyes  are  grey  as  glass. 

Cr.x*y  eyes  were  formerly  considered  veiy  beautiful,  and 
e;re  frequently  mentioned  as  cminenily  attractive  in  the  old 
English  metrical  romances. 

11^  I  can  make  respective. 

That  is,  I  can  make  comparison  of.  Coles  translates 
respective  by  relativns. 


1"  My  substance  should  be  statue  in  thy  stead. 

That  is,  he  should  have  my  substance  as  a  statue  instead 
of  thee,  "thou  scnseloss  form,"  the  picture.  Mr.  Knight 
seems  to  tlihJc  statue  is  hero  used  for  picture.  Would  no', 
that  explanation  create  a  tautology  ?  It  must,  however,  bu 
admitted  that  the  term  »to<ue  was  often  applied  to  a  picture. 

1"  They  are  out  by  lease. 
Lord  Ilailcs  says  that  by  Tburio's  posscssioiw,  he  himseU 
understands  his  lands  and  estate.  But  Proteus  chooses  to 
take  the  word  likewise  in  a  figurative  sense,  as  moaning  liii 
mental  endowments:  and  when  he  says  tlicy  are  out  by  lease, 
ho  means  they  are  no  longer  enjoyed  by  tlicir  master  (who 
is  a  fool),  but  are  leased  out  to  another. 

11'   To  be  a  peevish  girl. 
Peevish  here,  and  in  some  other  places,  means /oo/m/i. 

1-°  Moses  and  Valerius. 
The  names  of  two  of  the  outlaws.  All  editors  follow  the 
old  copy  in  reading  Moyses,  which  was,  however,  merely  an 
old  method  of  spelling  Moses.  The  origmal  edition  of  one 
of  Dra)'ton's  poems  is  entitled,  "  Jloyses  in  a  map  of  his 
Miracles,"  4to.  1604.  Valerius  is  the  assumed  name  of  the 
page  in  the  story  of  Felismena. 

1-1  And  record  my  woes. 

Becord,  to  sing.     The  word  is  frequently  used  in  this 

sense. 

Who  taught  the  nyghtyngaU  to  recorde  besyly 
Her  strange  entunys  in  sylence  of  the  nyght  ? 

Interlude  of  Nature.  n.A    , 

1--  And  still  approv'd. 
Approv'd,  i.e.  esperieneod. 

1-^  When  one's  right  hand. 
The  second  folio  introduces  now  before  this  passage, 
wliich  I  fear  can  scarcely  be  right,  the  word  having  occurred 
just  previously.  Hanmer  reads  one's  own,  but  the  original 
text  does  not  necessarily  require  alteration.  One's  is  pro- 
bably intended  to  be  a  dissyllable. 

1-1  My  shame  and  guilt  confound  me. 
Mr.  Knight  follows  the  old  copies  in  reading  confountk, 
but  if  we  do  so  in  one  instance,  we  should  in  aU,  and  he 
has  not  hesitated  to  adopt  the  modem  construction  in  nu- 
merous other  passages,  where,  in  the  original,  the  singula, 
verb  is  joined  with  the  plural  substantive. 

1-'  Cry  you  mercy. 
Equivalent  to,  I  beg  your  pardon.     This  reading  is  more 
usual  than,  cry  your  mercy,  adopted  by  Collier  and  Knight, 
My  copy  of  the  first  folio  reads  you. 

12H  Behold  her  that  gave  am  to. 
To  give  aim  to,  to  du-ect,  a  metaphor  taken  from  archery. 
Aim  is  here  Julia,  the  object  of  all  the  oatlis.    Cleft  the  root, 
an  allusion  to  cleaving  the  pin,  which,  says  Douce,  wa> 
breakmg  the  nail  which  attached  the  mark  to  the  butt. 

i="  If  shame  live,  ^c. 
That  is,  says  Johnson,  if  it  be  any  eharao  to  ivsar  a  dis 
guise  for  the  purposes  of  love. 


€ljf  Blfni[  'B\m  nf  t^iniisnr. 


DAHLY  in  the  last  century,  eighty -six  years  after  the  death  of  Shakespeare,  an  unsrcceBsful 
comedy  was  produced  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  tmdcr  the  title  of  "The  Comical  Gallant."  Tliis 
play  was  heralded  forth  in  the  bills  of  the  day  as  the  -work  of  Mr.  John  Dennis,  hut  it  was  merely  an 
alteration  of  the  ■  Merry  Wives  of  "Windsor, '  and  a  veiy  poor  attempt  at  an  improvement  of  that 
admirable  comedy.  The  dramatis  persona:  are  much  the  same  as  in  the  Merry  Wives,  except  that 
Dennis  had  added  one  new  character,  the  Host  of  the  BuH,  who  is  brother  to  Mrs.  Ford ;  and  Fenton 
is  represented  as  her  nephew.  Dennis  ha^  rewritten  about  half  the  dialogue,  and  materially  changed 
the  conduct  of  the  piece.  He  was,  however,  sufficiently  well  satisfied  with  its  merits  to  undertake 
fJie  expense  of  printing;  and  it  was  accordingly  published  in  the  year  1702,  with  a  long  dedicatory 
epistle,  fi'om  which  I  make  the  following  extract,  putting  in  Italics  those  portions  to  which  I  more 
pnjticidarly  wish  to  direct  the  reader's  attention  : — 

"  Wten  I  first  commimicatcd  the  design  which  I  had  of  altering  thia  comedy  of  Shakespcar,  I  found  that  I  snould 
tuTe  two  sorts  of  people  to  deal  with,  who  would  equally  endeavour  to  obstruct  my  success.  The  ono  believed  it  to  he 
1 1?  a'hiiirable,  that  notiiing  ought  to  be  added  to  it ;  the  others  fancied  it  to  be  so  despicable,  that  any  one's  time  would  be 
lost  upon  it.  That  this  comedy  was  not  despicable,  I  guess'd  for  several  reasons ;  First,  /  knew  very  well  that  it  had  plcas'd 
me  of  the  greatest  queens  that  ever  was  in  the  world,  great  not  only  for  her  wisdom  in  the  arts  of  government,  but  ft'i  her 
knowledge  of  polite  learning,  and  her  nice  taste  of  the  drama,  for  such  a  taste  we  may  he  sure  she  had,  by  the  relish  whici 
she  had  of  the  ancients.  This  oomedy  was  written  at  her  command,  and  by  her  direction,  and  she  was  so  eager  to  see  it 
arted,  that  she  commanded  it  to  be  fimi,hed  in  fourteen  days  ;  and  was  afterwards,  as  tradition  tells  us,  very  well  plea^d  at 
the  representation.  In  the  second  place,  in  the  reign  of  King  Charles  the  Second,  when  people  had  an  aduiirablo  txsta  of 
comedy,  all  those  men  of  extraordinary  parts,  who  were  the  ornaments  of  that  court,  as  the  late  Duke  of  Buckingham, 
my  Lord  Normandy,  my  Lord  Dorset,  my  late  Lord  Eochester,  Sir  Charles  Sidlcy,  Dr.  Frazer,  Mr.  Sa^Tl,  Mr.  Buckley 
were  in  love  with  the  beauties  of  this  comedy.  In  the  third  place,  I  thought  that  after  so  long  an  acquaintance  as  I  had 
witli  the  best  comic  poets,  among  the  ancients  and  modems,  I  might  depend  in  some  measure  upon  my  own  judgment, 
and  I  thought  I  foimd  here  three  or  four  extraordinary  characters,  that  were  exactly  dra\vn,  and  truly  comical ;  and  that 
I  saw  besides  in  it  some  as  happy  touches  as  ever  were  in  comedy.  Besides  I  had  observed  what  success  the  character  of 
Fflktaff  had  had  in  the  First  Part  of  'HaiTy  the  Fourth.'  And  as  the  Falstaff  in  the  'Merry  Wives'  is  certainly  supenor 
to  tnat  of  the  Second  Part  of  '  Harry  the  Fourth,'  so  it  can  hardly  bo  said  to  be  inferior  to  that  of  the  First." 

This  is  the  earliest  notice  we  possess  of  the  above  curious  tradition,  and  that  Dennis  has  reported 
it  correctly  seems  to  admit  of  little  doubt.  The  reader  will  observe  he  gives  no  special  reason  why 
the  Queen  commanded  the  poet  to  write  the  comedy,  and  I  suspect  it  is  this  point  that  the  subsequent 
naiTators  of  the  tradition  have  amplified  without  proper  authority.  Dennis,  in  the  prologue  to  hia 
play,  again  refers  to  the  short  space  of  time  in  which  the  Merry  Wives  was  wriHen : — 

"  But  Shakespear's  play  in  fourteen,  days  was  writ, 
And  in  that  space  to  make  all  just  and  fit. 
Was  an  attempt  surpassing  human  wit. 
Yet  our  great  Shakespeare's  matchless  muso  wai?  such, 
None  ere  in  so  small  a  time  perform'd  so  muclu" 
"  81 


THE  WERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


Eowe,  in  1 709,  gives  a  somewhat  more  circumstantial  account.  Speaking  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  he 
Bays,  "She  was  so  well  pleased  with  that  admirable  character  of  Falstaff  in  the  two  parts  of  Henry  IV., 
that  she  commanded  him  to  continue  it  for  one  play  more,  and  to  show  him  in  love;  this  is  said  to  be  I  ho 
occasion  of  his  wtiting  the  Merry  Wives  of  WLadsor.  How  weU  she  was  obeyed,  the  play  itself  is  an 
udmii-able  proof."  Tills  evidence  is  followed  by  Gildon's  account  of  the  same  tradition,*  who,  in  1710, 
jumbled  an  allusion  to  the  amended  play  with  an  anecdote  that  properly  belongs  exclusively  to  the 
Etctch,  in  the  following  words, — "The  fairies  in  the  fifth  act  make  a  handsome  compUmsnt  to  the  Queen, 
ia  her  palace  of  Windsor,  who  had  obliged  him  to  write  a  play  of  Sir  John  Falstaff  La  love,  and  which 
Tarn  vert/  tcell  assured  he  performed  in  a  fortnight;  a  procUgious  thing,  when  all  is  so  weU  contrived, 
aud  carried  on  without  the  least  confusion."  It  wiU  be  perceived  that,  although  GHdon  is  in  fiict  still 
k«s  precise  than  Eowe,  yet  Elizabeth  could  not  very  well  have  commanded  Shakespeare  to  exliibit 
the  celebrated  fat  knight  in  love,  if  she  had  not  been  previously  introduced  to  him  in  another  chai'actcr 
Pope,  Theobald,  and  later  editors,  appear  to  have  taken  their  versions  of  the  tradition  second- 
hand fi'om  Eowe. 

The  reader  -n-iU  probably  be  pleased  with  having  the  opportimity  of  consulting  the  evidenix; 
hcie  collected  on  tHs  interesting  subject,  for  much  of  the  criticism  on  the  external  history  of  SLaio 
speare's  comedy  depends  upon  the  degree,  of  credit  we  may  be  disposed  to  give  to  it.  It  seems 
imreasonable,  in  face  of  these  authorities,  to  refuse  the  belief  that  the  first  sketch  of  the  play  was 
wiitten  at  the  request  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  in  a  very  brief  space  of  time;  altl.ough  it  is  not  impro- 
bable that  Eowe  may  have  guessed  at  the  reason  of  the  royal  command,  and  given  us  his  gratuitou? 
explanation  of  tlie  imperfect  anecdote  related  by  Dennis.  Nothing  can  be  more  likely  than  this  sup- 
position ;  and,  to  say  the  least,  it  would  be  very  unsafe  to  take  Eowe's  narrative  for  granted,  and  reason 
upon  it  in  the  way  in  which  Malone  does.  I  would  rather  attempt  to  explain  the  traditioii,  analyze 
its  various  parts,  and  ascertain  how  far  these  are  in  accordance  with  the  internal  evidences  in  the  jilays 
in  which  Falstafi'  and  his  companions  are  introduced,  than  build  a  theory  upon  it.  It  is  on  this 
accoimt  I  am  induced  to  hazard  a  conjecture  which  will  satisfy  aU  the  authenticated  parts  of  the  tra- 
dition, b}'  supposing  anotlier  reason  for  the  play  having  been  produced  before  the  court  at  a  very  short 
notice. 

If  we  enquire  what  could  have  led  our  great  dramatist  to  select  Windsor  for  the  scene  of  the  love 
adventures  of  Falstafi',  believing  the  tradition  that  the  play  was  written  by  command  of  the  Queen, 
does  it  appear  an  improbable  conjecture  to  suppose  that  Elizabeth  may  have  resided  at  Windsor  at  the 
time,  and  that  either  he  was  induced  to  select  the  scene  under  the  impression  that  his  comedy  might 
be  more  favourably  received  from  its  local  associations,  or  that  her  majesty  may  have  commanded  the 
lord  chamberlain's  servants  to  exhibit  a  new  play,  the  scene  of  which  should  be  laid  in  the  place  where 
she  was  then  holding  her  court?  The  comedy  was  first  published  in  1602,  but  that  edition  contains 
merely  the  author's  original  sketch.  The  amended  play,  as  we  now  have  it,  and  as  it  is  presented  to  tlic 
reader  uj  the  following  pages,  appeared  in  the  first  folio  in  1623.  The  title-page  of  the  former  tells  v.s 
that  the  ^y  "hath  been  divers  times  acted  by  the  Eight  Honourable  my  Lord  Chamberlain's  servants, 
Dotli  lefore  Her  Majesty  and  elsewhere."  The  Queen,  it  is  wcU  known,  had  plays  aud  masques  eslii- 
liifed  before  her  at  Windsor  Castle;  and  it  appears  to  me  that  the  following  incident,  wliich  is  intro- 
duced both  in  the  sketch  and  in  the  amended  play,  is  almost  sufficient  of  itself  to  show  that  niv  con- 
jrcture  of  its  provincial  composition  is  correct : — 

"  Doc.  'Where  be  my  Host  do  gartyro  ? 

Host.  0  hero  sir  in  peqjiexitie. 

Doc.  I  cannot  tell  vad  be  dad, 
But  bcgar  I  will  tell  you  van  ting, 
Dear  be  a  Garmaine  Dulce  come  to  do  Court, 
Has  cosencd  all  do  host  of  IJranford, 
And  EedJing :  bcgar  I  tcU  you  for  good  \\"ill, 
Ha,  ha,  mine  Host,  am  I  eucn  met  you.  \_Exit, 

•  Whsn  Mr.  Knight  says  that  Uowo  adopted  the  more  circumstantial  tradition  irom  Gildon,  he  had  probablj 
forgotten  tliat  Rowe's  accoimt  was  p'llilishcd  some  time  before  Gildon's  was  written. 
82 


THE  MEEIIY  WIVES  OE  WINDSOE. 


Enter  Sir  Hdoh. 
"  Sir  Hit.  Wliero  is  mine  Host  of  tho  gartyr  ? 
Now  my  Ilost,  I  would  desire  you  looko  you  now, 
To  haue  a  caro  of  your  entertainments, 
For  there  is  three  sorts  of  coaen  garmombles, 
Is  cosen  all  tho  Host  of  Maidenhead  &  Headings, 
Now  you  are  an  honest  roan,  and  a  scuruy  beggerly  lowsie  knaue  beside ; 
And  can  point  ^Tong  places, 
I  tell  you  for  good  will,  grate  why  mine  Host"  [Ed.  1602,  -Ito.] 

We  have  a  more  particular  account  of  the  same  incident  in  the  amended  play.  See  act  iv.  so.  3 
and  BC.  5.  The  reader  mil  please  to  compare  the  account  in  those  scenes  -with  the  above-  and  if  ^vc 
agree  with  Mr.  Knight  in  considering  the  incident  as  one  of  those  local  and  temporary  allusions  which 
Shakespeare  seized  upon  to  arrest  tho  attention  of  his  audience,  we  shall  find  it  become  of  "rcat  imiior- 
tanoe  in  determining  the  date  of  tho  composition  of  the  play.  lu  1592,  a  German  Duke  did  visit 
Windsor,  and  Mr.  Knight  was  fortunate  enough  to  meet  with  an  account  of  his  visit,  printed  at 
Tubingen  in  1G02.  It  was  the  Duke  of  Wi'irtemburg,  who  travelled  under  the  name  of  the  Count 
Mombeliard,  accompanied  by  a  considerable  retinue.  In  the  curious  volume  which  contains  the  history 
of  the  Duke's  progress  is  printed  a  sort  of  passport  from  Lord  Howard,  addressed,  as  usual  in  such 
documents,  to  all  justices  of  the  peace,  mayors,  and  baiUfFs.  Mr.  Knight  reprints  it  with  the  errors  of 
the  German  transcriber;  but  the  original  paper  was  probably  as  nearly  as  possible  in  the  following  form :  — 

"  Whereas  this  nobleman,  Counte  Morabeliard,  is  to  passe  over  contiye  in  England,  into  the  Lowe  Contryes,  Ihiso 
"halbe  to  wil  and  command  you,  in  hir  Majestyes  name  (for  suehe  is  hir  pleasure),  to  see  him  foumished  with  post  horses 
m  his  travail  to  the  sea  syde,  and  there  to  soke  up  such  shippinge  as  shalbe  fit  for  his  transportacions,  he payinge  KctJ:ir,ge 
for  the  same.  For  which  this  shalbe  your  sufficient  warranto.  So  see  that  you  faile  not  hereof,  at  youi-  periUs.  From 
Bilieete  the  2  of  Septembre,  1592  (3i  EU^.) 

"  Your  fiiend, 

"C.  HOWAED.- 

It  may,  perhaps,  be  a  question  whether  the  "  cosen  garmombles"  of  Sir  Hugh  Evanii  apply  only 
to  the  cotmfs  retinue,  or  include  himself;  but,  in  eitlier  case,  there  appears  to  be  little  doubt  that  the 
passages  which  relate  to  tho  German  duke  have  reference  to  the  Duke  of  "Wurtcmburg's  visit  to 
Windsor  in  the  year  1592, — a  matter  to  be  forgotten  in  1601,  when  Malone  says  tho  sketch  was 
written  •  and  not  likely  to  be  so  particularly  alluded  to  in  1596,  the  date  assigned  to  it  by  Chabners. 
"  His  "Tacc  and  suite,"  observes  Mr.  Knight,  "  must  have  caused  a  sensation  at  Windsor.  Probably 
mine  host  of  the  Garter  had  really  made  '  grand  preparation  for  a  dulie  de  Jarmany.'  Was  there  any 
dispute  about  the  ultimate  payment  for  the  duke's  horses,  which  he  was  authorised  to  have  free  of 
L^xpense  ?  Did  oui-  host  know  of  this  privilege,  when  he  said,  '  they  shall  have  my  horses,  but  I  'U 
make  them  pay?'"  The  count  himseK  would  probably  not  have  sanctioned  a  "  cousenago"  of  this  kind, 
but  his  attendants  would  little  scruple  in  availing  themselves  of  the  general  privilege  given  to  their 
master  by  the  English  government.  On  the  whole,  we  may  conclude,  with  much  safety,  tliat  the 
Merri/  Wives  was  composed  in  the  year  1592  or  very  soon  afterwards,  and  perhaps  fii-st  acted  in  1593, 
in  the  January  of  wliich  year  Queen  Elizabeth  had  a  series  of  masques  and  plays  performed  before  hex 
Lt  Windsor  Castle. ' 

Eegarding  the  chronology  of  the  play  as  settled,  a  question  arises  in  what  point  of  view  the 
^omedy  must  be  considered  in  connection  with  the  historical  plays  which  possess  several  of  the  same 
haracters  A  great  variety  of  opinions  have  been  expressed  on  this  subject,  and  the  reader  who 
Josii-ea  to  pursue  the  argument  wiU  find  it  fuUy  discussed  in  the  preface  to  an  edition  of  the  first 
sketch  of  the  play  which  I  edited  for  the  Shakespeare  Society  in  1842,  and  fi-om  which  most  of  the 
preceding  observations  have  been  taken.  The  analysis  of  the  characters  I  have  there  attempted  is  too 
diffuse  for  our  Umited  space ;  but  it  may  be  briefly  stated  that,  after  a  very  minute  examination  of  Ihe 
subject,  I  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  tho  two  parts  of  Henry  IV.,  like  the  MeiTy  Wives  of  Wmdsor, 


THE  MEEEY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOK. 


originally  existed  in  an  unfinislied  state,  and  that  wlicn  the  first  sketch  of  the  latter  was  ■written,  those 
plays  had  not  been  altered  and  amended  in  the  form  in  which  they  have  come  down  to  us.  The 
Falstaff  of  the  two  parts  of  Henry  IV.  was  originally  termed  Oldcastle,  and  if  we  associate  this 
eii-curastance  with  the  tradition  recorded  by  Dennis,  it  will  not  be  veiy  difficult  to  suggest  the  great 
probability  that  there  was  a  circumstance  in  the  poet's  literary  history,  the  exact  nature  of  which  ^^  ib 
most  likely  never  be  revealed,  but  which  would  probably  fulfil  all  the  conditions  of  this,  the  most 
perplexing  problem  ia  Shaksperian  criticism. 

Shakespeare's  first  sketch  of  the  play  was  pubUsbed  in  1602,  imder  the  quaint  title  of,  "A  most 
plcasaimt  and  excellent  conceited  Comedie  of  Syr  John  Falstaffe,  and  the  menie  Wives  of  Windsor : 
entemiixed  with  sundrie  variable  and  pleasing  humors  of  Syr  Hugh  the  Welch  Knight,  Justice 
Shallow,  and  hi^  wise  Cousin,  M.  Slender:  with  the  swaggering  vaine  of  Auncient  PistoU  and  Corporal! 
Npn.  Ey  WiUiam  Shakespeare.  As  it  hath  bene  divers  times  acted  by  tlie  right  Honorable  my  Lord 
Chamberlaines  servants,  both  before  her  Majestic,  and  elsewhere.  London,  Printed  by  T.  C.  for 
Arthiu-  Johnson,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  his  shop  ia  Powles  Church-yard,  at  the  signe  of  the  Flower  de 
Leuse  and  the  Crowne,  1602."  This  was  reprinted  in  1619,  with  a  few  immaterial  additions,  the 
blunders  of  the  early  copy  being  retained.  It  was  most  likely  piratically  published,  but  it  is  H.  groat 
interest,  because  we  fijid  in  it,  thougli  in  an  imperfect  form,  the  draught  of  the  great  poefs  mory  dnished 
delineation.  It  is  no  slight  advantage  to  be  thus  enabled  to  trace  the  progress  of  his  pc»i"s ;  and  out 
readers  wiLL  not  object  to  have  an  opportunity  of  comparing  the  two  copies  in  the  scei  ,o  Heme's  oak, 
ivhich,  as  Mr.  Knight  justly  observes,  has  no  doubt  been  completely  re-written : — 


Qn.iKTO  OF  1602. 

Qui.  Tou  fairies  that  do  liaimt  these  shady  groves, 
Look  round  about  the  wood  if  you  can  espy 
.V  mortal  that  doth  haunt  our  sacred  round : 
If  such  a  one  you  can  espy,  give  him  his  due, 
.\nd  leave  not  Mil  you  pinch  him  black  and  blue. 
Give  them  their  charge,  Puck,  ero  they  pait  away. 

Sir  Hugh.  Come  hither,  Pean,  go  to  the  coimtry  houses, 
And  when  you  find  a  slut  that  Kes  asleep, 
And  all  her  dishes  foul,  and  room  unswept, 
With  your  long  nails  pinch  her  till  she  ciy, 
And  swear  to  mend  her  sluttish  housewifely. 

Fat.  I  warrant  you,  I  will  perfonn  your  ■will. 

Hu.  ^Tiere  is  Pead  ?  Go  you  and  see  where  b^rokers  sleep, 
.Vnd  fox-eyed  Serjeants,  ■\vith  then-  mace, 
Go  lay  the  proctors  in  the  street, 
Jid  pinch  the  lousy  Serjeant's  face  : 
ipare  none  of  these  when  they  are  a-bed, 
*ut  such  whose  nose  looks  pluo  and  red. 

Qui.  Away,  begone,  his  mind  fulfil, 
And  look  that  none  of  you  stand  still. 
Borne  do  that  thing,  some  do  this. 
All  do  something,  none  amiss. 

Sir  Hugh.  I  smell  a  man  of  middle-earth. 

Fal  God  bless  me  from  that  Welch  fairy  ! 

Quic.  Look  every  one  about  tins  roimd, 
;Vnd  if  that  any  here  be  found, 
For  his  presumption  in  this  place. 
Spare  neither  leg,  arm,  head,  nor  faoe. 

Sir  Hugh.   See  I  liave  spied  one  by  good  luck, 
Ilia  body  man,  his  head  a  buck. 

Fal.  God  send  me  good  fortune  now,  and  I  care  not. 

Quick.  Go  straiglit,  and  do  as  I  command, 
Anrl  t^'ike  a  taper  in  your  liand, 
And  8(  t  it  to  his  fingers'  ends, 
And  if  you  see  it  him  offonds, 
S4 


FOLIO    OF    1623. 

Quick.  Fairies,  black,  grey,  green,  and  white, 
Tou  moonshine-revellers,  and  shades  of  night, 
Tou  orphan-heu"3  of  fixed  destiny, 
Attend  your  oiEce  and  your  quality. 
Crier  Hobgoblin,  make  the  fairy  eyes. 

Fist.  Elves,  list  your  names ;  sil  mee,  you  airy  toys. 
Cricket,  to  Windsor  ehimnies  shalt  thou  leap : 
Where  fires  thou  find'st  unrak'd,  and  hearths  unswept 
There  pioch  the  matds  as  blue  as  bilberry : 
Our  radiant  queen  hates  srats  and  sluttery. 

Fal  They  arc  fairies ;  he  that  speaks  to  them  shall  die 
I  '11  ■5vink  and  couch  :  no  man  their  works  must  eye. 

l_Ll€S  doum  upon  his  face 

Eva.  Whore's  Bead  ? — Go  you,  and  where  you  find  a  maid 
That,  ere  she  sleep,  has  thiice  her  prayers  said, 
Eaise  \ip  the  organs  of  her  fantasy. 
Sleep  she  as  soimd  as  careless  infancy ; 
But  those  as  sleep  and  think  not  on  their  sins, 
Pinch  them,  arms,  legs,  backs,  shoulders,  sides,  and  shins. 

Quick.  About,  about ; 
Search  Windsor-castle,  elves,  mtliin  and  out : 
Strew  good  luck,  ouphcs,  on  every  sacred  room ; 
That  it  may  stand  till  the  perpetual  doom,  ' 

In  state  as  wholesome,  as  in  state  't  is  fit; 
Wortliy  tlie  owner,  and  tlio  owner  it. 
The  several  chairs  of  order  look  you  scour 
With  juice  of  babn,  and  every  precious  flow'r: 
Each  fair  instalment,  coat,  and  sev'ral  crest. 
With  loyal  blazon  evermore  bo  blest ! 
And  nightly,  meadow-fairies,  look  you  sing, 
Like  to  the  Garter's  compass,  in  a  ring ; 
Th'  eiprcssure  that  it  be.ars  green  let  it  be. 
More  fertile-frcsh  than  .all  the  field  to  see ; 
And,  Honi  soit  qui  vial  y  pense^  write, 
In  em'ruld  tufis,  floVrs  pui-ple,  blue,  and  wliite : 


THE  MEERT  WIVES  OF  WTITOSOK. 


And  that  he  starteth  at  the  flame, 
Then  is  he  mortal,  know  his  name : 
[  f  with  an  F  it  duth  begin. 
Why  then  bo  sure  he  is  full  of  sin. 
About  it  then,  and  know  the  truth 
Of  this  same  metamorphosed  youth. 

Sir  Iliiyk.  Give  mo  the  tapers,  I  will  trj 
S  u'  if  that  he  lovi  venerr. 

[  77iey  put  the  tapers  to  Ms  fingers,  an  I  lit  ilarts. 

Sir  Hii.  It  is  right  indeed ;   he  is  full  of  lecheri  js  and 
iujquitj". 

Quic.  A  little  distant  from  him  stand, 
And  every  or.c  take  hand  in  hand, 
And  compass  him  •vv'ithin  a  ring, 
First  pinch  Jiim  well,  and  after  sing. 


I/ike  sapphire,  pearl,  and  rich  embroidery, 
Buckled  below  fair  knight-hood's  bending  kneo : 
Fairies  use  (low'rs  for  their  charactcry. 
Away ;  disperse  :  But,  till  'tis  one  o'clock, 
Our  dance  of  custom,  round  about  the  oak 
Of  Heme  the  Hunter  let  us  not  forget. 

Eva.  I'rayyou,  lock  hand  in  hand;  yourscKcs  in  orJor  M 
And  twenty  glow-worms  shall  our  lanterns  be. 
To  guide  our  measure  round  about  the  tree. 
But,  stay  :  I  smell  a  man  of  middle-earth. 

Fa!.  Heavens  defend  me  from  that  Wilch  fairy. 
Lest  he  transform  mo  to  a  piece  of  cheese ! 

Pist.  Villi  worm,  thou  wast  o'erlook'd  even  in  thy  birth 

Quick.  With  trial-fire  touch  mo  his  finger  end ; 
If  he  be  chaste,  the  flame  will  back  deect^nd 
And  turn  him  to  no  pain ;  but  if  ho  start. 
It  is  the  flesh  of  a  corrupted  heart. 

Pii:L  A  trial,  come. 

Mat,  Come ;  wiU  this  wood  fake  fire  ? 

\They  hum  hin,  v;ith  ihcir  tapers. 

F\il.  Oh,  oh,  oh ! 

Quiek.  Corrupt,  corrupt,  and  tainted  in  desire ! 
About  him,  fairies  ;  sing  a  scornful  rhyme ; 
Alid,  as  you  trip,  still  pinch  him  to  your  time. 


Meres  does  not  montion  the  'Jlerry  Wives'  in  his  list  of  Shakespeare's  comcdiea;  and  the  earlies 
r.otiso  of  the  play  yet  disooveroJ  is  contained  in  the  books  of  the  Stationers'  Company,  early  in  1602, 
when  the  first  sketch  Tvas  published.  It  was  acted  at  court  before  King  James  I.  in  November,  1604, 
as  appears  from  an  origuial  book  of  accounts  preserved  at  the  Audit  Office,  Somerset  House ;  but  as  we 
are  not  told  whether  it  is  the  amended  play  or  the  sketch,  this  information  is  of  little  value.  T  believe 
it,  however,  to  have  been  the  amended  play,  and  that  it  was  then  new  in  that  form.  There  are  severid 
allusions  in  the  latter  which  serve  to  show  that  it  was  written  after  James'  accession  to  the  throne.  1 
shall  only  aUudo  to  Chalmers'  reasoning  on  what  he  considers  to  refer  to  Spenser's  Faerie  Uueene,  and 
his  favourite  Shakespearian  evidence.  Lodge's  '  Devils  Incarnate,'  published  in  1596,  as  far  too  vague  and 
uncertain  for  any  feasible  argument.  Jlrs.  Page's  remark,  "these  knights  will  hack,  and  so  thoti  shouldsl 
Qot  alter  the  article  of  thy  gentr}-,"  can  only  allude  to  the  immense  number  of  knights  created  by  James 
I.,  who  is  said  on  one  occasion  to  have  made  fifty  before  breakfast.  In  the  beginning  of  the  year  1603, 
he  made  two  hundred  and  thirty-seven  knights  in  the  course  of  one  month,  and  the  order,  in  conso- 
(juence,  became  so  common  as  to  bring  it  into  general  ridicule.  In  July,  the  same  year,  the  court  wcr< 
to  \V'indsor,  and  soon  afterwards  the  festival  of  St.  George  was  celebrated  there  with  great  solemnity. 
The  Prince  of  Wales,  the  Duke  of  Lennox,  the  Earl  of  Southampton,  who  was  the  poet's  great  friend 
and  patron,  the  Earl  of  Pembrook,  and  the  Earl  of  !Marr,  were  installed  Knig'nts  of  the  Garter.  Maloue 
veiy  reasonably  conjectures  that  the  fine  poetical  description  of  the  insignia  of  the  garter  in  the  fifth 
iot  may  allude  to  tliis  occurrence;  and  they  certainly  woidd  have  had  a  peculiar  grace,  if  the}'  rcfeiTed 
to  such  a  solemnity.  . 

The  text  of  om-  edition  is  taken  from  the  folio  of  1623,  ^rith  a  few  passages  derived  from  the  first 
sketch,  where  they  appeared  necessary  to  the  sense,  or  were  too  good  to  be  lost.  But  these  additions 
have  been  made  with  great  caution,  for  it  would  be  disputing  the  poet's  own  judgment  in  his  rejections 
to  receive  the  quarto  as  an  authority  for  the  text,  although,  in  particular  instances,  we  may  presume 
sentences  were  accidentally  omitted  by  the  editors  of  the  first  folio.  A  few  corrections  have  been 
rlerived  from  an  early  manuscript  copy  of  the  play  in  my  possession,  entitled,  "  The  ilen-y  Wives  of 
Old  Windsor."  This  volume  is  one  of  the  two  only  known  early  manuscript  copies  of  Sliakespeare'e 
plays,  and  was  written  during  the  time  of  the  commonwealth. 

The  plot  of  the  "  ileiTy  Wives  of  Windsor"  is  partly  taken  fi-om  the  tale  of  the  "  Two  Lovers  of 
Piiia"  iu  Tarllon's   'Xewes  out  of    Puraratorie,'    1.590,  which  is  borrowed  from  one  of  the  novels  of 

So 


THE  MERllY  ^^T.TES  OF  WTNDSOK. 


I 


SlTajjarola.  In  this  tale,  a  yovmg  gallant  falls  in  love  with  a  doctor's  wife,  and,  not  tcins 
acquainted  with  his  person,  consults  him  as  to  the  best  method  of  proceeding  in  his  suit.  The  doctor 
is  thus  enabled  to  intercept  all  his  appointments.  In  the  first  instance,  the  lady  conceals  her  lover  in 
a  basket  of  feathers,  in  the  next,  between  the  ceilings  of  a  room,  and,  lastly,  in  a  box  of  deeds  anil 
valuable  papers.     The  doctor  may  be  compared  with  Ford  in  his  jealousy,  and  in  the  causes  ol  ii. 

As  a  specimen  of  broad  domestic  comedy,  the  '  Merry  Wives  of  "Windsor'  is  unrivalled.  It  i- 
replete  with  humour  and  incident,  and  has  so  little  to  do  with  fancy  or  romance,  that  the  episode  ol 
the  fairies  in.  "Windsor  park  creeps  into  luxuriant  poetry  apparently  almost  in  opposition  to  the  writer's 
will.  "We  must  regard  the  comedy  as  a  reaUzation  of  the  maimers  and  humours  of  Shakespeare's  own 
time,  notwithstanding  the  few  notices  which  connect  it  with  the  historical  plays.  "Windsor,  and  the 
meiTy  company  to  whom  we  are  there  introduced,  belong  to  the  reign  of  Queen  Bess,  and  have  no 
connexion  with  the  days  of  "  the  wild  Prince  and  Pointz."  Regarding  it  in  this  view,  fuo  play  may 
be  considered  one  of  the  most  successful  delineations  of  "the  humour  of  the  age;"  of  men  in  the 
habits  in  which  they  lived  and  moved  in  the  poet's  own  time.  A  spirit  of  fun  pervades  the  whole ; 
even  Ford's  jealousy  is  a  subject  of  pleasantry ;  Mrs.  Page's  invitation  makes  Falstaff  forget  hi? 
misfortunes ;  and  the  curtain  fails  m  the  midst  of  merrrment  and  good  humour. 
86 


PERSONS     REPRESENTED. 


Sib  John  Faxstatf. 

AppeuTs,  Act  I.  8c.  1 ;  sc.  3.  Act  II.  8c.  Z  Act.  III.  sc.  3 ; 
sc.  5.     Act.  IV.  so.  2 ;  so.  5.     Act  Y.  so.  1 ;  sc.  5. 

Fenton,  a  courtier. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.   4.     Act  III.  sc.  4.     Act  IV.  sc.  6. 

Act  V.  sc.  5. 

KODEET    SnAIiOTT,    EsQUTRE,    d     jUSticC    of 

Gloucestershire. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.   Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3.  Act  III.  so,  1 ; 
sc.  2 ;  sc.  4.    Act  IV.  sc.  2 .    Act  V.  sc.  2. 

Sleijbee,  cousin  to  Shallow. 

.Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.   Act  II.  sc.  3.  Act  III.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2 ; 

so.  4.    Act  V.  so.  2  ;  sc.  5. 

Me,  FEA.NCIS  FoED,  a  gentleman  dwelling  at  Windsor. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1;  sc.  2.    Act  III.  so.  2;  so.  3;  so.  5. 
Act  IV.  sc.  2 ;  60.  4.     Act  V.  so.  1 ;  so.  o. 

Me.  Geoege  P,iGE,  a  gentleman  dwelling  at  Windsor. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  so.  3.  Act  III.  sc.  1 ; 
sc.  2 ;  sc.  3 ;  sc.  4.  Act  IV.  so.  2;  sc.  4.  Act  V.  sc.  2;  sc.  5. 

William  Pa8e,«  boy,  son  to  Mr.  Page. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  1. 

Uvi.ni  Evans,  a   Welsh  priest :  cm-ate  aiid  school- 
master at  Windsor. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  ec.  2.     Act  III.  sc.  1 ;  so.  2 ;  sc.  3. 
Alt  IV.  sc.  1 ;  so.  2 ;  53.  4 ;  so.  5.     Act  V.  so.  4  ;  sc.  5. 

"Dk.  Caius,  a  French  physician. 

Ivpears,  Act  I  sc.  4.  Act  II.  sc.  3.    Act  IIL  sc  1 ;  sc.  2 ; 

so.  3.      Act  IV.  sc.  2  ;  sc.  5.     Act  V.  sc.  3  ;  so.  5. 

Host  of  tho  Garter  Inn. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  3.   Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3.  Act  III.  ec     ; 

so  2.     Act  IV.  nc.  3  .  so.  5  ;  sc.  6. 


Baebolph,  a  follower  of  FalstafF. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  so.  3.  Act  II.  sc.  2.  Act  (II.  sc.  .0 
Act  IV.  80.  3 ;  sc.  5. 

Nnr,  afolloicer  of  FalstafF. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;    so.  3.      Act  II.  sc.  I. 

Pistol,  afolloicer  of  Falstaff. 

Appears,   Act   I.   so.    1 ;    so.  3.       Act    II.  sc.  I ;    sc   2. 

Act  V.  EC.  5. 

EoBiK,  page  to  Falstaff,  afterwards  in  Ih  service  oj 
Mrs.  Page. 

Apjxars,  Act  I.  sc.  3.    Act  II.  sc.  2.    Act  JII.  sc.  2  :  ec.  3. 

Petee  SniPLE,  servant  to  Slender. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1  ;    sc.  2 ;     sc.  4.      Act  III.  Bc  1 

A;t  IV.  sc.  6. 

John  Eugbt,  servant  to  Dr.  Cains. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  4.    Act  11.  sc.  3.    Act  III.  so.  1 ;  sc  2. 

Ml!S.    FOED. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.     Act  II.  sc.  I.    A;t  III.  tc.  Z, 
Act.  If  sc.  2  ;  sc.  4.    Act  V.  sc.  3 ;  sc  6. 

Mks.  Paoe. 

Appears,   Act   I.  sc.   1.     Act  II.  sc.   1.     Act  III.  sc  2- 
60.  S  ;  sc  4.  Act  1 V.  sc.  ] ;  so.  2  ;  sc.  4.  Art  V.  sc  c  ;  sc,  5 

Anne  Page,  daughter  to  Mrs.  Page. 
Appeal  1,  kiiH.sQ   1.     Act  III.  so.  4.     Act  V.  sc.  5. 

Mits.  QciCKLT,  servant  to  Dr.  Cains. 

Appears,  Act  I.  so.  4.  Act.  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.  Act  III.  sc  4 
ec.  !>.     Act  IV.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  5.     Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  5. 

Sersants  to  Page,  Ford,  ^y. 

SCtlNE, — Windsor,  and  its  neighbourhood. 

S7 


€\)^  Mtui]  Wim  of  Wmkm. 


ACT  L 


SCETSE  I.— "Windsor.     Garden  Front  of  Page's 
Jfotue. 

Enter  Justice  Shallow,  Slenbee,  and  Sib  Hugh 
EvAjrs. 

Shal.  Sir  Hugh,'  persuade  me  not;  I  Tvill  make 
a  Star-chamber  matter  of  it:  if  he  -were  twenty 
Bir  John  Falstaifs,  he  shall  not  abuse  Eobert  Shal- 
low, esquii-c. 

Slen.  In  the  county  of  Glostcr,  justice  of  peace 
and  coram." 

Shal.  Ay,  cousin  Slender,  and  Cust-ahriim. 

Slen.  Ay,  and  ratolorum  too;  and  a  gentleman 
bom,  master  parson;  who  writes  hhnscM  arrnigc)-o; 
in  any  bill,  wan-ant,  quittance,  or  obligation, 
armigero. 

Shal.  Ay,  that  I  do;  and  have  done  any  time 
these  three  himdred  yeai's.^ 

Slen.  AU  liis  successors,  gone  before  him,  have 
donc't;  and  aU  his  ancestors,  that  come  after  liim, 
may:  they  may  give  the  dozen  white  luces*  in 
their  coat. 

Shal.  It  is  an  old  coat. 

Eva.  The  dozen  white  louccs  do  become  an  old 
coat  well;  it  agrees  n-cU,  passant:  it  is  a  familiar 
beast  to  man,  and  signifies  lore.' 

Shal.  The  luce  is  tlie  fresh  fish;  the  salt  fish  is 
an  old  coat. 

Slen.  I  may  quarter,  ooz  ? 

Shal.  You  may,  bj-  iimrrung. 

Eva.   It  is  marring,  indeed,  if  he  quarter  it. 
88 


Shal.  iN'ot  a  whit. 

Eva.  Yes,  py'r  lady ;  if  he  has  a  quarter  cf  you! 
coat,  there  is  but  three  sldrts  for  yourself,  in  bm 
simple  conjectures:  but  that  is  all  one.  If  s^u 
John  Falstaff  have  committed  disparagements  unto 
you,  I  am  of  the  church,  and  will  be  glad  to  dc 
my  benevolence,  to  make  atonements  and  compre- 
mises  between  you. 

Shal.  The  coimeil  shall  hear  it ;''  it  is  a  riot. 

Eva.  It  is  not  meet  the  council  hear  a  riot; 
there  is  no  fear  -of  Got  in  a  riot :  the  comicil,  look 
you,  shall  desire  to  hear  the  fear  of  Got,  and  not 
to  hear  a  riot;  take  your  vizaments'  in  that. 

Shal.  Ha!  o'  my  life,  if  I  were  young  again,  the 
sword  should  end  it. 

Eva.  It  is  petter  that  friends  is  the  sword,  and 
end  it:  and  there  is  also  another  de^•ice  in  my 
prain,  which,  peradventure,  priugs  goot  discretions 
with  it:  There  is  Anne  Page,  which  is  daughter 
to  master  George  Page,  which  is  pretty  ^-irginity. 

Slen.  Misti'ess  Anne  Page?  She  has  browx 
hail',  and  speaks  small  Kke  a  woman.' 

Eva.  It  is  that  feiy  person  for  all  the  "oild,  as 
just  as  you  will  desire ;  and  seven  hundred  po>f  ds 
of  moneys,  and  gold,  and  silver,  is  her  grandsire 
upon  his  death's-bcd  (Got  deliver  to  a  joj-ful  resur- 
rections!) give,  when  she  is  able  to  overtake  seven- 
teen years  old:  it  were  a  goot  motion  if  we  leave 
our  pribbles  and  prabbles,  and  desire  a  marriage 
between  master  Abraham  and  mistresi*  Anne 
Page. 


Acr  1. 


THE  MEEEY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


SM.  Did  licr  grandsire  leave  licr  sever,  hun- 
dred pound? 

£fa.  Ay,  and  her  father  is  make  her  a  potter 
penny. 

Shal.  I  know  the  young  gentlewoman;  she  has 
good  gifts. 

Era.  Seven  hundi-ed  poimds  and  possibilities,' 
is  goot  gifts. 

SIui!.  "Well,  let  us  see  honest  master  Page:  Is 
Falstaff  tliere  ? 

Eta.  Shall  I  tell  you  a  ho?  I  do  despise  a  liar 
as  I  do  despise  one  that  is  false;  or  as  I  despise 
one  that  is  not  true.  The  knight,  sir  John,  is 
there;  and,  I  beseech  you,  bo  ruled  by  your  well- 
willers.  I  will  peat  the  door  [_liiocl's']  for  master 
Page.     What,  hoa,  Got  pless  youi-  house  hero ! 

Fuffo.  \_WiiMn']  Who's  there? 

Era.  Here  is  Got's  plessing  and  your  friend,  and 
justice  Shallow:  and  here  j'oung  master  Slender; 
that,  pcradventures,  shaU  tell  you  another  tale,  if 
matters  grow  to  your  likings. 

Etiter  Page. 

Paffe.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  worships  well :  I 
thank  you  for  my  venison,  master  Shallow. 

Shal.  Master  Page,  I  am  glad  to  see  you; 
much  good  do  it  yoiu-  good  heart!  I  wish'd  your 
venison  better ;  it  was  ill  kiil'd : — How  doth  good 
mistress  Page  ? — and  I  thank  you  always  ■with 
my  licart,  la ;  with  my  heart. 

Fai/e.  Sir,  I  thank  you. 

Shal.  Sir,  I  thank  you;  by  yea  and  no,  I  do. 

I'affC.  1  am  glad  to  see  you,  good  master 
Slender. 

Skn.  How  docs  your  fallow  grey-hound,  sir?  I 
heard  say  he  was  outrun  on  Cotsall."' 

Page.  It  could  not  be  judg'd,  sir. 

Slen.  You'll  not  confess,  you  'U  not  confess. 

Shal.  That  he  will  not: — 't  is  your  foult,  't  is 
your  fault :" — 'T  is  a  good  dog. 

Paje.  A  cur,  sir. 

Shal.  Sir,  he  's  a  good  dog,  and  a  fair  dog ;  can 
there  be  more  said?  he  is  good  and  fail.  Is  sir 
John  Ealstaff  here  ? 

Page.  Sir,  ho  is  within ;  and  I  would  I  could  do 
a  good  office  between  j'ou. 

Era.  It  is  spoke  as  a  Christians  ought  to  speak. 

Shal.  He  hath  wrong'd  me,  master  Page. 
Page.  Sii',  he  doth  in  some  sort  confess  it. 

Shal.  If  it  bo  ccnfesscd,  it  is  not  redressed ;  is 
iict  that  so,  maste;  Page  ?    He  hath  -wrong'd  me; 

12 


indeed  he  hath ; — at  a  word  he  bath ; — believe  mo; 
Eobert  Shallow,  esquire,  saith  he  is  wTong'd. 
Paff^.  Here  comes  sir  Jolm. 

Enter  Sib  John  Faistaff,  Baedolph,  Nvm,  and 
Pistol. 

Fal.  Now,  master  Shallow;  you '11  complain  of 
me  to  the  king  ? 

Shal.  Knight,  you  have  beaten  my  n,en,  kiil'd 
my  deer,  and  broke  open  my  lodge. 

Eal.  But  not  kiss'd  your  keeper's  daughter." 

Shal.  Tut,  a  pin !  this  shall  be  answcr'd. 

Fal.  1  ^viU  answer  it  sti-aight; — I  have  done  all 
this : — That  is  now  answcr'd. 

Shal.  The  council  shall  know  this. 

Fal.  'T  were  better  for  you,  if  it  were  known 
in  coiinsel ; "  you  'U  be  laughed  at. 

Eva.  Pauca  rerha,  sir  John,  goot  worts. 

Fal.  Good  worts!  good  cabbage." — Slender,  I 
broke  your  head ;  what  matter  have  you  against 
me? 

Slen.  Marry,  sir,  I  have  matter  in  my  head 
against  you;  and  against  your  coney-catching" 
rascals,  Bardolph,  Nym,  and  Pistol.  They  earned 
me  to  the  tavern  and  made  me  diimk,  and  after 
wards  picked  my  pocket. 

Bard.  You  Banbury  cheese ! '" 

Slen.  Ay,  it  is  no  matter. 

Fist.  How  now,  Mephistophilis  ? 

Slen.  Ay,  it  is  no  matter. 

Nijm.  SKcc,  I  say !  pauca,  2)aitca  ;  slice !  that  '"s 
my  hmnour. 

Slen.  Where 's  Simple,  my  man  ? — can  you  teU, 
cousin  ? 

Eva.  Peace  :  I  pray  you !  Now  let  us  under- 
stand :  There  is  three  umpires  in  this  matter,  as  I 
understand :  that  is — master  Page,  fidelicit,  master 
Pago;  and  there  is  mjsc\i,  fidelicit,  myself;  and 
the  three  party  is,  lastly  and  finally,  mine  host  of 
the  Garter. 

Page.  AVe  three,  to  hear  it  and  end  it  between 
them. 

Eva.  Fery  goot :  I  will  make  a  pricf  of  it  in  my 
note-book;  and  we  will  afterwards  'ork  upon  the 
cause,  with  as  great  discreetly  as  we  can. 

Fal.  Pistol— 

Pist.  He  hears  -with  cars! 

Eva.  The  tevil  and  his  tarn  !  what  phraf  c  is  this, 
"  He  hears  with  ear  "  ?     "VMiy,  it  is  affectations. 

Fal.  Pistol,  did  you  pick  master  Slcnder's  purse  ? 

Slen.  Ay,  by  these  gloves,  did  he,  (or  I  would 
I  might  never  come  in  mine  own  great  chamber 


THE  MEiQlf  WIVES  OF  "WINDSOK. 


igain  else,)  of  seTC-n  groats  in  mill-sixpences,"  and 
Vtto  Edward  shovel-boards,  that  cost  me  two  shil- 
ing  and  two  pence  a-piece  of  Ycad  MOler,  by  these 
gloves. 

Fill.  Is  this  true,  Pistol  ? 

Era.  No ;  it  is  false,  if  it  is  a  pick -purse. 

Pist.  Ha,  thou  mountain-foreigner  !-:-Sir  John 
and  master  mine, 
I  combat  challenge  of  this  latten  bObo  :  '* 
Word  of  denial  in  thy  labras  here ; 
Word  of  denial :  froth  and  scum,  thou  liest ! 

Skn.  By  these  gloves,  then  't  was  he. 

Ki/m.  Be  avis'd,  sir,  and  pass  good  humours; 
I  will  say,  "marry  trap,"  with  you,  if  you  run 
the  nuthook's  humour^'  on  me :  that  is  the  very 
note  of  it. 

Skn.  By  this  hat,  then,  he  xa.  the  red  face  had 
it :  for  though  I  cannot  remember  what  I  did  when 
you  made  me  drunk,  yet  I  am  not  altogether  an  ass. 

Fal.  What  say  you,  Scarlet  and  John  ?  *" 

Bard.  Why,  sir,  for  my  part,  I  say,  the  gentle- 
man had  drimlv  liimself  out  of  his  five  sentences. 

Eva.  It  is  his  five  senses :  fie,  wliat  the  igno- 
rance is ! 

Bard.  And  being  fap,-'  su-,  was,  as  they  say, 
cashier'd ;  and  so  conclusions  pass'd  the  careers. 

Sim.  Ay,  you  spake  in  Latin  then  too;  but 
't  is  no  matter:  I  'U  ne'er  be  drunk  whilst  I 
live  again,  but  in  honest,  ci\-il,  godly  company,  for 
tliis  trick:  K  I  bo  drunk,  I  'U  be  drunk  with 
those  that  have  the  fear  of  God,  and  not  'with 
drunken  knaves. 

Era.  So  Got '  udge  me,  that  is  a  virtuous  mind. 

Fal.  You  hear  aU  these  matters  deny'd,  gentle- 
!nen ;  you  hear  it. 

Enter  Mistkess  kss-E  Page,  ivith  wine ;  Mistbess 
FoED  and  Mistress  Page  folloicing. 

Page.  Nay,  daughter,  carry  the  T\-ine  in ;  we  '11 
drink  within.  \_Exit  Anxe  Page. 

Slen.  0  Heaven !  this  is  mistress  Anne  Page. 

Page.  How  now,  mistress  Ford  ? 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford,  by  my  troth,  you  are  very 
well  met :  by  yonr  leave,  good  mistress.-' 

\_Kisses  her. 

Page.  Wife,  bid  these  gentlemen  welcome :  Come, 
wo  have  a  hot  venison  pasty  to  dinner;  come,  gen- 
tlemen, I  hope  we  shall  drink  do■^^^l  all  unkindncss 
[Exeunt  all  hut  SnAi.,  Slen.,  and  Evans. 

Slen.  I  had  rather  than  forty  shUlings  I  had 
my  book  of  Songs  and  Sonnets  here  : — 

90 


Enter  Simple. 
How  now.  Simple !    Where  have  you  been  ?     ] 
must  wait  on  myself,  must  I  ?     Tou  have  not  Oic 
'  Book  of  Eiddles '  about  you,'^  have  you  ? 

Sim.  '  Book  of  Eiddles  '  ?  why,  did  you  not  Irnil 
it  to  Alice  Shortcake  upon  Allhallowmas  last,  a 
fortnight  afore  Michaelmas  ? 

S/ial.  Come,  coz ;  come,  coz ;  we  stay  for  you. 
A  word  with  you,  eoz  :  marry,  this,  coz ; — There 
is,  as  't  were,  a  tender,  a  kind  of  tender,  made  afar 
off,  by  sir  Hugh  here.     Do  you  understand  me  ? 

Slen.  Ay,  sii-,  you  shall  find  me  reasonable ;  if 
it  be  so,  I  shall  do  that  that  is  reason. 

Shal.  Nay,  but  understand  me. 

Slen.  So  I  do,  sir. 

Era.  Give  car  to  his  motions,  master  Slender: 
I  will  description  the  matter  to  you,  if  you  bu 
capacity  of  it. 

Slen.  Nay,  I  will  do  as  my  cousin  Shallow  says : 
I  pray  you,  pardon  me ;  he  's  a  justice  of  peace  in 
his  country,  simple  though  I  stand  here. 

Era.  But  that  is  not  the  question;  the  question 
is  concerning  your  marriage. 

Shal.  Ay,  there  's  the  point,  sir. 

Eva.  MaiTy,  is  it;  the  very  point  of  it;  to  mis- 
tress Anne  Page. 

Shn.  "Wty,  if  it  be  bo,  I  will  marry  her,  upon 
any  reasonable  demands. 

Era.  But  can  you  affection  the  'oman?  Let  us 
command  to  know  that  of  your  mouth  or  of  your 
lips ;  for  divers  philosophers  hold  that  the  lips  is 
parcel  of  the  mouth.  Therefore,  precisely,  can  you 
carry  your  good  will  to  the  maid  ? 

Shal.  Cousin  Abraham  Slender,  can  you  love  herr 

Slen.  I  hope,  sir, — I  will  do  ns  it  shall  become 
one  that  would  do  reason. 

Eva.  Nay,  Got's  lords  and  his  ladies,  you  must 
speak  possitable,  if  you  can  carrj-  her  your  desires 
towai'ds  her. 

Shal.  That  you  must :  Will  you,  upon  good 
doviy,  marry  her  ? 

Slen.  I  will  do  a  greater  t:  ing  than  that,  upon 
your  request,  cousin,  in  any  reason. 

Shal.  Nay,  conceive  mo,  conceive  me,  sweet 
coz ;  what  I  do  is  to  pleasiu-c  you,  coz :  C;m  yoi; 
love  the  maid  ? 

Slen.  I  vnH  marry  her,  sir,  at  your  request ;  but 
if  there  be  no  great  love  in  the  beginning,  yd 
Heaven  may  decrease  it  upcai  better  acquaintance; 
when  we  aro  married  and  have  more  occasion  tc 
loiow  one  another,  I  hope,  upon  f  kniiliaiity  will 
grow  more  content  ;**  but  if  you  say,  "  maii-y  her,' 


lar  I 


THE  llERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


SCENE  n. — m. 


I  will  marry  her,  that  I  am  freely  dissolved,  and 
dissolutely. 

Eca.  It  is  a  fery  discretion  answer;  save,  the 
faiil'  is  in  the  'ort  dissolutely:  the  'ort  is,  accor- 
ding to  our  meaning,  resolutely ; — his  meaning  is 
good. 

Shal.  Ay,  I  think  my  cousin  meant  ■well. 

Slon.  Ay,  or  else  I  would  I  might  he  hang'd,  la. 

Re-enter  Anne  Page. 

Shal.  Here  comes  fair  mistress  Anne : — ^Would 
I  were  yoimg  for  your  sake,  mistress  Anno  ! 

Anne.  The  dinner  is  on  the  table;  my  father 
desires  your  worship's  company. 

Slial.  I  will  wait  on  him,  fair  mistress  Anne. 

JEva.  Od's  plessed  will !  I  wiU  not  be  absence  at 
the  grace.  [Exe^mt  Shal.  and  Evans. 

Anne.  WiU.  't  please  yoiu'  worship  to  come  in, 
sir? 

Slen.  No,  I  thank  you,  forsooth,  heartily ;  I  am 
ver)'  well. 

Anrie.  The  dinner  attends  you,  sir. 

Slcn.  I  am  not  a-hungry,  I  thank  you,  forsooth. 
Go,  sirrah,  for  all  you  are  my  man,  go,  wait  upon 
my  cousin  Shallow :  \_Exit  Simple.]  A  justice  of 
peace  sometime  may  be  beholden  to  his  fiiend  for 
a  man  : — I  keep  but  three  men  and  a  boy  yet,  till 
ray  mother  be  dead :  But  what  though  ?  yet  I  live 
like  a  poor  gentleman  bom. 

Anne.  I  may  not  go  in  without  your  worship  : 
they  will  not  sit  till  you  come. 

Slen.  I '  faith,  I  '  U  eat  nothing ;  I  thank  you  as 
much  as  though  I  did. 

Amie.  I  pray  you,  sir,  waUc  in. 

Slen.  I  had  rather  walk  here,  I  thank  you ;  I 
bruis'd  my  shin  th'  other  day  with  playing  at 
Bword  and  dagger  with  a  master  of  fence,^  tlirce 
veneys  for  a  dish  of  stew'd  prunes ;  and,  by  my 
h'oth,  I  cannot  abide  the  smell  of  hot  meat  since. 
■WTiy  do  your  dogs  bark  so  ?  be  there  bears  i'  the 
town. 

Anne.  I  think  there  are,  sir;  I  heard  them 
talk'd  of. 

<?'«!.  I  love  the  sport  well ;  but  I  shall  as  soon 
[uan-el  at  it,  as  any  man  in  England : — You  are 
afraid  if  you  see  the  bear  loose,  are  you  not  ? 

Anne.  Ay,  indeed,  sir. 

Slen.  That 's  meat  and  drink''  to  me  now :  I 
have  seen  Saokerson"  loose  twenty  times;  and 
have  taken  liim  by  the  chain :  but,  I  warrant  you, 
the  women  have  so  cried  and  shriek' d  at  it,  that  it 


pass'd: — ^but  womcr,  indeed,  cannot  abide    em 
they  are  very  Ul-favour'd  rough  tilings. 

lie-enter  Page. 

Page.  Come,  gentle  master  Slender,  come;  we 
stay  for  you. 

Slen.  I  '11  eat  nothing,  I  thank  you,  sir. 

Paje.  By  cock  and  pyc,'''  you  shall  not  choose, 
sir:  come,  come. 

Slen.  Nay,  pray  you,  lead  tbA  jray. 

Page.  Come  on,  su*. 

Slen.  Mistress  Anne,  yourself  shall  go  first. 

Anne.  Not  I,  sir ;  pray  you,  keep  on. 

Slen.  Truly,  I  wUl  not  go  first;  truly,  la:  I 
will  not  do  you  that  wrong. 

Anne.  I  pray  you,  sir. 

Slen.  I  '11  rather  be  immannerly  than  trouble- 
some ;  you  do  yourself  wrong,  indeed,  la.   [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IT. — The  lolhy  in  Page's  Iwuse. 
Enter  Sir  Hugh  Etans  and  Simtle. 

Eva.  Go  your  ways,  and  ask  of  Doctor  Cains' 
house,  which  is  the  way:'"  and  there  dwells  one 
mistress  Quieldy,  which  is  in  the  manner  of  his 
nurse,  or  his  dr-y  nurse,  or  his  cook,  or  his  laimdry,^ 
his  washer,  and  his  wringer. 

Sim.  Well,  sir. 

Eva.  Nay,  it  is  pettcr  yet : — give  her  this  letter; 
for  it  is  a  'oman  that  altogether  's  acquaintance 
■nath  mistress  Anne  Page :  and  the  letter  is,  to  desire 
and  require  her  to  solicit  your  master's  desires  to 
mistress  Anne  Page :  I  pray  you,  begone ;  I  wUl 
make  an  end  of  my  dinner ;  there  's  pippins  and 
cheese  to  come.^'  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— ^  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  Faxstatf,  Host,  Eaedolph,  Ntm,  Pistol, 
and  PiOBiN. 

Fal.  Mine  host  of  the  Garter, — 
East.  What  says  my  buUy-rook?''    Speak  scho- 
larly and  wisely. 

Fal.  Truly,  mine  host,  I  must  turn  away  some 

of  my  followers. 

Host.    Discard,   buUy  Heiculos;    cashier:    let 

them  wag ;  trot,  trot. 

Fal.  I  sit  at  ten  pounds  a-week." 

Host.  Thou  'li  an  emperor,  Ca!sar,  Keisar,  and 
Pheezar.'*  I  wiU  entertain  Bardolph;  he  shall 
draw,  he  shall  tap :  said  I  well,  bully  Hector 

Fal.  Do  so,  good  mine  host. 

91 


TKE  MEEltY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOK. 


Hod,  I  ha^e  spoke;  let  Imn  follow :  Let  me  see 
thee  froth  and  Kme  :  ^'  I  am  at  a  word ;  follow. 

{_Exit  Host. 

Fill.  Bardolph,  follow  him :  a  tapster  is  a  good 
trade  :  an  old  cloak  makes  a  new  jerkin ;  a  withcr'd 
servingman  a  fresh  tapster.    Go ;   adieu. 

Bard.  It  is  a  life  that  I  have  desir'd ;  I  wul 
Ihiive. 

Pid.  0  base  Hungarian  wight!'*  wilt  thou  the 
spigot  wield  ?  \Exit  Baed. 

Nym.  He  was  gotten  in  driak :  Is  not  tlie 
humour  conceited?  His  mind  is  not  heroic,  and 
there  's  the  humour  of  it. 

Fal.  I  am  glad  I  am  so  acquit  of  this  tinder-box ; 
his  thefts  were  too  open ;  his  filching  was  like  an 
unskilful  singer, — ho  kept  not  time. 

Nijm.  The  good  humour  is  to  steal  at  a  minim's 
rest."' 

Pid.  ConYcy,  the  wise  it  call :  Steal !  foh ;  a 
fico  for  the  phrase !  ^* 

Fal.  "Well,  sirs,  I  am  almost  out  at  heels. 

Pid.  Why,  then  let  kibes  ensue. 

Fal.  There  is  no  remedy ;  I  must  coney-catch ; 
I  must  shift. 

Pid.  Young  ravens  must  have  food.'' 

Fal.  Which  of  you  know  Ford  of  this  town  ? 

Pid.  I  ken  the  wight ;   he  is  of  substance  good. 
^al.  My  honest  lads,  I  ■will  tell  you  what  I  am 
about. 

Pid.  Two  yards,  and  more. 

Fal.  No  quips  now.  Pistol :  Indeed  I  am  in  the 
waist  two  yiu'ds  about ;  but  I  am  now  about  no 
waste ; "  I  am  about  thrift.  Briefly,  I  do  mean 
to  make  love  to  Ford's  vrife ;  I  spy  entertainment 
in  her ;  she  discourses,  she  carves,"  she  gives  the 
leer  of  invitation  :  I  can  construe  the  action  of  her 
familiar  style ;  and  the  hardest  voice  of  her  beha- 
viour, to  be  Euglish'd  rightly,  is,  I  am  sir  John 
Falstaff's. 

Pid.  He  hath  studied  licr  will,  and  translated 
her  will,  out  of  honesty  into  English.''- 

Ntjm.  The  anchor  is  deep :  Will  that  humour 
pass? 

Fal.  Now,  the  report  goes  she  has  all  the  rule 
of  her  husband's  purse ;  he  hath  a  legion  of  angels. 

Pid.  As  many  de\-il.s  entertain  ;"  and,  "To  her, 
boy,"  say  I.  \_Adde. 

Nijm.  The  humour  rises ;  it  is  good  :  humour 
mo  the  angels.  \_Asidc. 

Fal.  I  have  writ  me  here  a  letter  to  her  :  and 
bero  another  to  Page's  wife  ;   who  even  now  gave 
'110  good  eyes  too ;   cxamiu'd  my  parts  with  most 
02 


judicious  eyeliads;**  sometimes  the  beam  of  be/ 
view  gilded  my  foot,  sometimes  my  portly  bellj. 

Pid.  Then  did  the  sim  on  dungluLL  shine. 

Nym.  I  thank  thee  for  that  humoui.        \_Aside. 

Fal.  0,  she  did  so  course  o'er  my  exteriors  with 
such  a  greedy  intention,*^  that  the  appetite  of  hcl 
c-yo  did  seem  to  scorch  me  up  like  a  hmmng-glass ! 
Here 's  another  letter  to  her  :  she  bears  the  purse 
too ;  she  is  a  region  in  Guiana,  all  gold  and  bounty. 
I  ■\nU  be  cheater  to  them  both,"  and  they  shidl  be 
exchequers  to  me;  they  shall  be  my  East  and 
West  Indies,  and  I  will  trade  to  them  both.  Go 
bear  thou  this  letter  to  mistress  Page ;  and  thou 
this  to  mistress  Ford :  we  ■will  thrive,  lads,  we  \vill 
thiive. 

Pid.  Shall  I  sir  Pandarus  of  Troy  become. 
And  by  my  side  wear  steel  ?  then,  Lucifer  take  all! 

Kym.  I  will  run  no  base  humour:  here,  take 
the  humour  letter !  I  will  keep  the  'haviour  of  re- 
putation. 

Fal.  Hold,  sirrah,  [to  PiOB.]  bear  you  these  let- 
ters tightly;" 
Sail  like  my  pinnace'"  to  these  golden  shores. — 
Eogucs,  hence,  avaunt!  vanish  uke hailstones !  go; 
Tiiidge,  plod  away  i'  the  hoof;  seek  shelter,  pack  \ 
Falstalf  win  learn  the  humour  of  the  age," 
French   thiift,   you   rogues;    myself  and   skirted 
page. 

[Exeunt  Falstatf  and  Kobin. 

Pist.  Let  vultures  gripe  thy  guts ! ^  for  gourd 
and  fuilam  hold," 
And  high  and  low  beguile  ^"^  the  rich  and  poor ; 
Tester  I  'U  have  in  pouch,  when  thou  shalt  lack, 
Base  Phrygian  Turk  ! 

Nym.  I  have  operations,  which  be  humours  of 
revenge. 

Pid.  WO-t  thou  revenge? 

Nym.  By  welldn,  and  her  stai' ! 

Pist.  With  wit,  or  steel  ? 

Nym.  With  both  the  humours,  I: 
I  ^\^ll  discuss  the  humour  of  this  love  to  Ford. 

Pid.  And  I  to  Page  shall  eke  imfold, 
How  Falstatr,  varlet  vile. 
His  dove  ^viLl  prove,  his  gold  wJl  hold, 
And  his  soft  couch  defile. 

Nym.  My  humour  shall  not  cool :  I  will  in- 
cense" Ford  to  deal  with  poison;  I  wnH  possess  hiiii 
with  yellowness,  for  the  revolt  of  mine"  is  dange- 
rous :  that  is  my  true  humour. 

Pid.  Thou  art  the  '^firs  of  malcontents :  I  se- 
cond thee ;  troop  on.  [Eiount 


TIIE  MEIUIY  "WIVES  OF  WINDSOlt. 


ncEsv.  n. 


SCRISE  IV. — A  Room  wDr.  Caius's  IToiise. 

Unlet  Mes.  QtncKLT,  SmrLE,  and  Rugby. 

Quick.  What :  Jolm  Eiigby ! — I  pray  thee,  go 
U)  Iho  oasemcnt,  and  see  if  you  can  see  my  master, 
master  doctor  Caius,  coming:  if  lie  do,  i'  faith, 
and  find  anybody  in  the  house,  here  will  be  an 
old  abusing"  of  God"s  patience  and  the  king's 
English. 

-Riiff.  I'll  go  watch.  [_£j:it  IIughy. 

QuicT;.  Go;  and  we'll  have  a  posset  for't  soon  at 
night,  in  faith,  at  the  latter  end  of  a  sea-coal  flro. 
Aji  licnest,  willing,  kind  fellow,  as  ever  servant 
shall  come  in  house  withal ;  and,  I  warrant  you, 
no  tell-tale,  nor  no  breed-bate:™  his  worst  fault  is 
that  he  is  given  to  prayer;  he  is  something  peevish 
that  way ;"  but  nobode  but  has  his  fault ; — but  let 
that  pass.  Peter  Simple  you  say  your  name  is  ? 

Sim.  Ay,  for  fault  of  a  better. 

Quick.  And  master  Slender's  your  master? 

Sim.  Ay,  forsooth. 

Quick.  Does  he  not  wear  a  great  round  beard, 
like  a  glover's  paring-knife?™ 

Sim.  No,  forsooth  :  he  hath  but  a  little  wee  face, 
uith  a  little  yellow  beard;  a  Cain  coloured  beard.'' 

Quick.  A  softly- sprighted  man,  is  he  not  ? 

Sim.  Ay,  forsooth :  but  he  is  as  tail  a  man  of  his 
Imnds**  as  any  is  between  this  and  his  head;  ho 
hath  fought  with  a  warroncr. 

Quick.  How  say  you  ? — 0,  I  shoidd  remember 
liiTu:  does  he  not  hold  up  his  head,  as  it  were, 
and  strut  in  his  gait  ? 

Sim.  Yes,  indeed,  does  he. 

Quick.  "Well,  heaven  send  Anne  Page  no  worse 
fortune !  Tell  master  parson  Evans  I  will  do  what 
I  can  for  your  master:  Anno  is  a  good  gud,  and 
I  wish — 

Re-enter  Eugbt. 

Rug.  Out,  alas!  hero  comes  my  master. 

Quick.  "We  shall  all  bo  shent:  °'  Eun  in  here,  good 
young  man  ;  go  into  this  closet.  \_Shuts  Simple  in 
the  closot.']  He  will  not  stay  long. — "What,  John 
Eugby !  John,  what  'John,  I  say !  Go,  John,  go 
inquire  for  my  master;  I  doubt  ho  be  not  well, 
that  he  comes  not  home : — And  down,  down, 
adown-a,  &c.  [^Sings, 

Miter  DocTOu  Caius. 

Caius.  Vat  is  you  sing?  I  do  not  like  dose 
toys.  Pray  you,  go  and  vetch  me  in  my  closet  m» 
hoitier  verd, — a  bos,  a  green-a  box ;  Do  intend 
vat  I  speak  ?  a  green-a  box. 


Quick  Ay,  forsooth,  I'll  fetch  it  you.  I  (im 
glad  ho  went  not  in  himself:  if  he  had  found  the 
young  man,    lie  would  have  been  horn-mad. 

[Asido 

Caius.  Fe,  fe,  fe,  fc  I  ma  foi,  il  fail  fori  ckaud 
Je  m'en  vais  d  la  cour, — la  grandc  affaire. 

Quick.  Is  it  this,  sir? 

Caius.  Guy:  metle  h  au  mon  pocket;  D-peche, 
quickly: — Vcre  is  dat  knave  Eugby? 

Quick.  "^Tiat,  John  Eugby!  John! 

Rug.  Here,  sir. 

Cuius.  You  are  John  Eugby,  and  you  are  Jack 
Eogoby:"-  Come  take-a  your  rapier,  and  comeaftei 
my  heel  to  the  coui^;. 

Rug.  'T  is  ready,  sir,  here  in  the  porch. 

Caius.  Ey  my  trot,  I  tany  too  long; — Od's  mo  . 
Qu'ayf  ouhlie!  dere  is  some  simples  in  my  closet, 
dat  I  vOl  not  for  the  varld  I  shall  leave  behind. 

Quick.  All  me  !  he  '11  find  the  young  man  there, 
and  bo  mad ! 

Caius.  0  diahle,  dialle!  vat  is  in  my  closet? — 
Villainy!  larron!  \_Pulling  Simple  oul.\  liugby, 
my  rapier. 

Quick.  Good  master,  be  content. 

Caius.  Verefore  shall  I  be  contcnt-a  ? 

Quick.  The  young  man  is  an  honest  man. 

Caius.  Vat  shall  do  honest  man  do  in  my  closet? 
dere  is  no  honest  man"^  dat  shall  come  in  my 
closet. 

Quick.  I  beseech  you  bo  not  so  liegmatick;  hear 
the  tnitli  of  it :  He  came  of  an  en'and  to  me  fi'om 
parson  Hugh. 

Caius.  Veil. 

Sim.  Ay,  forsooth,  to  desire  her  to — 

Quick.  Peace,  I  praj-  you. 

Ctiius.  Poaco-a  j'our  tongue; — Spoak-a  your  talc 

Sim.  To  desire  this  honest  gentlewoman,  youi 
maid,  to  speak  a  good  word  to  Mrs.  Anne  Page  for 
my  master,  in  the  way  of  marriage. 

Quick.  This  is  all,  indeed,  la;  but  I  'U  ne'er  pm 
my  finger  in  the  fii-e,  and  need  not. 

Caius.  Sir  Hugh send-a you?' — Eugby,  haillez  me 
some  paper :  Tany  you  a  littlc-a  while.     [  JJlites. 

Quick.  I  am  glad  he  is  so  quiet :  if  he  had  been 

throughly  moved,  you  should  have  heard  him  so 

loud  and  so  melancholy. — Eut  notmthstanding, 

man,  I  'U  do  for  your  master"  what  good  I  can: 

and  the  very  yea  and  the  no  is,  the  French  doctor. 

my  master, — I  may  call  him  my  master,  look  you 

for  I  keep  his  house ;  and  I  wash,  wring,  brew, 

bake,  scour,  dress  meat  and  drink,  make  the  beds, 

and  do  all  myself:  — 

83 


Acr  I. 


THE  MEHRY  WIYES  OF  WIiNDSOE. 


Sim.  'T  is  a  great  charge  to  come  under  one 
body's  hand. 

Quick.  Are  you  advis'd  o'  that  ? "  you  shall  find 
it  a  great  charge :  and  to  be  up  early  and  down 
late;— hut  notwithstanding,  (to  tell  you  in  your 
ear;  I  would  hare  no  words  of  it,)  my  master 
himself  is  in  love  with  mistress  Anne  Page :  but 
notwithstanding  that,  I  know  Anne's  mind, — that's 
neither  here  nor  there. 

Cuius.  You  jack 'nape;  give-a  dis  letter  to  sir 
Hugh ;  by  gar,  it  is  a  shallenge :  I  yiU  cut  his 
treat  ia  de  park;  and  I  tuI  teach  a  scurry  jack-a- 
nape  priest  to  meddle  or  make:'^ — you  may  be 
gone ;  it  is  not  good  you  tarry  here : — by  gar,  I 
viU  cut  all  his  two  stones ;  by  gar,  ho  shaU  not 
have  a  stone  to  throw  at  his  dog.  [_&tt  Sin. 

Quick  Alas,  he  speaks  but  for  his  friend. 
C'aius.  It  is  no  matter-a  vor  dat : — do  not  you 
tell-a  me  dat  I  shall  have  Anne  Page  for  myself? 
— by  gar,  I  vill  kill  de  Jack  priest ;  and  I  have 
appointed  mine  host  of  de  Jartcrre  to  measure  our 
weapon  : — ^by  gar,  I  vill  myself  have  Anne  Page. 
Quiclc.  Sii-,  the  maid  loves  you,  and  all  shall  he 
well :  we  must  give  folks  leave  to  prate :  "\Miat 
the  good-jer  '.^ 

Cains.  Eugby,  come  to  the  court  vid  me  : — 
By  gar,  if  I  have  not  Anne  Page,  I  shall  turn 
your  head  out  of  my  door: — FoUow  my  heehs, 
Eugby. 

\JExeunt  Caius  and  Eugbt. 
Quich  You  shall  have  An  fool's-head  of  your 
own.  Xo,  I  know  Anne's  mind  for  that:  never  a 
woman  in  Windsor  knows  more  of  Anne's  mind 
than  I  do :  nor  can  do  more  than  I  do  with  her,  I 
lliank  heaven. 

Font.  [TTiihin.']  Who's  within,  there?  ho! 
Quick.  Who's  there,  I  trow?     Come  near  the 
house,  I  pray  you. 
94 


pretty  mistress 

is  pretty,  and 
is  your  friend, 
I  praise  heaven 


Shall 


Enter  Peniok. 

Fe7tt.  How  now,  good  woman;  how  dost  thou? 

QuicL  The  better  that  it  pleases  your  good  wor- 
ship  to  ask. 

Feni.  "WTiat  news?  how  does 
Anne? 

Quick.  In  truth,  sir,  and  slie 
honest,  and  gentle;  and  one  that 
I  can  tcU  you  that  by  the  way; 
for  it. 

Fenf.  ShaU  I  do  any  good,  think'st  thou? 
I  not  lose  my  suit  ? 

Quick.  Troth,  sir,  all  is  ia.  His  hands  above:  but 
notwithstanding,  master  Peaton,  I  'U  be  sworn  on 
a  book,  she  loves  you: — Have  not  your  worship  a 
wart  above  your  eye? 

Fent.  Yes,  marry,  have  I ;  what  of  that  ? 

Quick.  "Well,  thereby  hangs  a  tale  ; — good  faith, 
it  is  such  another  Nan ; — ^but,  I  detest,^  an  honest 
maid  as  ever  broke  bread ; — We  had  an  hour's  talk 
of  that  wart : — I  shall  never  laugh  but  in  that 
maid's  company!  But,  indeed,  she  is  given  too 
much  to  aUicholy  and  musing:  But  for  you — 
Well,  go  to. 

Fcftt.  Well,  I  shaU  see  her  to-day.  Hold, 
there's  money  for  thee ;  let  me  have  thy  voice  in 
my  behalf:  if  thou  seest  her  before  me,  commend 
me. 

Quick.  Will  I  ?  i'  fixith,  that  I  will  f  and  I  will 
tell  your  worship  more  of  the  wart,  the  next  time 
we  have  confidence ;  and  of  other  wooers. 

Fent.  Well,  fai-eweU;  I  am  in  great  haste  now. 

■     [Fxit. 

Quick.  PareweU.  to  your  worship. — Truly,  an 

honest  gentleman;  but  Anno  loves  him  not;  for  I 

know  Anne's  mind  as  well  as  ancther-does  — On 

upon  't !  what  have  I  forgot  ?  [Frit 


ACT.  II, 


THE  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


sraarn  i. 


ACT   11. 


SCENE  l.—Be/oro  Page's  House. 

Enter  ITisteess  Page,  with  a  letter. 

Mrs.  Page.  What;  have  I  'scap'd  love-letters  ia 
the  holiday  time  of  my  beauty,  and  am  I  now  a 
Bubject  for  them?     Let  me  see  :  \Jleads. 

"  Ask  me  no  reagpu  why  I  love  you ;  for  though  Love  use 
reason  for  his  precisian,  ""he  admits  him  not  for  his  coun- 
Ei'Uor :  You  are  not  young,  no  more  am  I ;  go  to,  then, 
there's  S5Tnpathy :  you  a-o  merry,  so  am  I;  Ha!  ha! 
'ilion  there  's  more  sympathy  ;  you  love  sack,  and  so  do  I ; 
Would  you  desire  better  sympathy?  Let  it  suffice  thee, 
niisti'ess  Page,  (at  the  least,  if  the  love  of  soldier  can 
suffice,)  that  I  love  thee.  I  will  not  say,  pity  me,  't  ia 
not  a  soldier-Uke  phrase ;  but  I  say,  love  mo.     By  me, 

Thine  own  true  kniglit. 

By  day  or  night," 

Or  any  Idnd  of  light, 

With  all  his  might, 

For  thee  to  fight,  John  Falstaff." 

Wliat  a  Ilerod  of  Jewry  is  this! — 0  wicked, 
wicked  world ! — one  that  is  well  nigli  worn  to 
pieces  with  age,  to  show  liimseLf  a  young  gallant! 
What  an.  unweigbed  behaviour  hath  tliis  Flemish 
drunkard  pick'd  (with  the  devil's  name)  out  of  my 
eonvei-sation,  that  he  dares  in  tliis  manner  assay 
me?  Why,  he  hath  not  been  thrice  in  my  com- 
pany ! — ^What  should  I  say  to  him  ? — I  was  then 
frugal  of  my  mirth : — Heaven  forgive  me !  Wliy, 
I  '11  exliibit  a  bill  in  the  parliament  for  the  putting 
down  of  men."  How  shall  I  be  roveng'd  on  him? 
for  revcng'd  I  will  be,  as  sure  as  his  guts  are  made 
of  puddings. 

Unter  Mistress  Ford 

Mrs.  Ford.  Mistress  Page !  trust  me,  I  was  going 
to  your  house! 

Mrs.  Page.  And  trust  me  I  was  coming  to  you. 
You  look  very  ill. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Naj-,  I'U  ne'er  believe  that;  I  have 
io  show  to  the  conti'ary. 

Mrs.  Page.  'Faith,  but  you  do,  in  my  mind. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Well,  I  do,  then;  yet,  I  say,  I  could 


show  you  to  the  contrary.  0,  mistress  Pago,  givij 
me  some  counsel ! 

Mrs.  Page.  Wliat  's  the  matter,  woman  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  0  woman,  if  it  were  not  for  one 
trifling  respect,  I  could  come  to  such  honour! 

Mrs.  Page.  Hang  the  trifle,  woman ;  take  the 
honour.  What  is  it? — dispense  with  trifles; — wh.at 
is  it  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  If  I  would  but  go  to  hell  for  an 
eternal  moment  or  so,  I  could  be  knighted. 

Mrs.  Page.  What?  thou  liest ! — Sir  Ahco  Ford ! 
These  knights  wiU  hack;™  and  so  thou  shouldst 
not  alter  the  article  of  thy  gpntiy. 

Mrs.  Ford.  We  bum  daylight:" — here,  read, 
read : — perceive  how  I  might  be  knighted. — 1 
shall  think  the  worse  of  fat  men,  as  long  as  I 
have  an  eye  to  make  difference  of  men's  liking : 
And  yet  he  would  not  swear;  praised  women's 
modesty ;  and  gave  such  orderly  and  well-behaved 
reproof  to  all  uncomelincss, — that  I  would  have 
sworn  his  disposition  would  have  gone  to  the  truth 
of  his  words  :  but  they  do  no  more  adhere  and  keep 
place  together,  than  the  himdredth  psalm  to  the 
tune  of  'Green  Sleeves.'"  ^Miat  tempest,  I  trow, 
threw  this  whale,  with  so  many  tuns  of  oil  in  his 
belly,  ashore  at  AVindsor?  How  shall  I  be  re- 
venged on  him  ?  I  think  the  best  way  were  to 
entertain  him  with  hope,  tiU  the  ■n'ickcd  fire  of 
lust  have  melted  him  in  his  own  gi-ease. — Did  you 
ever  hear  the  like  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Letter  for  letter ;  but  that  the  name 

of  Page  and  Ford  differs ! — To  thy  great  comfcn 

in  this  mystery  of  iU  opinions,  here  's  the  tw'.n- 

brother  of  thy  letter :    but  let  tliine  inherit  first, 

for   I  protest,  mine  never  shall.     I  warrant  ho 

hath  a  thousand  of  these  letters,  '^  (sure  more,)  writ 

with  blank  space  for  different  names,  and  these  are 

of  the  second  edition :  He  will  print  them  out  ot 

doubt;  for  he  cares  not  what  he   puts   into    the 

press  when  he  would  put  us  two.     I  had  rathet 

be  a  giantess,  and  lie  under  moimt  PcHon.     WVH, 

I  will  find  you  twenty  lasci^-icus  turtles,  ere  one 

chaste  man. 

95 


ACT  II. 


THE  MEREY  ^IVES  OF    WINDSOR. 


Mrs.  Ford.  Wiy.,  this  is  tlie  very  same;  the 
very  hand,  the  very  words  :  A\Tiat  doth  he  think 
of  TIS? 

Mrs.  Page.  Nay,  I  know  not:  It  makes  me 
ahnost  ready  to  wrriigle  with  mine  own  honesty. 
I  '11  entertain  myself  like  one  that  I  am  not  ac- 
quainted withal;  for,  sure,  unless  he  know  some 
sti'ain''  in  me,  that  I  know  not  myself,  he  wonld 
never  have  boarded  me  in  this  fuiy. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Boarding,  call  you  it  ?  I  '11  be  sure 
to  keej)  him  above  deck. 

Mrs.  Page.  So  wiU  I ;  if  he  come  under  my 
hatches,  I'  11  never  to  sea  again.  Let 's  be  reveng'd 
on  him :  let 's  appoint  him  a  meeting ;  give  him  a 
bIiow  of  comfort  in  his  suit ;  and  lead  him  on 
^dth  a  fine  baited  delay,  till  he  liath  pawn'd  his 
horses  to  mine  host  of  the  Garter. 

Mrs.  Ford.  IS'ay,  I  will  consent  to  act  any  vil- 
lainy against  him,  that  may  not  sully  the  chari- 
ness of  our  honesty.  0,  that  my  husband  saw 
this  letter !  it  would  give  eternal  food  to  liis 
jealousy. 

Mrs.  Page.  "WTiy,  look,  where  he  comes;  and 
my  good  man  too  ;  he  's  as  far  from  jealousj-,  as  I 
am  from  giving  him  cause;  and  that,  I  hope,  is 
«n  unmeasurable  distance. 

Mrs.  Ford.  You  are  the  happier  woman. 

Mrs.  Page.  Let 's  consult  together  against  this 
^easy  knight :  Come  hither.  {Th^'J  retire. 

Enter  Fonn,  Pistol,  Page,  and  N"nr. 

Ford.  'W'ell,  I  hope  it  be  not  so.'' 

Pist.  Hope  is  a  curtail"  dog  in  some  afiairs  : 
lir  John  affects  thy  mfe. 

Ford.  A\liy,  sir,  my  ■wife  is  not  yoimg. 

Pist.  He  woos  both  high  and  low,  both  rich  and 
poor, 
Both  young  and  old,  one  with  another.  Ford  ; 
He  loves  the  gally-ma^vfiy ;  ™  Ford,  perpend. 

Ford.  Love  m.y  wife  ? 

Pist.  With  liver  buiTiing  hot :  Prevent,  or  go 
thou. 
Like  sir  Actteon  he,  with  Eingwood  at  thy  heels : — 
0,  odious  is  the  name. 

Ford.  What  name,  sir? 

Pist.  The  hora,  I  say :  Farewell. 
Talvc  heed ;  have  open  eye  ;  for  thieves  do  foot  by 

night : 
falio  heed,  o'-o  summer  comes,  or  cuckoo-birds  do 

tfl;lg.— 

,Vway,  nir  •  orpon3  xvyin. —  \_Aside  to  Page. 

liclievo  it,  Page;  ne  speaks  sense.      \_Exit  Vhtol. 
«6 


Ford.  I  will  ce  patient ;  I  will  find  out  this. 

^■^  Aside. 

Nym.  And  this  is  true ;  [to  Page.]  I  like  not 
the  humour  of  lying.  He  hath  wronged  me  in 
some  humours  :  I  sliould  have  borne  the  humoui'd 
letter  to  her ;  but  I  have  a  sword,  and  it  shall  bite 
upon  my  necessity.*'  He  loves  your  wife  ;  there's 
the  short  and  the  long.  My  name  is  corporal 
Nym ;  I  speak,  and  I  avouch  't  is  true : — my 
name  is  Nym,  and  Falstaff  loves  your  wife. — 
Adieu  !  I  love  not  the  himiour  of  bread  and  cheese. 
Adieu.  [_Exit  Nyii. 

Page.  "The  humour  of  it,"  quoth  'a!  here's  a 
fellow  frights  English  out  of  his  wits.*^ 

Ford.  I  will  seek  out  Falstaff. 

Page.  I  never  heard  such  a  drawling  affecting 
roguc.*^ 

Ford.  If  I  do  find  it,  weU  ! 

Page.  I  will  not  believe  such  a  Catalan,**  though 
the  priest  o '  the  to-mi  commended  him  for  a  true 
man. 

Ford.  'T  was  a  good   sensible  fellow:  Well) 

[Aside. 

Page.  How  now,  Meg  r 

Mrs.  Page.  A^liither  go  you,  George  ? — Hai'k 
you.  / 

Mrs.  Ford.  How  now,  sweet  Frank  ?  why  art 
thou  melancholy  ? 

Ford.  I  melancholy !  I  am  not  melancholy. — 
Get  you  home,  go. 

Mrs.  Ford.  'Faith,  thou  hast  some  crotchets  in 
thy  head  now. — WLU  you  go,  mistress  Page  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Have  with  you. — You  'U  come  to 
dinner,  George?  Look,  who  comes  yonder:  she 
shall  be  our  messenger  to  this  paltry  knight. 

[Aside  to  Mbs.  Ford. 

Enter  Mbs.  Quickly. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Trust  me,  I  thought  on  her :  she  '11 
fit  it. 

Mrs.  Page.  You  are  come  to  sec  my  daug-hter 
Anne? 

Qitich.  Ay,  forsooth.  And  I  pray,  how  does 
good  nu.«trcs3  Anne  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Go  in  with  us  and  see  ;  wc  have  an 
hour's  tallc  with  you. 
[Exeunt  Mrs.  Page,  Mrs.  Ford,  and  Mrs.  Qrics. 

Page.  How  now,  master  Ford  ? 

Ford.  You  heard  what  this  knave  told  me;  did 
you  not  ? 

Page.  Yes.  And  you  heard  what  tlie  other 
told  me  ? 


ACT  IJ. 


THE  MEKKY  WIVES  OE  WINDSOE. 


BCXR£  a. 


Ford.  Do  you  think  there  is  truth  in  them  ? 

Page.  Hang  'em,  slarcs ;  I  do  not  think  the 
knight  would  offer  it :  but  these  that  accuse  him 
in  liis  intent  towards  our  wives  are  a  yoke  of  liis 
discarded  men  :  very  rogues,  now  they  be  out  of 
service. 

Ford.  Were  they  his  men  r 

Paffe.  Marry  were  they. 

Ford.  I  like  it  never  the  better  for  that. — Docs 
he  lie  at  the  Gai-ter  ? 

Fui/e.  Ay,  marry,  does  he.  If  he  should  intend 
this  voyage  toward  my  wife,  I  would  turn  her 
loose  to  him ;  and  what  he  gets  more  of  her  than 
shai-p  words,  let  it  lie  on  my  head. 

Ford.  I  do  not  misdoubt  my  wife ; — but  I  would 
be  loth  to  tiUTi  them  together.  A  man  may  be  too 
confident :  I  would  have  nothing  He  on  my  head : 
I  cannot  be  thus  satisfied. 

Fage.  Look  where  my  ranting  host  of  the  Garter 
comes :  there  is  either  liquor  in  his  pate,  or  money 
in  his  purse,  when  he  looks  so  merrily. — How  now, 
mine  host  ? 

Fitter  Host  and  Shallow. 

ITost.  How  now,  bully-rook  ?  thou  '  rt  a  gentle- 
man :  cavalero-justice,*'  I  say  ! 

Shal.  I  follow,  mine  host,  I  follow. — Good  even 
and  twenty,*"  good  master  Page !  Master  Page, 
will  you  go  with  us  ?  we  have  sport  in  hand. 

Host.  Tell  him,  cavalero-justiee:  teU  him,  bully- 
rook. 

Slial.  Sir,  there  is  a  fray  to  be  fought  between 
sir  Hugh  the  "Welsh  priest  and  Caius  the  French 
doctor. 

Ford.  Good  mine  host  o'  the  Garter,  a  word  -n-ith 
you. 

Jlosi.  What  say"st  thou,  my  bully-rook  ? 

{_Th^i/  go  aside. 

Shal  Will  you  [to  Page]  go  with  us  to  be- 
hold it  ?  My  merry  host  hath  had  the  measuring 
of  their  weapons ;  and,  I  think,  hath  appointed 
them  contrary  places ;  for,  believe  me,  I  hear  the 
parson  is  no  jester.  Hark,  I  viiH  teU  you  what 
our  sport  shall  be.     '  {_TIieg  go  aside. 

Host.  Hast  thou  no  suit  against  my  knight,  my 
guest-cavaher  ? 

Ford.  l^Tone,  I  protest :  but  I  'U  give  you  a 
pottle  of  burnt  sack  to  give  me  recoirrse  to  him, 
and  tell  him  my  name  is  Brook :  ^  only  for  a  jest. 

ITost.  My  hand,  bully ;  thou  shalt  have  egress 
and  regress ;  said  I  well  ?  and  thy  name  shall  be 
Brook :  It  is  a  merry  knight.  WiU  you  go  on, 
sirs?** 

13 


Shal.  Have  with  you,  mine  host. 

Page.  1  have  heard  the  Frenchman  hath  gooj 
skill  in  liis  rapier. 

Shal.  Tut,  sir,  I  could  have  told  you  more  :  In 
these  times  you  stimd  on  distance,  your  passes 
stoccadoes,  and  I  know  not  what :  't  is  the  heart, 
master  Page ;  't  is  here,  't  is  here.  I  have  gceu 
the  time  witli  my  long  sword  I  would  have  made 
you  four  tall  fellows  skip  Kke  rats. 

ITost.  Here,  boys,  here,  here  !  sliall  we  wag  ? 

Page.  Have  with  you : — I  had  rather  hear  them 
scold  tlian  fight.     [Fxeunt  Host,  Seal,  and  Page. 

Ford.  Though  Page  be  a  secure  fool,  and  stands 
so  firmly  on  his  wife's  frailty,"'  yet  I  cannot  put 
off  my  opinion  so  easily :  she  was  in  his  company 
at  Page's  house ;  and  what  they  made  there  I  know 
not.  Well,  I  -noQ  look  further  into  't :  and  I  have 
a  disguise  to  sound  Falstaif.  If  I  find  her  honest, 
I  lose  not  my  labour ;  if  she  be  otherwise,  't  is 
labour  well  bestowed.  \_Frit. 

SCEXE  II. — A  Poom  in  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  Falsiatp  and  Pistol. 

Fal.  I  wiU  not  lend  thee  a  penny. 

Pist.  Wliy,  then  the  world's  mine  oyster 
"^Tiich  I  with  sword  will  open : — 
I  -will  retort  the  sum  in  equipage.*' 

Fal.  Not  a  penny.  I  have  been  content,  sir, 
you  should  lay  my  countenance  to  pawn :  I  have 
grated  upon  my  good  friends  for  tlu'ce  reprieves  for 
you  and  your  coach-fellow,"  Nym ;  or  else  you  had 
look'd  through  the  grate,  like  a  gominy  of  baboons. 
I  am  danin'd  in  hell  for  swearing  to  gentlemen  my 
fiiends  you  were  good  soldiers  and  tall  fellows ;  and 
when  mistress  Bridget  lost  the  handle  of  her  fan,  I 
took  't  upon  mine  honour  thou  hadst  it  not. 

Pist.  Didst  not  thou  share?  hadst  thou  not 
fifteen  pence  ? 

Fal.  Ecason,  you  rogue,  reason :  Think'st  thou 
I  '11  endanger  my  soul  gratis?  At  a  word,  hang 
no  more  about  me,  I  am  no  gibbet  for  you  : — go. 
— A  short  knife  and  a  tlirong ;  '^ — to  your  manor 
of  Pickt-hatch,*"  go. — You  '11  not  bear  a  letter  for 
me,  you  rogue  ! — You  stand  upon  your  honour 
— Why,  thou  unconfinable  baseness,  it  is  as  much 
as  I  can  do  to  keep  the  terms  of  my  honour  precise. 
I,  I,  I  myself  sometimes,  leaving  the  fear  of  hea- 
ven on  the  left  hand,  and  hiding  mine  honour  in 
my  necessity,  am  fain  to  shuffle,  to  hedge,  and  to 
lurch ;  and  yet  you,  rogue,  will  ensconce  your  rags, 
your  eat-a-mountain  looks,  your  red-lattice  plirases 


THE  MEEEY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOK. 


SCENE    B. 


ind  TO'ir  blunderbuss  oaths,"  under  the  shelter  of 
yom  iionour  !     You  mil  not  do  it,  you  ? 

Pid.  I  do  relent, 
tnon  ? 


"SMiat  -would  thou  more  of 


Enter  Eobik. 

Eob    Sir,  here  "s  a  woman  -would  speak  mth 
you. 
Fal.  Let  her  approach. 

Enter  Mks.  Quickly. 

Quick.  Give  your  -worship  good  mon-o-w. 

Ihl.  Good  morro-«-,  good  -wife. 

QiiicL  Not  so,  an  '  t  please  your  -worsliip. 

Fal.  Good  maid,  then. 

QuicL  I  '11  be  sworn; 

As  my  mother  was,  the  first  hour  I  was  born. 

Fa^.  I  do  believe  the  swearer.    What  -with  me  ? 

Qm'cJc.  Shall  I  vouchsafe  yo-ur  worship  a  word 
nr  two  ? 

Fa!.  Two  thousand,  fair  woman :  and  I  '  U 
vouchsafe  thee  the  hearing. 

Qinclc.  There  is  one  mistress  Ford,  sir ; — I  pray, 
come  a  little  nearer  this  ways: — I  myself  dweU 
with  master  doctor  C;uus. 

F((I.  Well,  one  mistress  Ford,'*  you  say, — 

Quick.  Your  worship  says  very  true :  I  pray 
voui-  worship,  come  a  little  nearer  this  ways. 

Fal.  I  waiTant  thee,  nobody  hears ; — mine  ovm 
people,  mine  own  people. 

Quick.  Are  they  so  ?  Heaven  bless  theln,  and 
make  them  his  servants  ! 

Fal.  \Vc]l :  mistress  Ford  ; — what  of  her  ? 

Quick.  Why,  sir,  she  's  a  good  crcatm-c.  Lord, 
Lord !  your  worship '  s  a  wanton  !  Well,  heaven 
forgive  you,  and  all  of  us,  I  pray ! 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford ; — come,  mistress  Ford, — 

Quick.  Marry,  this  is  the  short  and  the  long  of 
it ;  you  have  brought  her  into  such  a  canaries,""  as 
't  is  wonderful.  The  best  courtier  of  them  all, 
when  the  co-urt  laj'-  at  AYindsor,  could  never  have 
brought  her  to  such  a  canary.  Yet  there  has  been 
knights,  and  lords,  and  gentlemen,  -with  their 
coaches ;  I  warrant  you,  coach  after  coach,  letter 
after  letter,  gift  after  gift ;  smelling  so  sweetly  (all 
musk),  and  so  rasliling,  I  wan-ant  you,  in  silk  and 
gold;  and  in  such  aUigant  terms;  and  in  such 
wine  and  sugar  of  the  best,  and  the  fairest,  that 
would  have  won  any  woman's  heart ;  and,  I  war- 
rant you,  they  could  never  get  an  eye-wink  of  her. 
— I  had  myself  twenty  angels  gi\  en  mc  this  morn- 
ing ;  but  I  defy  all  angels,  (in  any  such  sort,  as 


they  say,)  but  in  the  -way  of  honesty:  —  and,    i 
warrant  you,  they  could  never  get  her  so  much  a.^ 
sip  on  a  cup  with  tlie  proudest  of  them  all :   anr 
yet  there  has  been,  earls,  nay,  which  is  more,  pen 
sioners;''  but,  I  warrant  you,  all  is  one  with  In 

Fal.  But  what  says  she  to  me  ?  be  brief,  i.i, 
good  she-Mercury. 

Quick,  ilarry,  she  hath  receiv'd  your  letter;  for 
the  which  she  thanks  you  a  thousand  times :  and 
she  gives  you  to  notily',  that  her  husband  -nill  be 
absence  from  his  house  between  ten  and  eleven. 

Fal.  Ten  and  eleven  ? 

Quick.  Aj-,  forsooth;  and  then  you  may  come 
and  see  the  picture,  she  says,  that  you  wot  nf ; 
master  Ford,  her  husband,  -will  be  from  home. 
Alas !  the  sweet  woman  leads  an  ill  life  -with  him ; 
lie  '  s  a  very  jealousy  man  :  she  leads  a  very  fi-am- 
pold™  life  with  him,  good  heart. 

Fal.  Ten  and  eleven.  Woman,  commend  mc  to 
her ;  I  will  nrt  faU  her. 

Quick.  Why,  you  say  well.  But  I  have  another 
messenger  to  your  worsliip :  Mistress  Page  hath 
her  hearty  commendations  to  you,  too ; — and  let  me 
tell  you  in  your  ear,  she '  s  as  fartuous  a  ci-vil  modes' 
■wife,  and  one  (I  tell  you)  that  -wiU  not  miss  yoi: 
morning  nor  evening  prayer,  as  any  is  in  AVindsni. 
whoe'er  be  the  other:  and  she  bade  me  te]l  your 
worship  that  her  husband  is  seldom  from  home ; 
but,  she  hopes,  there  will  come  a  time.  I  never 
knew  a  woman  so  dote  upon  a  man ;  surely,  I  think 
you  have  charms,  la;  yes,  in  truth. 

Fal.  Not  I,  I  assure  thee ;  setting  the  altractior 
of  my  good  parts  aside,  I  have  no  other  charms. 

Quick.  Blessing  on  your  heart  for  't  ! 

Fal.  But,  I  pray  thee,  tell  me  this :  has  Ford's 
-wife  and  Page's  -wife  acquainted  each  other  how 
they  love  me  ? 

Quick.  That  were  a  jest  indeed  ! — they  have 
not  so  little  grace,  I  hope : — that  were  a  trick 
indeed ! — But  mistress  Page  would  desire  you  to 
send  her  your  little  page,  of  all  loves : '°  her  hus- 
band has  a  marvellous  infection  to  the  little  page ; 
and,  truly,  master  Page  is  an  honest  man.  Never 
a  -wife  in  Windsor  leads  a  better  life  than  she  docii 
do  what  she  wUl,  say  what  she  will,  take  aU,  pay 
all,  go  to  bed  when  she  list,  rise  when  slie  list,  ru'l 
is  as  she  will;  and,  truly,  she  deserves  it  for  it 
there  bo  a  kind  woman  in  WinJsor,  she  is  cue. 
Y'ou  must  send  her  your  page ;  no  re  medy. 

Fal.  Wiy,  I  will. 

Quick.  Nay,  but  do  so  then :  and,  look  you,  be 
may  come  and  go  between  you  both  ;  and   in  imy 


» 


ACT  n. 


THE  MEKIIY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR 


SCENX  u 


vasii  have  a  nay-word,"'  that  you  may  Know  one 
UQotlicr's  mijid,  and  the  boy  never  need  to  under- 
stand anything;  for 't  is  not  good  that  children 
should  know  any  wickedness;  old  folk?,  you 
know,  have  discretion  as  they  say,  and  Icnow  the 
'.vorld. 

Fal.  Fare  thee  well :  commend  me  to  them  both : 

there  's  my  purse ;  I  am  yet  thy  debtor. — Boy,  go 

along  with  this  woman. — This  news  distracts  me! 

\_&cunt  Quickly  and  Eobin. 

Tist.  This  punk  is  one  of  Cupid"s  carriers : "" — 
Clap  on  more  sails ;  pursue ;  up  with  your  fights ; "° 
Give  fire !  she  is  my  prize,  or  ocean  whelm  them  all ! 

£j:it  Pistol. 

Fill.  Say'st  thou  so,  old  Jack?  go  thy  ways; 
I  'U  make  more  of  thy  old  body  than  I  have  done. 
Will  they  yet  look  after  thee?  Wilt  thou,  after 
the  expense  of  so  much  money,  bo  now  a  gainer  ? 
Good  body,  I  thank  thee !  Let  them  say,  't  is 
grossly  done ;  so  it  be  fairly  done,  no  matter. 

F?iter  Baedolph. 

Bard.  Sir  John,  there  's  one  master  Brook  below 
w  oidd  fain  speak  with  you,  and  be  acquainted  with 
you;  and  hath  sent  your  worship  a  morning's 
draiight  of  sack.'™ 

Fal.  Brook  is  his  nanie  ? 

JJard.  Ay,  sir. 

Fal.  CaU  him  in;  [_Fj:it  Bardolpii.]  Such 
Brooks  are  welcome  to  me,  that  o"erflow  such 
liquor.  Ah !  ah !  mistress  Ford  and  mistress  Page, 
have  I  encompass'd  you  ?  go  to ;  via  !  '°* 

Ee-enter  Bardolph,  mth  Fokd  disguised. 

Ford.  Bless  you,  sir. 

Fal.  And  you,  sir.    Would  you  speak  with  me  ? 

Furd.  I  make  bold  to  press  with  so  little  prepa- 
ration upon  you. 

Fal.  You  're  welcome.  What 's  your  will  ? 
Give  us  leave,  di-awer.  \_Fxit  Baedolph. 

Ford.  Sir,  I  am  a  gentleman  that  have  spent 
much ;  my  name  is  Brook. 

Fal.  Good  master  Brook,  I  desire  more  acquaint- 
ance of  you. 

Ford.  Good  sir  John,  I  sue  for  yours.:  not  to 
charge  you;  for  I  must  let  you  imderstand  I  think 
myself  In  better  plight  for  a  lender  than  you  are  : 
the  wliich  hath  something  embold'ned  me  to  this 
unseason'd  intrusion :  for  they  say,  if  money  go 
licfore,  all  ways  do  lie  open. 

Fal.  Money  is  a  good  soldier  sir  and  will  on. 


Ford.  Troth,  and  I  have  a  bag  of  money  hem 
troubles  me :  if  you  ^vill  help  to  bear  it,  sir  John, 
take  all,  or  half,  for  easing  me  of  the  carriage. 

Fal.  Sir,  I  know  not  how  I  may  deserve  to  be 
your  porter. 

Furd.  I  wiU  tell  you,  sir,  if  you  wiU  give  me 
the  hearing. 

Fal.  Speak,  good  master  Brook ;  I  snail  bo  glad 
to  be  your  servant. 

Ford.  Sir,  I  hear  you  arc  a  schohu-, — I  will  bo 
brief  with  you, — and  you  have  been  a  man  long 
known  to  me,  though  I  had  never  so  good  means, 
as  desire,  to  make  myself  acquainted  with  you.  I 
shall  discover  a  thing  to  you,  wherein  I  must  very 
much  lay  open  mine  own  imperfection  :  but,  good 
sir  John,  as  you  have  one  ej'e  upon  my  follies,  as 
you  hear  them  unfolded,  turn  another  into  the 
register  of  your  own ;  that  I  may  pass  with  a  re- 
proof the  easier,  sith""  you  yourself  know  how 
easy  it  is  to  be  such  an  offender. 

Ful.  Very  well,  sir ;  proceed. 

Ford.  There  is  a  gentlewoman  in  this  to\\'n,  her 
husband's  name  is  Ford. 

Fal.  WeU,  sir  ! 

Ford.  I  have  long  lov'd  her,  and,  I  protest  to 
you,  bestowed  much  on  her ;  followed  her  with  a 
doting  observance ;  engross'd  opportunities  to  meet 
her;  fee'd  every  slight  occasion  that  could  but 
niggardly  give  me  sight  of  her ;  not  only  bought 
many  presents  to  give  her,  but  have  giveu  largely 
to  many,  to  know  what  she  would  have  given  ;  "* 
briefly,  I  have  pursu'd  her  as  love  hath  piu-sued 
me,  which  hath  been  on  the  wing  of  all  occasions. 
But  whatsoever  I  have  merited,  either  in  my  mind, 
or  in  my  means,  meed,  I  am  sure,  I  have  received 
none;  imless  experience  be  a  jewel;  that  I  have 
purchased  at  aa.  infinite  rate  ;  and  that  hath  taught 
me  to  say  this : 

"  Love  like  a  shadow  flics,  •when  substance  love  pursues ; 
Pursmng  that  that  flies,""  and  flying  what  pui-sues." 

Fal.  Have  you  receiv'd  no  promise  of  satisfac- 
tion at  her  hands 

Ford.  Never. 

Fal.  Have  you  importun'd  her  to  such  a  pur- 
pose? 

Ford.  Never. 

Fal.  Of  what  quality  was  your  love,  then  t 

Ford.  Like  a  fair  house  built  on  another  man's 
ground ;  so  that  I  have  lost  my  edifice,  by  mis- 
taking the  place  where  I  erected  it. 

Fal.  To  what  ptirpose  have  you  tmfolded  thia 
to  me? 

09 


THE  MKKRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOK. 


Ford.  When  I  have  told  you  that,  I  have  told 
j-ou  aU.  Some  say^  that,  though  she  appear  honest 
to  mo,  yet,  in  olher  places,  she  enlargeth  her  mirth 
so  ftir  that  there  is  shi-ewd  construction  made  of 
her.  No-w,  sir  John,  here  is  the  heart  of  my  pur- 
pose :  Tou  are  a  gentleman  of  excellent  breeding, 
admirable  discourse,  of  great  admittance,""  authen- 
tic in  your  place  aiivi  poison,  generally  allow"d  for 
yoiu'  many  warlike,  court-like,  and  learned  prepa- 
rations. 

Fal.  0,  sir ! 

Ford.  Believe  it,  for  you  know  it : — There  is 
money  ;  spend  it,  spend  it ;  spend  more ;  spend  all 
I  have ;  only  give  me  so  much  of  your  time  in  ex- 
change of  it,  as  to  lay  an  amiable  siege  to  the 
honesty  of  this  Ford's  wife  :  use  your  art  of  woo- 
ing ;  win  her  to  consent  to  you ;  if  any  man  may, 
you  may  as  soon  as  any. 

Fal.  Would  it  apply  well  to  the  vehemency  of 
your  affection,  that  I  should  win  what  you  would 
enjoy  ?  Methinks,  you  prescribe  to  youi'self  very 
preposterously. 

Ford.  0,  understand  my  drift !  She  dwells  so 
securely  on  the  excellency  of  her  honour,  that  the 
foUy  of  my  soul  dares  not  present  itself;  she  is  too 
oright  to  bo  look'd  against.  Now,  could  I  come 
to  her  with  any  detection  in  my  hand,  my  desires 
liad  instance  and  argument  to  commend  them- 
selves :  I  could  drive  her  then  from  the  ward  of 
her  purity,  her  reputation,  her  marriage  vow,  and 
a  thousand  other  her  defences,  which  now  are  too- 
too  strongly  embattled  against  me.  AMiat  saj'  you 
to  't,  sir  John  ? 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  wiU  first  make  bold  ■n-ith 
your  money;  next,  give  me  your  hand  ;  and  last, 
as  I  am  a  gentleman,  you  shall,  if  j-ou  wUl,  enjoy 
Ford's  wife. 

Ford.  0  good  sii- 1 

Fal.  I  say  you  shall. 

Ford.  "Want  no  money,  sir  John,  you  shall  want 
none. 

Fal.  Want  no  mistress  Ford,  master  Brook,  you 
shaU  want  none.  I  sluiU  be  ■nith  her,  (I  may  tell 
you,)  by  her  own  appointment;  even  as  )-ou  came 
in  to  me,  her  assistant,  or  go-between,  pai-ted  fi'om 
mo.  I  say  I  shall  be  with  her  between  ten  and 
eleven  ;  for  at  tliat  time  the  jealous  rascally  knave, 
lior  husband,  will  be  forth.  Come  you  to  me  at 
night ;  you  shall  know  how  I  speed. 

Fard.  I  am  blcss'd  in  your  acquaintance.  Do 
you  know  Ford,  sir  ? 

Fal.  Hang  him,  pour  cuckoldly  knave  !  I  know 

100 


him  not : — yet  I  wrong  him  to  call  him  poor  ; 
they  say  the  jealous  wittolly  knave  hath  masses  o'. 
money;  for  the  which  his  wife  seems  to  me  weU 
favour'd.  I  will  use  her  as  the  key  of  the  cuckoldlj 
rogue's  coffer ;  and  there  's  my  harvest-home. 

Ford.  I  would  you  knew  Ford,  sir,  that  you 
might  avoid  him,  if  you  saw  him. 

Fal.  Hang  liim,  mechanical  salt-butter  rogue ! 
I  will  stare  him  out  of  his  wits ;  I  wUl  awe  him 
with  my  cudgel :  it  shall  hang  like  a  meteor  o'ei 
vhe  cuckold's  horns.  Master  Brook,  thou  shall 
know  I  will  predominate  over  the  peasant,  and 
thou  shalt  lie  with  his  wife. — Come  to  me  soon  at 
night : — Ford  's  a  knave,  and  I  will  aggravate  his 
style ; ""  thou,  master  Brook,  shalt  know  him  for 
knave  and  cuckold  : — come  to  me  soon  at  raght. 

lE.cU. 

Ford.  "^Tiat  a  damn'd  Epicurean  rascal  is  this  I — 
my  heart  is  ready  to  crack  with  impatience. — Who 
says  this  is  improvident  jealousy  ?  My  wife  hath 
sent  to  him,  the  hour  is  fix'd,  the  match  is  made. 
Would  any  man  have  thought  this  ? — See  the  hell 
of  having  a  false  woman !  My  bed  shall  be  abus'd, 
my  coffers  ransack'd,  my  reputation  gnawn  at ;  and 
I  shall  not  only  receive  this  villainous  wrong,  but 
stand  under  the  adoption  of  abominable  terms,  and 
by  him  that  docs  me  this  •«Tong.  Terms !  names  ! 
— Amaimon  soimds  well ; ""  Lucifer,  well;  Barba- 
son,  well ;  yet  they  are  de\-il'B  additions,  the  names 
of  fiends  I  but  cuckold !  wittol-cuckold !  the  devil 
himself  hath  not  such  a  name.  Page  is  an  ass,  a 
secure  ass !  he  wiU  trust  his  wife ;  he  will  not  be 
jealous.  I  will  rather  trust  a  Fleming  with  my 
butter,  parson  Hugh  the  W^elchman  with  my 
cheese,  an  Irishman  with  my  aqua-vitte  bottle,'" 
or  a  thief  to  walk  my  ambling  gelding,  than  my 
wife  with  herself:  then  she  plots,  then  she  rumi- 
nates, then  she  devises ;  and  what  they  think  in 
their  hearts  they  ma}-  effect,  they  will  brei'>k  tlicii 
hearts  but  they  wdll  effect.  Heaven  be  prais'd  foi 
my  jealousy ! — Eleven  o'clock  the  hour. — I  v.-ill 
prevent  this,  detect  my  wife,  be  reveng'd  on  Fal- 
staff,  and  laugh  at  Page.  I  wiU  about  it ;  bettei 
three  houi's  too  soon  than  a  minute  too  late  Fie 
fie,  flc !  cuckold !  cuckold !  cuckold !  [  F.t  if 

SCENK  III.— Afield  near  Windsor. 
Enter  Caius  and  Enenr. 

Caius.  Jack  Rugby ! 

Piug.  Sir. 

Caius.  Vat  is  de  clock,  Jack? 


AOI    II. 


THE  MERRY  WIVES  OE  WLSDSOK. 


8CSNB  m. 


Rug.  "T  is  past  the  hour,  sir,  that  sir  Hugh 
promis'd  to  meet. 

Cuius.  By  gar,  Le  has  save  his  soul,  dat  he  is  no 
forao  ;  ho  has  pray  his  Piblc  veil,  dat  he  is  no 
come ;  hy  gar,  Jack  Rugby,  he  is  dead  already  if 
lie  be  come. 

Rufjf.  He  is  -wise,  sir;  he  knew  your  worship 
would  kill  him,  if  he  came. 

Cci'iis.  By  gar,  de  herring  is  no  dead  so  as  I  vlll 
kiU  liim.  Take  your  rapier,  Jack ;  I  vill  tell  you 
how  I  vill  kill  him. 

Ji:<ff.  Alas,  sir,  I  cannot  fence. 

C'aiiis.  YOlainy,  take  your  rapier. 

Bui;/.  Forbear;  here 's  company. 

Unter  Host,  Shailow,  Slender,  and  Page. 

Host.  'Bless  thee,  bully  doctor. 

Shal.  Save  you,  master  doctor  Caius. 

Page.  'Now,  good  master  doctor. 

Sleii.  Give  you  good-raon-ow,  sir. 

C/n'tcs.  Vat  be  all  you,  one,  two,  tree,  four,  come 
for  .> 

Host.  To  see  thee  fight,  to  see  thee  foin,"-  to  see 
thee  traverse ;  to  see  thee  here,  to  see  thee  there  ; 
to  see  thee  pass  thy  punto,  thy  stock,  thy  reverse, 
(hy  distance,  thy  monfant.  Is  he  dead,  my  Ethi- 
opian ?  is  he  dead,  my  Francisco  ?  ha,  bully ! 
Wliat  says  ray  ^sculapius  ?  my  Galen  ?  my  heart 
of  elder  ?  ha  !  is  he  dead,  bully  Stale  ?  is  he  dead  ? 

Caius.  By  gar,  he  is  de  coward  Jack  priest  of  de 
vorld ;  he  is  not  show  his  face. 

Host.  Thou  art  a  Castilian,'"  king  Urinal  I  Hec- 
tor of  Greece,  my  boy ! 

Caius.  I  pray  you,  bear  vitness  that  me  have 
stay  six  or  seven,  two,  tree  hours  for  him,  and  he 
is  no  come. 

Shal.  He  is  the  wiser  man,  master  doctor :  he 
is  a  curer  of  souls,  and  you  a  curor  of  bodies ;  if  you 
should  fight,  you  go  against  the  hair  of  your  pro- 
fessions :  is  it  not  time,  master  Pago  ? 

Far/e.  Master  Shallow,  you  have  yourself  been  a 
great  fighter,  though  now  a  man  of  peace. 

ShaJ.  Bodykins,  master  Page,  though  I  now  be 
old,  and  of  the  peace,  if  I  see  a  sword  out,  my  finger 
itches  to  make  one :  though  we  are  justices,  and 
'loctors,  and  churchmen,  master  Page,  we  ha^e 
some  salt  of  our  youth  in  u? ;  we  arc  the  sons  of 
(vomon,  master  Page. 

Pflj/e    'T  is  true,  master  Shallow. 

Sf/iL  It  will  bo  found  so,  master  Page.    Blaster 


doctor  Caius,  I  am  come  to  fetch  you  home.  I  am 
sworn  of  the  peace;  you  have  show'd  yourself  a 
wise  pliysician,  and  sir  Hugh  hath  shown  himseli' 
a  \vise  and  patient  churchman  .  Y«u  must  go  with 
me,  master  doctor. 

Host.  Pai'don,  guest-justice : — ah,  monsicui 
Mock- water.'" 

Caius.  Mock-vater !  vat  is  dat  ? 

Host.  Mock-water,  in  our  English  tongue,  is 
valour,  bully. 

Caius.  By  gar,  then  I  have  as  much  mock-vater 
as  do  Englishman: — Scurvy  jack-dog  priest!  by 
gar,  me  vill  cut  his  cars. 

Host.  He  win  clapper-claw"'  thee  tightly, 
bully. 

Caius.  Clapper-de-claw !  vat  is  dat .' 

Host.  That  is,  he  ^vill  make  thee  amends. 

Cains.  By  gar,  me  do  look  he  shall  clapper-de- 
claw  me;  for,  by  gar,  me  viU  have  it. 

Host.  And  I  will  provoke  him  to  't,  or  let  him 
wag. 

Cuius.  Me  tank  you  for  dat. 

Host  And,  moreover,  bully, — iJut  first,  master 
justice  guest,'"'  and  master  Page,  and  eke  cavalcra 
Slender,  go  you  tlirough  the  town  to  Frograore. 

[_Aside  to  them. 

Page.  Sir  Hugh  is  there,  is  lie  r 

Host.  He  is  there :  see  what  humour  he  is  in ; 
and  I  will  bring  the  doctor  about  by  the  fields : 
will  it  do  well  ? 

Shal.  AVe  \^-ill  do  it. 

Page,  Shal.,  and  Slen.  Adieu,  good  master  doctor. 
\_Exeunt  Page,  Shal,  and  Slen. 

Cuius.  By  gar,  me  vill  kiU  de  priest ;  for  he 
speak  for  a  jack-an-ape  to  Anne  Page. 

Host.  Let  him  die :  sheathe  thy  impatience ; 
throw  cold  water  on  thy  choler:  go  about  the 
fields  with  nie  through  Frogmore;  I  ■will  bring 
thco  where  mistress  Ann  Page  is,  at  a  farm-house, 
a  feasting :  and  thou  shalt  woo  her.  Cried  I  aim : '" 
said  I  well  ? 

Caius.  By  gar,  me  dank  you  vor  dat :  b}'  gar,  1 
love  you ;  and  I  shall  procurc-a  you  de  good 
guest,  de  earl,  de  knight,  de  lords,  de  gentlemen 
my  patients. 

Host.  For  the  which  I  will  be  thy  adversary 
toward  Anne  Page ;  said  I  well  ? 

Caius.  By  gar, 't  is  good ;  veil  .■'.aid. 

Host.  Let  us  wag,  then. 

Caius.  Come  at  my  heels,  Jack  Rugby,    \_lixount 

101 


iL'X  ru. 


TILE  MEEKY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOK. 


saurs.  t 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I. —Afield  fiear  Frogmore. 

E?iter  Sir  Hugh  Etans  and  SnrPLE. 

Uvii.  I  pray  you  noTV,  good  master  Slender"  s 
Berving-man,  and  friend  Simple  by  yoiir  name, 
wliieh  way  have  you  look'd  for  master  Caius,  that 
calls  himself  doctor  of  physic  ? 

Sim.  Marry,  sir,  the  Petty-ward,  the  Park- 
ward,"'  eveiy  way;  old  Windsor  way,  and  every 
way  but  the  town  way. 

J^ra.  I  most  fehemontly  desire  you,   you  will 
Iso  look  that  way. 
Sim.  I  will,  sir. 

Era.  Pless  mj'  soul !  how  full  of  cholers  I  am, 
and  ti'empling  of  mind  ! — I  shall  be  glad  if  he  have 
deceived  me : — how  melancholies  I  am !  I  will 
^nog  liis  urinals  about  his  loiave's  costard,  -nhen  I 
have  good  opportunities  for  the  'ork — pless  mj- 
3ouL!  \_Sinffs. 

To  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls '^^ 
JNlt'lndious  birds  sing  niatii-i^als  : 
There  wWl  '.ve  make  our  pcds  of  roses, 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies. 
To  shallow — 

ifercy  on  me !  I  have  a  great  dispositions  to  cry. 

Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals: 
AVhenas  I  sat  in  I'abylon  —  ■•" 
And  a  thousand  vagrtm  posies. 
To  shallow — 

Sim.  Yonder  lie  is  coming,  this  way,  sir  Hugh. 

£ia.  He  's  welcome : 

To  shallow  rivers,  to  whoso  falls,— 
Heaven  prosper  the  right! — AMiat  weapons  is  he? 

Sim.  No  weapons,  sir :  There  comes  my  master, 
master  Shallow,  and  another  gentleman  from  Frog- 
more,  over  tlie  stile,  this  way. 

£r(i.  Tniy  you,  give  me  my  gown;  or  else  keep 
"t  in  your  arms. 

Enter  P.\oE,  Su.vLLow,  and  Slendkk. 

Sluil.   iiov.'  now,  masti-r  jiarsou  ?    Good  morrow, 

good  sir  Ilunh.      Keep  a  gamester  from  the  dice, 
li>' 


and  a  good  student  from  his  book,  and  it  is  won 
derful. 

Sk}i.  Ah,  sweet  .iVnnc  Page  ! 

Pai/e.  Save  you,  good  sir  Hugh ! 
I      Eiii.    Pless  you  fi-om  his  mercy  sake,   all  ol 
i  you : 

j      Shal.  "V\Tiat !  the  sword  and  the  word ;  do  you 
j  study  tliem  both,  master  parson  ? 

Faffe.  And  youthful  still,  in  your  doublet  and 
hose,  this  raw  rheumatic  day  ? 

Eva.  There  is  reasons  and  causes  for  it. 

Paffe.  We  are  come  to  you  to  do  a  good  office, 
master  parson. 

Em.  Ferry  well :  What  is  it  ? 

Paffe.  Y''ondcr  is  a  most  reverend  gentleman, 
who  beUke,  haWng  received  wrong  by  some  p-rr 
son,  is  at  most  odds  with  his  own  gravity  auci 
patience,  that  ever  you  saw. 

Shal.  I  have  lived  fourscore  years  and  upward ; 
I  ne^'cr  heard  a  man  of  his  place,  gravity,  and 
learning,  so  wide  of  his  own  respect. 

Ei-a.  "What  is  ho  ? 

Faije.  I  think  you  kduw  him ;  master  doctor 
Caius,  the  reno^A-ned  Irench  physician. 

Era.  Got's  wiU,  and  his  passion  of  my  heart ! 
I  had  as  lief  you  would  teU  me  of  a  mess  of  por- 
ridge. 

Faf/e.  Why? 

Era.  He  has  no  more  knowledge  in  Hibocrates 
and  Galen, — and  he  is  a  knave  besides ;  a  cowardly 
luiave,  as  you  would  desires  ro  be  acquainted 
withal. 

Paqc.  I  warrant  you,  he  's  tlie  man  should  fight 
with  him. 

Skn.  0,  sweet  Anne  Page ! 

S/ial.  It  appears  so,  by  his  weapons : — Keep 
them  asunder ; — here  comes  doctor  Caius. 

EitUr  Host,  Caics,  and  Eugby. 

Pago.  Nay,  good  master  parson,  keep  in  your 
weapon. 

Shal.  So  do  you,  good  master  doctor. 

ITost.  Disann  them,  and  let  them  question  ;  let 


THE  MEIUIY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOE. 


6CEN£    11. 


tlicra   keep   their    limbs    wholo,    and    hack    our 
English. 

Caitts.  I  jiray  you  lot-a  mo  speali  a  word  vit 
your  ear.    Vercforo  vill  you  not  mcet-a  me  ? 

Eva.  Pray  you,  use  your  patience :  in  good 
imo. 

Cains.  By  gar,  you  are  de  coward,  de  Jack  dog, 
John  ape. 

Eva.  Pray  you,  let  us  not  be  laughing-stogs  to 
other  men's  humours ;  I  desire  you  in  friendship, 
and  I  will  one  way  or  other  make  you  amends : — 
I  will  knog  your  urinal  about  your  knave's  cogs- 
comb  for  missing  your  meetings  and  appoint- 
ments. 

Cains.  Diablo .' — Jack  Eugby, — mine  host  de  Jar- 
terre,  have  I  not  stay  for  him,  to  kiU  him  ?  have  I 
not,  at  de  place  I  did  appoint? 

Eta.  As  I  am  a  Chiislians  soul,  now,  look  you, 
this  is  the  place  appointed;  I  'U  bo  judgment  by 
mine  host  of  the  Garter. 

Host.  Peace,  I  say,  Gallia  and  Wallia ;  '■'  French 
and  Welch ;  soul-curer  and  body-curer. 

Caius.  Ay,  dat  is  very  good !  excellent ! 

Host.  Peace,  I  say;  hear  mine  host  of  the 
Garter.  Am  I  politic  ?  am  I  subtle  ?  am  I  a 
Machiavel  ?  Shall  I  lose  my  doctor  ?  no ;  he  gives 
me  the  potions,  and  the  motions.  Shall  I  lose  my 
parson  ?  my  priest  ?  my  sir  Hugh  ?  no  ;  he  gives 
me  the  proverbs  and  the  novorbs. — Give  me  thy 
hand,  terrestial ;  so : — Give  me  thy  hand,  celes- 
tial; so. — Boys  of  art,  I  have  dcceiv'd  you 
both  ;  I  have  directed  you  to  wrong  places  ;  your 
hearts  are  mighty,  your  skins  are  whole,  and  let 
burnt  sack  be  the  issue. — Come,  lay  their  swords 
to  pawn  : — Follow  me,  lad  of  peace ;  follow,  follow, 
follow. 

Shal.  Trast  me,  a  mad  host : — FoUow,  gentle- 
men, foUow. 

Sim.  0,  sweet  Anne  Page  ! 

\_Exeunt  Shai.,  Slex.,  Page,  and  Host. 

Caius.  Ha !  do  I  perceive  dat  ?  have  you  make-a 
de  sot'-  of  us  ?  ha,  ha  ! 

Eva.  This  is  well ; '  he  has  made  us  his  vlouting- 
Btog. — I  desire  you  that  we  may  be  fiiends ;  and 
let  us  knog  our  prains  together,  to  be  revenge  on 
this  same  scaU,  scurvy,  cogging  companion,  the 
Lost  of  the  Garter. 

Caius.  By  gar,  vit  all  my  heart ;  ho  promise  to 
bring  me  vore  is  Anne  Page ;  by  gar,  he  deceive 
me  too. 

Eva.  WeU,  I  will  smite  his  noddles: — Pray 
you,  follow.  [Exeu7ii. 


SCENE  II.— 77(fl  Street,  in  W.ndior. 

Enter  Mistress  Page  and  Eobin. 

Mrs.  Page.  Nay,  keep  your  way,  little  gallant; 
you  were  wont  to  be  a  follower,  but  now  you  arfl 
a  leader :  Whether  had  you  rather  lead  mine  eyes, 
or  eye  your  master's  heels  ? 

Iloh.  I  had  rather,  forsooth,  go  before  you  like  o 
man,  than  follow  him  like  a  dwarf. 

Mrs.  Page.  0  you  arc  a  flattering  boy ;  now,  I 
see  you  'U  be  a  courtier. 

Enter  Ford. 

Ford.  We'd  met,  mistress  Page :  Whither  go 
you  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Truly,  sir,  to  see  your  wife ;  Is  she 
at  home  ? 

Ford.  Ay ;  and  as  idle  as  she  may  hang  toge- 
ther, for  want  of  company.  I  think  if  your  hus- 
bands were  dead,  you  two  woidd  marry. 

Mrs.  Page.  Be  sure  of  that, — two  other  hus- 
bands. 

Ford.  "\Miere  had  you  tliis  pi-etty  weatliorcock  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  I  cannot  tell  what  the  dickens  lue 
name  is  my  husband  had  him  of.  "\Miat  do  you 
call  your  knight's  name,  sirrah  ? 

Bob.  Sir  Jolm  Fulstaff. 

Ford.  Sir  John  Falstaff ! 

Mrs.  Page.  He,  he  ;  I  can  never  liit  on  's  name 
— There  is  such  a  league  between  my  good  man 
and  he  ! — Is  your  mfo  at  home,  indeed  ? 

Ford.  Indeed,  she  is. 

Mrs.  Page.  By  your  leave,  sir : — I  am  sick  till 
I  see  her.  \_Exeunt  llns.  Page  and  PiOeix. 

Ford.  Has  Page  any  brains  :  hath  he  an)"  eyes  ? 
hath  he  any  thinking  ?  Sure,  they  sleep  ;  lie  hath 
no  use  of  them.  "\Miy,  this  boy  will  carry  a  letter 
twenty  mile,''^  as  easy  as  a  cannon  wUl  shoot  poiut- 
blank  twelve  score.  He  pieces  out  his  wife's  in- 
clination; he  gives  her  foUy  motion  and  advan- 
tage :  and  now  she  's  going  to  my  wife,  and 
Falstaff  's  boy  -n-ith  her.  A  man  may  hear  this 
show'r  sing  in  the  wind  I — and  FalstafTs  boy  ■n'ith 
lier!— Good  plots !— they  are  laid;''^  and  our 
revolted  -n-ives  share  damnation  together.  Well , 
I  wiU  take  him,  then  tortm-o  my  wife,  pluck  the 
borrowed  veil  of  raodestv-  from  the  so  seemijig 
mistress  Page,  dividge  Page  himself  for  a  secure 
and  wilful  Aotaeon;  and  to  these  violent  pro- 
ceedings all  my  neighboui-s  shall  cry  aim.  yCloch 
strikes.']  The  clock  gives  me  niy  cue,  and  my 
assurance  bid*"  me  search  :  There  I  shall  find  Fal- 

loa 


ACT  in. 


THE  MEREY  WIVES  OF  WLNUSUli. 


SCENE    lU 


Staff :  I  shall  be  rather  prais'd  for  this  than  mock'd ; 
for  it  is  as  positive  as  the  earth  is  firm'^  that  Fal- 
BtafF  is  there  :  I  vrUl  go. 

Enter  Page,  Shallow,  Slexbes,  Eost,  Sik  Hugh 
Evans,  Cajus,  and  Eugbt. 

Shal.  Page,  Sec.  Well  met,  master  Ford. 

Ford.  Trust  me,  a  good  knot :  I  have  good 
cheer  at  home  ;  and,  I  prpy  you  aU  go  with  me. 

Sltal.  I  must  excuse  myself,  master  Ford. 

Slcn.  And  so  must  I,  sir  ;  we  have  appointed  to 
dine  with  mistress  Anne,  and  I  would  not  break 
^ith  her  for  more  money  than  I  'U  speak  of. 

Slid.  We  have  Ungerd  about  a  match  between 
Anne  Page  and  my  cousin  Slender,  and  this  day 
we  shall  have  our  answer. 

Slen.  I  hope  I  have  your  good  wiU,  father 
Page. 

Page.  You  have,  master  Slender ;  I  stand 
whoUy  for  you  :  — but  my  'n-ife,  master  doctor,  is 
for  you  altogether. 

Cairn.  Ay,  by  gar  ;  and  de  maid  is  love-a  me  : 
my  nursh-a  Quickly  tell  me  so  mush. 

Host.  "Wliat  say  you  to  young  master  Fenton  ? 
he  capers,  he  dances,  he  has  eyes  of  youth,  he 
wiites  verses,  he  speaks  holiday,"'  he  smells  April 
and  May  :  he  will  carry  "t,  he  will  carry  't ;  't  is 
in  his  buttons;  he  will  carry  't. 

Page.  Not  by  my  consent,  I  promise  you.  The 
gentleman  is  of  no  having ; '-'  he  kept  company 
isath  the  wild  prince  and  Pointz ;  '^'  he  is  of  too 
higli  a  region;  he  knows  too  much.  No,  he  shall 
not  laiit  a  knot  in  his  fortunes  with  the  finger  of 
my  substance  ;  if  he  take  her,  let  him  take  her 
simph- ;  the  wealth  I  have  waits  on  my  consent, 
and  my  consent  goes  not  that  way. 

Ford.  I  beseech  you,  heartily,  some  of  you  go 
home  with  me  to  dinner  :  besides  your  cheer,  you 
shall  have  sport ;  I  will  sliow  you  a  monster. — 
Master  doctor,  you  shall  go  ; — so  shall  you,  master 
Page  ; — and  you,  sir  Hugh. 

Shal.  Well,  fare  you  well : — we  sliall  liave  the 
freer  wooing  at  master  Page's. 

\_Exeunt  SnAL.  snd  Sles. 

Cairn.  Go  home,  John  Paigby  ;  I  come  anon. 

[Exit  EUGBY. 

IFost.  Farewell,  my  hearts  :  I  will  to  my  honest 
knight  Falstiiff,  and  diink  canary  with  liini.--' 

\^Exit  Host. 

Ford.  \_Af:ide.'\  I  think  I  sliaU  drink  in  pipe- 
line fii'st  with  him  ;  I  '11  make  him  dance.  Will 
you  go,  gentles  ? 


All.  Have  with  you,  to  see  tliis  monster. 

[Exeunt 

SCEKE  III  — ^  Room  in  Ford's  Eome. 

Enter  ITes.  Foed  and  Mes.  Page. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What,  John  !  What,  Eobert ! 
Mrs.  Page.    Quickly,    quickly :     Is   the   buck- 
basket — 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  warrant : — What,  Eobin,  I  say  ! 

Enter  Servants,  with  a  basket. 

Mrs.  Page.  Come,  come,  come. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Here,  set  it  down. 

Mrs.  Page.  Give  your  men  the  charge ;  we  must 
be  brief. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Marry,  as  I  told  you  before,  John, 
and  Eobert,  be  ready  here  hai-d  by  in  the  brew- 
house  ;  and  when  I  suddenly  call  j'ou,  come  forth, 
and  (without  any  pause  or  staggeiing)  take  this 
basket  on  your  shoidders  :  that  done,  trudge  with 
it  in  all  haste,  and  carry  it  among  the  whitsters''' 
in  Datehet  mead,  and  there  empty  it  in  the  muddj 
ditch,  close  by  the  Thames  side. 

Mrs.  Page.  You  ■will  do  it? 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  ha'  told  them  over  and  over ; 
they  lack  no  direction  :  Be  gone,  and  come  when 
you  are  call'd.  [^Exeunt  Servants. 

Mrs.  Page.  Hero  comes  little  Eobin. 

Fnter  Eobin. 

Mrs.  Ford.  How  now,  my  eyas-mus'set  ? '" 
what  news  with  }-ou  ? 

Pol.  My  master,  sir  John,  is  come  in  at  yout 
back  door,  mistress  Ford  ;  and  requests  your  com- 
pany. 

Mrs.  Page.  You  little  Jack-a-Lcnt,"-  have  you 
been  true  to  us  ? 

Pob.  Ay,  I  'U  be  sv.-orn  :  My  master  knows  not 
of  your  being  here;  and  hath  threat'ned  to  put 
me  into  everlasting  liberty  if  I  tcU  you  of  it :  for, 
he  swears,  he  '11  turn  me  away. 

Mrs.  Page.  Thou  'rt  a  good  boy ;  this  secresy  oi 
thine  shall  be  a  tailor  to  thee,  and  shall  make  thcc 
a  new  doublet  and  hose.     I  '11  go  hide  me. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Do  so  : — Go  IcU  thy  master  I  am 
alone.     Mistress  Page,  remember  you  your  cue. 

\_Exit  Eobin 

Mrs.  Page.  I  warrant  thcc ;  if  I  do  not  act  it, 
hiss  me.  l_E.i:it  Mks.  Page. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Go  to  then-    wo   '11   use   tliia  un- 


I 


ACi  m. 


TILE  MEllKY  WIVES  OF  WIXDSOE. 


BCUSK 


ifLolesome  humidity,  tliia  gross  wat'ry  piunpion. 
We  '11  teach  him  to  know  turtles  from  jays. 

IJider  Falstaff. 

I'al.  Have  I  caught  thee,  my  heavenly  jewel  ? "' 
Why,  now  let  mo  die,  for  I  have  liv'd  long  enough  ; 
tliis  is  the  period  of  my  ambition.  0  this  blessed 
hour ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  0  sweet  sir  John  ! 

Fell.  Mistress  Ford,  I  cannot  cog,"*  I  cannot 
prate,  misti-css  Ford.  Now  shall  I  sin  in  my  wish  : 
I  woiild  thy  liusband  were  dead.  I  'U  speak  it 
before  the  best  lord,  I  would  make  thee  my  lady. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  your  lady,  sir  Jolm  !  alas,  I  should 
be  a  pitiful  lady. 

Fal.  Let  the  court  of  France  show  me  such 
another.  I  see  how  thine  eye  would  emulate  the 
diamond  :  Thou  liast  the  right  arched  beauty  of 
the  brow,  that  becomes  the  sliip-tire,"*  the  tire- 
valiant,  or  any  tire  of  Venetian  admittance. 

Mrs.  Ford.  A  plain  kerchief,  sir  John :  my  brows 
become  nothing  else ;  nor  that  wcU  neither. 

Fal.  Thou  art  a  tj'rant  to  say  so  :  thou  wouldst 
make  an  absolute  courtier  ;  and  the  firm  fixture  of 
tliy  foot  would  give  an  excellent  motion  to  thy 
;ait,  in  a  semicirclcd  forthingale.  I  see  what  thou 
wcrt,  if  Fortune  thy  foe  were  not.  Nature  tliy 
friend:  '^  Come,  thou  canst  not  hide  it. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Believe  me,  there  's  no  such  thing 
in  me. 

Fal.  Wliat  made  me  love  thee  ?  let  that  persuade 
thee  there  's  something  extraordinary  in  thee. 
Come,  I  cannot  cog,  and  say  thou  art  this  and 
that,  like  a  many  of  tlicse  lisping  hawthorn-buds, 
that  come  like  women  iu  men's  apparel,  and  smeU 
hke  Bucklersbury  in  simple-time  : "'  I  cannot : 
but  I  love  thee ;  none  but  thee ;  and  thou  de- 
aerv'st  it. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Do  not  betray  me,  sir.  I  fear  you 
love  mistress  Page. 

Fal.  TIiou  mightst  as  well  say  I  love  to  walk  by 
the  Coimter-gate ;  which  is  as  hateful  to  me  as  the 
reek  of  a  lime  lull."' 

3Irs.  Ford.  Well,  heaven  knows  how  I  love 
you  ;  and  j-ou  shall  one  day  find  it. 

Fal.  Keep  in  that  mind ;  I  'U  deserve  it. 

Jfrs.  Ford.  Nay,  I  must  teU  you,  so  you  do  ; 
i>r  else  I  coidd  not  be  in  that  mind. 

Rob.   {^within.']   ilistress  Ford,   mistress  Ford ! 

h3rc  's  mistress  Page  at  the  door,  sweating,  and 

blowing,    ;inl  looking  wildly,   and  woiild  needs 

-peak  with  you  presently, 
u 


Fal.  She  shall  not  .sec  me  ;  I  ^rill  ensconce  rae 
behind  the  arras."' 

Mrs.  Ford.  Pray  you,  do  so :  she  's  a  rery  tat- 
tling woman.  LFalsiatf  hidia  Jtimst-lJ 

Enter  Mistress  Page  and  Kobi.v. 
What 's  tlie  matter  ?  how  now  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  0  mistress  Ford,  what  liavo  you 
done?  You  're  sham'd,  you're  overthown,  j'ou'ro 
imdone  for  ever. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What's  the  matter,  good  roietress 
Page? 

Mrs.  Paye.  0  weU-a-day,  mistress  Ford !  having 
an  honest  man  to  your  husband,  to  give  him  such 
cause  of  suspicion! 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  cause  of  suspicion  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  What  cause  of  suspicion? — Out  upon 
you !  how  am  I  mistook  in  you ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  alas!  what's  the  matter? 

Mrs.  Page.  Your  husband 's  coming  hither,  wo- 
man, with  all  tlie  officers  in  Windsor,  to  search  for 
a  gentleman  that,  he  says,  is  here  now  in  the  house, 
by  your  consent,  to  take  an  Ul  advantage  of  his     j 
absence  :  you  are  imdone. 

Mrs.  Ford.  'T  is  not  so,  I  hope. 

Mrs.  Page.  Pray  heaven  it  be  not  so,  that  you 
have  such  a  man  here;  but't  is  most  certain  yoiu 
husband 's  coming,  with  half  Windsor  at  his  heels, 
to  search  for  such  a  one.  I  come  before  to  tell 
you.  If  you  know  yourself  clear,  wliy,  I  am  glad 
of  it:  but  if  you  have  a  friend  here,  convey, 
convey  him  out.  Be  not  amaz'd;  call  aU  your 
senses  to  you;  defend  your  reputation,  or  bid  fare 
well  to  yoiu-  good  life  for  ever. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  shall  I  do  ? — There  is  a  gentle- 
man, my  dear  friend;  and  I  fear  not  mine  o\vn 
shame  so  much  as  his  peril :  I  had  rather  than  a 
thousand  pounds  he  were  out  of  the  house. 

Mrs.  Page.  For  shame,  never  stand  "you  had 
rather,"  and  "you  had  rather;"  your  husband 'a 
here  at  hand;  bethink  you  of  some  conveyance:  in 
the  house  you  cannot  hide  him. — 0,  how  have  you 
deceiv'd  me  ! — Look,  here  is  a  basket ;  if  he  be  of 
any  reasonable  stature,  he  may  creep  in  here ;  and 
throw  foul  linen  upon  him,  as  if  it  were  going  to 
bucking:  Or,  it  is  whiting- time,'"  send  Mm  by 
your  two  men  to  Datchet  mead. 

Mrs.  Ford.  He  s  too  big  to  go  in  there!  'VSIiat 
shall  I  do? 

Re-enter  Fai,staff. 

Fal.  Let  me  see't,  let  me  see't !    0  let  me  see  'ti 

I'll  in,  I'll  ki;  follow  your  friend's  counsel; — I'll  in 

105 


_ 


IKE  ilEKKr  WIVES  OF  WIXDSOK. 


Mrs.  Page.  Wlat!  Sir  John  Falstaff!  Are 
Ihese  your  letters,  kniglit? 

Fill.  I  love  thee,  and  none  hut  thee :  Help  mo 
away-  let  me  creep  in  here;  I'll  niver —  \_AMe. 
[He  goes  into  the  lasted ;  they  cover  Mm  with 
.foul  linen. 

Mrs.  Page.  Help  to  cover  your  master,  hoy:  Call 
j'ou  r  men,  mistress  Ford : — You  dissembling  knight ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  ,101111,  Eobert,  John  !  \_Exit 
Romx.  Re-enter  Servants.]  Go  take  up  these 
clothes  here,  quickly;  whore's  the  cowl-staff?"' 
look,  how  you  drumhle ;  carry  them  to  the  laim- 
clress  m  Datchet  mead;  quickly,  come. 

Filter  FosD,  Page,  Caius,  and  Siu  Hugh  Evans. 

Ford.  Pray  you,  come  near:  if  I  suspect  with- 
out cause,  why  then  make  sport  at  me;  then  let 
me  be  your  jest ;  I  deserve  it. — How  now  ?  whi- 
ther bear  you  this? 

Serv.  To  the  laundress,  forsooth. 

Mrs.  Ford.  '\^Tiy,  what  have  j'ou  to  do  whither 
thej'  bear  it?  Tou  were  best  meddle  with  buck- 
washing."- 

Ford.  Buck?  I  would  I  could  wash  myself  of 
the  buck!  Buck,  buck,  buck?  Ay,  buck;  I  war- 
rant )-oa,  buck;  and  of  the  season  too,  it  shal' 
Bppeai'.  \_Fxeunt  Servants  teith  the  iashi.']  Gen- 
tlemen, I  ha-^e  dream'd  to-night;  I'LL  tell  you  my 
dream.  Her 3,  here,  here  be  my  keys:  ascend  my 
thamhors,  search,  seek,  find  out:  I '11  warrant  we '11 
unkennel  the  fox: — Let  me  stop  this  way  first: 
— \_locks  tlie  doorl — so  now  uncape.'" 

Page.  Good  master  Ford,  be  contented:  j-ou 
wrong  yourself  too  much. 

Ford.  Tnie,  master  Page. — Up,  gentlemen;  you 
shall  see  sport  anon  :  follow  me,  gentlemen.  \_Exit, 

Eva.  This  is  feny  fantastical  humoiu's  and 
jealousies. 

Caius.  By  gar  't  is  no  de  fashion  of  France :  it 
is  not  jealous  in  France. 

Page.  Nay,  follow  him,  gentlemen ;  see  the 
issue  of  his  search. 

\_Exeimt  Evaks,  Page,  and  Caius. 

Mrs.  Page.  Is  there  not  a  double  excellency  in 
D-.i-j? 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  know  not  whieli  pleases  me  better, 
lint  my  husband  ia  deceived,  or  sir  John. 

2h-s.  Page.  AVhat  a  taking  was  he  in,  when 
your  husband  ask'd  what  was  in  tlie  basket! '" 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  am  half  afraid  he  will  have  need 
of  washing;  so  thro^-ing  him  into  the  water  will 
do  hlmo  btfOf'fit 

1C6 


Mrs.  Page.  Hang  him,  dis'nonest  rascal !  I  would 
all  of  the  same  strain  were  in  the  same  dish  ess. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  think  my  husband  hath  some 
special  suspicion  of  Falstaff's  boing  here;  for  1 
never  saw  him  so  gross  in  his  jealousy  till  now. 

Mrs.  Page.  I  will  lay  a  plot  to  try  that;  atd  we 
^viU  yet  have  more  tricks  with  Falstaff :  his  disso- 
lute disease  will  scarce  obey  this  medicine. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Shall  wo  send  that  foolish  carrion, 
mistress  Quickly,  to  him,  and  excuse  his  throwing 
into  the  water;  and  give  him  another  hope,  to 
betray  him  to  another  punishment? 

Mrs.  Page.  We  will  do  it;  let  him  be  sent  for 
to-morrow  eight  o'clock,  to  have  amends. 

Re-enter  FoitD,  Page,  Caius,  and  Sra  Hugh  Evans. 

Ford.  I  cannot  find  him :  may  be  the  knave 
bragg'd  of  that  he  could  not  compass. 

Mrs.  Page.  Heard  you  that? 

Mrs.  Ford.  You  use  me  well,  master  Ford,  do 
yon? 

Ford.  Ay,  I  do  so. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Heaven  make  you  better  than  your 
thoughts ! 

Ford.  Amen! 

Mrs.  Page.  You  do  yourself  mighty  wrong,  mu- 
ter Ford. 

Ford.  Ay,  ay;  I  must  bear  it. 

EiO-.  If  there  be  any  pody  in  the  house,  and  in 
the  chambers,  and  in  the  coffers,  and  in  the  presses, 
heaven  forgive  my  sins  at  the  day  of  judgment ! 

Caius.  Be  gar,  nor  I  too;  dere  is  no  bodies. 

Page.  Fie,  fie,  master  Ford!  are  you  not  asham'd 
^Miat  spirit,  what  dovdl  suggests  this  imagination 
I  would  not  ha'  your  distemper  in  tliis  kind,  for 
the  wealth  of  Windsor  Castle. 

Ford.  'T  is  my  fault,  master  Page :  I  suffer  for  it. 

Eva.  You  suffer  for  a  pad  conscinncc:  j'our  wife 
is  as  honest  a  'omans  as  I  will  desires  among  five 
thousand,  and  five  hundi-cd  too. 

Caius.  By  gar,  I  see 't  is  an  honest  woman. 

Ford.  Well ; — I  promis'd  you  a  dinner: — Come, 
come,  walk  in  the  park:  I  pray  you,  pardon  me;  J 
wiU  hereafter  make  Imown  to  you  why  I  Iwvc 
done  this. — Come,  wife; — come,  mistress  Page ;  '■ 
pray  you,  pardon  mo;  pray  heartily,  pardon  me. 

Page.  Let's  go  in,  gentlemen;  but,  trust  mt, 
we  '11  mock  him.  I  do  invite  you  to-morrow 
morning  to  my  house  to  breakfast:  after,  wo  '11 
a-birding'"  together;  I  have  n  fine  hawk  for  Uu 
hush:   Shall  it  bo  so? 

Ford.  Anything. 


jCT   III. 


TJIE  MERRY   WIVES  OF  WlA'DSOil. 


uijKNE  rv. 


Eva.  If  tlioro  is  one,  I  shsill  make  two  iu  tho 
compnny 

Cuius.   II  tliorc  bo  one  or  two,  I  eliall  malcc-a 

de  lii-d. 

Ford.  Pray  you  go,  master  Page. 

Eca.  I  pray  you  now,  remembrance  to-morrow 
on  the  lousy  knave,  mine  host. 

Caius.  Dat  is  good;  by  gar,  -s-it  all  my  heart. 

Eia.  A  lousy  knave ;  to  have  his  gibes  and  his 
niockcncs.  \_Ej:eunt. 

SCEjSTE  IY.—  a  Room  in  Page's  Uoim. 
Enter  Fenton  and  Misthess  Akne  Page. 

Fent.  I  see  I  cannot  get  thy  fether's  love; 
Therefore  no  more  turn  me  to  hira,  sweet  Nan. 

Anne.  Alas!  how  then? 

Fent.  Wliy,  thou  must  be  thyself. 

Ee  doth  object,  I  am  too  great  of  birth; 
And  that,  my  state  being  gall'd  with  my  expense, 
I  seek  to  heal  it  only  by  his  wealth : 
Besides  these,  other  bars  he  lays  before  me, — 
My  riots  past,  my  wild  societies ; 
Ajid  tells  me,  't  is  a  thing  impossible 
1  should  love  thee,  but  as  a  property. 

Anne.  May  be,  he  tells  you  true. 

Fent.  No,  heaven  so  speed  me  in  my  time  to 
come! 
Albeit,  I  will  confess  thy  father's  wealth 
Was  the  first  motive  that  I  woo'd  thee,  Anne: 
Tet,  wooing  thee,  I  found  thee  of  more  value 
Than  stamps  in  gold,  or  sums  in  sealed  bags ; 
.\nd  't  is  the  very  riches  of  thyself 
That  now  I  aim  at. 

Anne.  Gentle  master  Fenton, 

Yet  seek  my  father's  love;  still  seek  it,  sir: 
If  opportunity  and  humblest  suit 
Cannot  attain  it,  why  then — Hark  you  hither. 

[Tliey  converse  apart. 

Enter  Shallow,  Slenbee,  and  Mes.  Quickly. 

Bhal.  Break  their  talk,  mistivss  Quickly;  my 
kinsman  shall  speak  for  himself. 

Sim.  I  '11  malce  a  shaft  or  a  bolt  on  't:'"  slid,  't 
^s  but  vmturiiig. 

ahal.  Be  not  dismay'd. 

Slen.  No  she  shall  not  dismay  me:  I  care  not 
lor  that, — but  that  I  am  afeard. 

Quick.  Hark  ye;  master  Slender  would  speak  a 
word  with  you. 

An7w.  I  come  to  him. — This  is  my  father's 
choice. 


0,  what  a  world  of  vild  ill-favour'd  faults 
Looks  handsome  in  three  hundred  pounds  a-yeor ! 

\^Aside 

Quick.  And  how  docs  good  master  Fenton? 
Pray  you,  a  word  with  you. 

Slial.  She  'a  coming;  to  her,  coz.  0  boy,  thou 
hadst  a  father! 

Slen.  I  had  a  father,  nustress  Anne ; — my  uncle 
can  tell  you  good  jests  of  him  : — Pray  you,  uncle, 
toU  mistress  Anne  the  jest,  how  my  father  stole 
two  geese  out  of  a  pen,  good  uncle. 

SJial.  Mistress  jYnno,  my  cousin  loves  }'ou. 

Slen.  Ay,  that  I  do ;  as  well  as  I  lovo  any 
woman  in  Glostershire. 

Shal.  He  will  maintain  you  like  a  gentlewoman. 

Slen.  Ay,  that  I  will,  come  cut  and  long-tail,"' 
under  the  degree  of  a  'squire. 

Shal.  He  win  make  you  a  hundred  and  fifty 
pomids  jointure. 

Anne.  Good  master  Shallow,  lot  him  woo  foi 
himself. 

Shal.  Marry,  I  thank  you  for  it ;  I  thank  you 
for  that  good  comfort.  She  calls  you,  coz  :  I  'U 
leave  you.  [lie  steps  atidt. 

Anne.  Now,  master  Slender. 

Slen.  Now,  good  mistress  Anne. 

Anne.  "What  is  your  will  ? 

Slen.  My  wU  ?  'od's  heartlings,  that 's  a  pretty 
jest,  indeed  !  I  ne'er  made  my  \viil  yet,  I  thank 
heaven ;  I  am  not  such  a  sickly  creature,  I  give 
heaven  praise. 

Anne.  I  mean,  master  Slender,  what  would  you 
with  me  ? 

Slen.  Tnily,  for  mine  own  part,  I  would  little 
or  uotliing  wth  you.  Y'our  father,  and  my  unole, 
have  made  motions  :  Lf  it  bo  my  luck,  so  ;  if  not, 
happy  man  be  his  dole  !  "'  They  can  tell  you  how 
tilings  go  better  than  I  can  :  Y'ou  may  ask  your 
father ;  here  he  comes. 

Enter  Page  and  Misteess  Page. 

Page.  Now,  master  Slender : — Love  him,  daugh- 
ter Anne. — 
"Why,  how  now !  what  does  master  Fenton  here  ? 
You  wrong  me,  sir,  thus  still  to  haunt  my  houso 
I  told  you,  SU-,  my  daughter  is  dispos'd  of 
Fent.  Nay,  master  Page,  be  not  impatient. 
Mrs.  Page.  Good  master  Fenton,  come  nut  t:i  my 

chUd. 
Page.  She  is  no  match  for  you. 
Fent.  Sir,  will  you  hear  me  ? 
Page.  No,  good  master  Fenton. 

107 


THE  MEllllY  WIVES  OF  WES'DSUK. 


BCEIfB  V. 


Come,  master  Sliallow ;  come,  son  Slender,  in  : — 

Knowing  ray  mind,  you  wrong  me,  master  Fenton. 

\_Exeunt  Page,  Siial.,  atid  Slen. 

Quick.  Speak  to  mistress  Page. 

Fent    Good  mistress  Page,  for  that  I  love  your 
daughter 
In  suih  a  righteous  tlishion  as  I  do, 
Perforce,  against  all  checks,  rebukes,  and  manners, 
£  must  advance  the  colours  of  my  love. 
And  not  I'ctire  :  Let  me  have  your  good  will. 

Anw.  Good  mother,  do  not  many  me  to  yond' 
fool. 

ITrs.  Page.  I  mean  it  not ;  I  seek  you  a  better 
husband. 

Quick.  That  's  my  master,  master  doctor. 

Anne.  Alas,  I  had  rather  be  set  quick  i'  the 
earth, 
And  bowl'd  to  death  with  turnips.'" 

Mrs.  Page.  Come,   trouble  not  yourself.    Good 
master  Fenton 
[  wiU  not  be  your  friend,  nor  enemy : 
My  daughter  wt.11  I  question  how  she  loves  you, 
And  as  I  find  her,  so  am  I  affected ; 
Till  then,  fore  well,  sir  : — She  must  needs  go  in; 
Her  father  wUl  be  angry  else.'^ 

\_E.Tit  ilas.  Page  and  Axne. 

Fent.  Farewell,  gentle  mistress :  farewell,  Nan. 

Qicich.  This  is  my  doing  now. — Nay,  said  I,  will 
you  cast  away  your  child  on  a  fool  and  a  physi- 
cian?'" Look  on  master  Fenton : — this  is  my 
doing. 

Fent.  I  thank  thee ;  and  I  pray  thee,  once  to- 
night, "= 
Give  my  sweet  Nan  this  ring  :   Tliere  's  for  thy 
pains.  \_Exit. 

Quick.  Now  heaven  send  thee  good  fortune  !  A 
kind  heart  he  hath  :  a  woman  would  run  through 
fire  and  water  for  such  a  kind  heart.  But  yet,  I 
would  my  master  had  mistress  Anne ;  or  I  would 
master  Slender  had  her;  or,  in  sooth,  I  -would 
master  Fenton  had  her  :  I  will  do  what  I  can  for 
them  all  three ;  for  so  I  have  promis'd,  and  I  'U  be 
03  good  as  my  word ;  but  speciously  for  master 
Fenton.  "Well,  I  must  of  another  errand  to  sir 
Jjhn  Falataff  from  my  two  mistresses.  What  a 
jtasX  am  I  to  slack  it !  \_Exit. 

SCENE  V. — A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  Faistaff  and  Ba£dolfh. 
Fdl.  Bardolpb,  I  say, — 
Bard.  Here,  sir. 
f.d.   Go   fetch  me  a  quart  of  sack ;  put  a  toast 


in  't.  \_Exit  Babd.]  Have  I  liv'd  to  be  carried 
in  a  basket,  Hlce  a  barrow  of  butcher's  offal ;  and 
to  be  thrown  in  the  Thames  ?  Well,  if  I  be  serv'd 
such  another  trick,  I  "U  liave  my  brains  ta'en  out, 
and  butter'd,  and  give  them  to  a  dog  for  a  new  year' 
gift.  The  rogues  slighted '"  me  into  the  river  with 
as  little  remorse  as  they  would  have  drown'd  a 
bitch's  blind  puppies,  fifteen  i'  the  litter :  and  you 
may  know  by  my  size  that  I  have  a  kind  of  ala- 
crity in  sinking ;  if  the  bottom  were  as  deep  as 
heU,  I  should  down.  I  had  been  drown'd,  but  that 
the  shore  was  shelvy  and  shallow, — a  death  that  I 
abhor ;  for  the  water  swells  a  man ;  and  what  a 
thing  should  I  have  been  when  I  had  been  sweU'd  I 
I  shoidd  have  been  a  mountain  of  miunmy.'*' 

Re-enter  Baedolpu  tcitli,  the  wine. 

JBard.  Here's  mistress  Quickly,  sir,  to  sjeak 
with  you. 

Fal.  Come,  let  me  pour  in  some  sack  to  the 
Thames  water;  for  my  belly 's  as  cold  as  if  I  had 
swallow'd  snowballs  for  piUs  to  cool  the  reins. 
Call  her  in. 

Bard.  Come  in,  woman. 

Enter  Mbs.  Qcickly. 

Quick.  By  your  leave;  I  ciy  you  mercy :  Give 
your  worship  good  morrow. 

Fal.  Take  away  these  chalices :  Go,  brew  me  a 
pottle  of  sack'"  finely. 

Bard.  With  eggs,  sir  ? 

Fal.  Simple  of  itself;  I  'U  no  pullet-sperm  in 
my  brewage. — \_Exit  BAEDOLPn.] — How  now? 

Quick.  ilaiTy,  sir,  I  came  to  your  worship  from 
mistress  Ford. 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford !  I  have  had  ford  enough  !  I 
was  throwTi  into  the  ford :  I  have  my  belly  full  oi 
ford  ! 

Quick.  Alas  the  day!  good  heart,  that  was  not 
her  faidt:  she  does  so  take  on  with  her  men;  they 
mistook  their  erection. 

Fal.  So  did  I  mine,  to  biuld  upon  a  foolish 
woman's  promise. 

Quick.  Well,  she  laments,  sir,  for  it,  that  it 
would  yearn  your  heart  to  see  it.  Her  husband 
goes  this  moiTiing  a-birding :  she  desires  you  once 
more  to  come  to  her  between  eight  and  nine.  I 
must  carry  her  word  quicldy:  she'll  make  you 
amends,  I  waiTant  you. 

Fal.  WeU,  I  will  \-isit  lier.  Tell  Ler  so;  imd 
bid  her  think  what  a  man  is :  let  her  coiisiJor  his 
frailty,  and  then  judge  of  my  merit. 

Quick.  I  will  tell  her. 


, 


/lOT  m. 


THE  MEllKY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOK. 


BCESB   V. 


Fill.  Do  so.    Between  nine  and  ten,  say'st  thou  ? 

Quick.  Eight  and  nine,  sir. 

Fill.  Well,  be  gone :  I  will  not  miss  her. 

Quich  Peace  be  vrith  you,  sir.  \_Exit. 

Fill.  T  marvel  I  hear  not  of  maBtcr  Urook;  ho 
f.'Ut  mo  -n-ord  to  Btay  within:  I  like  his  money 
well      0  here  be  comes. 

Enter  roan. 

Ford.   Bless  you,  sir! 

Fal.  Now,  master  Brook?  you  come  to  know 
what  hath  pass'd  between  me  and  Eord"s  wife. 

Ford.  That,  indeed,  sir  John,  is  my  business. 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  will  not  lie  to  you :  I  was 
at  her  house  the  hour  she  appointed  me. 

Ford.  And  sped  you,  sir? 

Fal.  Very  ill-favouredly,  master  Brook. 

Ford.  How  so,  sir  ?  Did  she  cliango  her  deter- 
mination? 

Fal.  IS'o,  master  Brook ;  but  the  peaking  cor- 
nuto  her  husband,  master  Brook,  dwelling  in  a 
continual  'larum  of  jealousy,  comes  me  in  the 
instant  of  our  encounter,  after  we  had  embraced, 
kiss'd,  protested,  and,  as  it  were,  spoke  the  pro- 
logue of  our  comedy ;  and  at  his  heels  a  rabble  of 
Ms  eonipanions,  thither  provoked  and  instigated  by 
his  distemper,  and,  forsooth,  to  search  his  house 
Cor  his  wife's  love. 

Ford.  Wliat,  -while  you  were  there? 

Fal.  'Wliile  I  was  tlicre. 

Ford.  And  did  he  search  for  you,  and  could  not 
find  you  ? 

Fal.  You  shall  hear.  As  good  luck  would 
have  it,  comes  in  oue  mistress  Page ;  gives  intelli- 
genee  of  Eord's  approach ;  and,  Ln  her  invention 
and  Ford's  wife's  distraction,  they  convey'd  mo 
into  a  buck-basket. 

Ford.  A  buck-basket  ? 

Fal.  By  the  Lord,  a  buck-basket!"^ — ^i-amm'd 
me  in  with  foul  shirts  and  smocks,  socks,  foul 
stockings,  greasy  napkins;  that,  master  Brook, 
there  was  the  rankest  compoimd  of  viUainous 
smell  that  ever  offended  nostrU. 

Ford.  And  how  long  lay  you  there  ? 

Fal.  Nay,  you  shaU  hear,  master  Brook,  what  1 
have  suffer'd  to  bring  this  woman  to  evil  for  your 
good.  Being  thus  cramm'd  in  the  basket,  a  couple 
of  Ford's  knaves,  his  hinds,  were  eaU'd  forth  by 
their  mistress,  to  carry  me  in  the  name  of  foul 
clotlies  to  Datchet-lane :  they  took  me  on  their 
ehoulderg ;  met  the  jealous  knave  their  master  in 
the  door;  who  ask'd  them  once  or  t-n^ice  what  they 


had  in  their  bas1;et:  I  ([uak'd  foi  fear,  lest  the 
lunatic  knave  woulil  have  search'd  it;  but  fate, 
ordaining  he  should  be  a  cuckold,  held  his  hand. 
"Well :  on  went  he  for  a  searci,  and  away  went  I 
for  foul  clothes.  But  mark  the  smjuel,  master 
Brook:  I  suffered  the  pangs  of  three  several 
deaths:  first,  an  intolerable  fright,  to  bo  detected 
with  a  jealous  rotten  bell-wether :  ne.xt,  to  be 
corapass'd  like  a  good  bilbo  in  the  circumfcreneo  of 
a  peek,  hilt  to  point,  heel  to  head:  and  then,  to  be 
stopp'd  in,  lilce  a  strong  distillation,  with  stinking 
clothes  that  fretted  in  their  own  grease :  think  of 
that, — a  man  of  my  kidney, — think  of  that ;  that 
am  as  subject  to  heat  as  butter;  a  man  of  con- 
tinual dissolution  and  thaw;  it  was  a  miracle  to 
'scape  suffocation.  And  in  the  height  of  this  bath, 
when  I  was  more  than  half  stew'd  in  grease,  like 
a  Dutch  dish,  to  be  thrown  into  the  Thames,  and 
cool'd,  glowing  hot,  in  that  surge,  like  a  horse 
shoo;  think  of  that, — hissing  hot, — think  of  that, 
master  Brook. 

Ford.  In  good  sadness,  sir,  I  am  sorry  that  foi 
my  salve  you  have  suffer'd  all  this.  My  suit  thcr 
is  desperate;  you  "11  undertake  her  no  more. 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  will  be  thrown  into  Etna, 
as  I  have  been  into  Thames,  ere  I  wiU  leave  her 
thus.  Her  husband  is  this  morning  gone  a-bird- 
ing :  I  have  received  from  her  another  ambassy  of 
meeting;'"  'twixt  eight  and  nine  is  the  hoirr, 
master  Brook. 

Ford.  'T  is  past  eight  already,  sir. 
Fal.  Is  it?  I  wdll  then  address  me'™  to  my  ap- 
pointment. Come  to  me  at  your  convenient  lei- 
sure, and  you  shall  Icnow  how  I  speed;  and  the 
conclusion  shall  be  crowned  with  your  cnjojdng 
her.  Adieu.  You  shall  have  her,  master  Biook; 
master  Brook,  you  shall  cuckold  Ford.  \_Exit. 

Ford.  Hum !  ha !  is  this  a  vision  ?  is  this  a 
dream  ?  do  I  sleep  ?  Master  Ford,  awake ;  awake, 
master  Ford ;  there  's  a  'nolo  made  in  your  best 
coat,  master  Ford.  This  't  is  to  be  mai-ried  !  this 
't  is  to  have  linen  and  buck-baskets ! — Well,  I 
■\viU  proclaim  myself  what  I  am  :  I  wiU  now  take 
the  lecher ;  he  is  at  my  house  ;  he  cannot  'scaj/e 
me ,  't  is  impossible  he  shoiild  ;  he  cannot  creep 
into  a  halfpenny  purse,  nor  into  a  peppei-bos; 
but,  lest  the  devil  that  guides  him  should  aid  him, 
I  wiU  search  impossible  places.  Though  what  i 
am  I  cannot  avoid,  yet  to  be  what  I  would  not 
shall  not  make  mo  tame.  If  I  have  hores  to  make 
me  mad,"'  let  the  proverb  go  with  me, — I  'U  be 
horn  mad.  \  E.vit 

1-1!) 


THE  MEEEY  WIVES  OF  WDfDSOE, 


8CJE3TO   I. 


ACT    IV. 


SCEKE  l.—Tlie  Strett. 

Elite)'  Mrs.  Page,  Mes.  Qtticki,t,  and  "William. 

Mrs.  Page.  Is  he  at  master  Ford's  already, 
Lliink'st  thou  ? 

Quich.  Siire  he  is  hy  this  ;  or  -will  be  presently : 
but  truly  he  is  very  counigeous  mad,  about  his 
throvdng  into  the  water.  Mistress  Ford  desires 
you  to  come  suddenly. 

Mrs.  Pane.  I  '11  be  with  her  by-and-by ;  I  '11  but 
bring  my  young  man  here  to  school.  Look,  where 
his  master  comes  ;  't  is  a  playing  day,  I  see. 

Enter  Sin  Hugh  Evans. 

[low  now,  sir  Hugh  ?  no  school  to-day  ? 

Eva.  No ;  master  Slender  is  let  the  boys  leave 
to  play. 

Quick.  Blessing  of  his  heart ! 
Mrs.  Page.  Sir  Hugh,  my  husband  says  my  son 
profits  nothing  in  the  world  at  his  book.       I  pray 
you,  ask  liim  some  questions  in  his  accidence. 

Eva.  Come  liither,  "William ;  hold  up  your  head ; 
come. 

Mrs.  Page.  Come  on,  sirrah :  hold  up  your  head ; 
answer  j-our  master,  be  not  afraid. 

Eva.  "William,  how  many  numbers  is  in  nouns  ? 

Will.  Two. 

Quick.  Ti-uly,  I  thought  there  had  been  one 
number  more  ;  because  they  say,  odd's  noims ! 

Eva.  Peace  your  tattlings.  "WTiat  is  fair,  "Wil- 
liam ? 

Will.  Pulcher. 

Quick.  Polecats !  there  are  fairer  things  than 
polecats,  sure. 

Eva.  You  are  a  very  simplicity  'oman  ,  I  pray 
50U,  peace.     "Wliat  is  lapis,  William? 

Will.  A  stone. 

Eva.  And  what  is  a  stone,   WiUiam  ? 

Will.  A  pebble. 

Eva.  No,  it  is  lapis;  I  prjy  you  reinomlier  in 
j-oiir  praln. 

Will.  Lapii. 
no 


Eva.  That  is  a  good  "William.  Wliat  is  he,  "Wil- 
liam, that  docs  lend  articles? 

Will.  Articles  are  borrowed  of  the  pronoun; 
and  be  thus  declined,  Singularitcr,  nominativo,  hie, 
JuBC,  hoc. 

Eva.  Kominativo,  hig,  hag,  hog; — pray  you 
mark:  genitivo,  hiijus:  "Well,  what  is  your  accusa- 
tive case  ? 

Will.  Accusitivo,  hunc.'^^ 

Eva.  I  pray  you,  have  yoiu-  remembrance,  child ; 
Accusitivo,  hung,  hang,  hog. 

Quick.  Hang  liog  is  Latin  for  bacon  I  warrant  you. 

Eva.  Leave  your  prabbles,  'oman.  "What  is  the 
focative  case,  "William? 

Will.  0 — vocativo,  0. 

Eva.  Eemember,  "William,  focative  is  caret. 

Quick.  And  that 's  a  good  root. 

Eva.  'Oman,  forbear. 

Mrs.  Page.  Peace. 

Eva.  "^Vhat  is  •^ov.r  genitive  case  plural,  "William? 

Will.   Genitive  case  ? 

Eva.  Ay. 

Will.   Genitivo, — horum,  luiruni,  horum. 

Quick.  'Vengeance  of  Jenny's  case!  fie  on  her 
— never  name  her,  child,  if  she  be  a  whore. 

Eva.  For  shame,  'oman. 

Quick.  You  do  iU  to  teach  the  cliild  such  words: 
he  teaches  him  to  hick  and  to  hack,  which  thej-  '11 
do  fast  enough  of  themselves,  and  to  call  horum: 
— fie  upon  you ! 

Eva.  'Oman,  art  thou  lunatics?  hast  thou  no 
understandings  for  thy  cases,  and  the  numbers  of 
the  genders  ?  Thou  art  as  foolish  Cliristian  crea- 
tures as  I  would  dcsii-cs. 

Mrs  Page.  Prithee,  hold  thy  peace. 

Eva.  Show  me  now,  William,  son  e  declensions 
of  your  pronouns. 

Will.  Forsooth,  1  have  forgot. 

Eva.  It  is  qui,  qua,  quod;  if  you  forget  your 
guies,  your  quces,  and  youi-  qiwds,  you  must  be 
preeches.     Go  your  ways,  and  play,  go. 

Mrs.  Page.  He  "b  a  better  scliolar  than  I  thought 
ho  ".vns. 


THE  MEEIIY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


Eta.  He  is  a  good  sprag  memory."'  Farewell, 
mistress  Page. 

Mrs.  Paje.  Adieu,  good  sir  Hugh.  \_Esit  Rni 
IIuoii.]  Get  you  home,  boy. — Come,  we  stay  too 
Inig  \_Excunt. 

SCENE  11.—^  Room  in  Ford's  Eouse. 
Enter  'Fustayt  and  Mks.  Foed. 

Eal.  Mistress  Ford,  your  Borrow  hath  eaten  up 
my  suflerancc.  I  see  you  are  obsequious  in  your 
love,  and  I  profess  requital  to  a  hair's  breadth;  not 
only,  mistress  Ford,  in  the  simple  office  of  love, 
but  in  all  the  accoutrement,  complement,  and  cere- 
mony of  it.  But  are  you  sure  of  your  husband 
now  ? 

Ifr.'i.  Ford.  He  's  a-birding,  sweet  sir  John. 

Mrs.  Page.  \_Within.']  What  hoa,  gossip  Ford! 
what  boa! 

Mrs.  Ford.  Step  into  the  chamber,  sir  John. 

\_t!xit  Falstaff. 

Enter  Mrs.  Pagf. 

Mrs.  Fdrjc.  How  now,  sweetheart?  who  's  at 
"ome  besides  yourself? 

Mrs.  Fori.  Why,  none  but  mine  own  people. 

Mrs.  Page.  Indeed  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  No,  certainly; — Speak  louder. 

\_Soflhj. 

Mrs.  Page.  Truly,  I  am  so  glad  you  have 
aobody  here. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Wliy? 

Mrs.  Page.  Wliy,  woman,  your  husband  is  in 
[lis  old  Knos '°-  again :  he  so  takes  on  yonder  with 
my  husband;  so  rails  against  all  married  mankind; 
so  curses  all  Eve 's  daughters,  of  what  complexion 
soever ;  and  so  buffets  himself  on  the  forehead, 
crj-ing  "  Peer-out,  peer-out !  "  that  any  madness 
I  ever  yet  beheld  seem'd  but  tameness,  civility, 
and  patience,  to  this  his  distemper  he  is  in  now  ; 
I  am  glad  the  fat  knight  is  not  here. 

Mrs.  Ford.  ^\niy,  does  he  talk  of  him  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Of  none  but  him;  and  swears  ho 
was  carried  out,  the  last  time  he  searched  for  him, 
in  a  basket :  protests  to  my  husband  he  is  now 
here;  and  hath  drawn  him  and  the  rest  of  theii- 
company  from  their  sport,  to  make  another  expe- 
liment  of  his  suspicion ;  but  1  am  glad  the  knight 
is  not  here  :  now  he  shall  see  his  own  foolery. 
Mrs.  Foi  d.  How  near  is  he,  mistress  Page  ? 
M>s.  Page.  Hard  by;  at  street  end ;  he  will  be 
here  aiion. 


Mrs.  Ford.  I  am  undone ! — the  knight  is  here. 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  then  you  are  utterly  shani'd, 
and  he's  but  a  dead  man.  Wliat  a  woman  are 
you! — Away  with  him,  away  witli  him;  bi'lt<'f 
shame  than  murthcr. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Which  way  should  ho  go?  how 
should  I  bestow  him  ?  ShaU  I  put  him  into  the 
basket  again  ? 

Re-enter  Falstaff. 

Fal.  No,  I'lloome  no  more  i'  the  basket.  Hay 
I  not  go  out  ere  he  come  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Alas,  throe  of  master  Ford's  bro- 
thers watch  the  door  with  pistols,"'  that  none 
shall  issue  out;  otherwise  you  might  slip  away 
ere  he  came.     But  what  make  you  here  ? 

Fal.  A^Tiat  shall  I  do  ? — I  '11  creep  up  into  the 
chimney. 

Mrs.  Ford.  There  they  always  use  to  discharge 
their  birding-pieces  :  Creep  into  the  kill  hole. 

Fal.  Where  is  it  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  He  wiU  seek  there,  on  my  word. 
Neither  press,  coffer,  chest,  trunk,  well,  vault,  but 
he  hath  an  abstract  for  the  remembrance  of  such 
places,  and  goes  to  them  by  his  note  :  There  is 
no  biding  you  in  the  house. 

Fal.  I  '11  go  out  then. 

Mrs.  Page.  If  you  go  out  in  your  own  sem- 
blance, you  die,  sir  John.  Unless  you  go  out  dis- 
guis'd,— 

Mrs.  Ford.  How  might  we  disguise  him? 

Mrs.  Page.  Alas  the  day,  I  know  not.  There 
is  no  woman's  gown  big  enough  for  him ;  other- 
wise he  might  put  on  a  hat,  a  muffler,  and  a 
kercliief,  and  so  escape. 

Fal.  Good  hearts,  devise  something;  any  ex- 
tremity, rather  than  a  mischief. 

Mrs.  Ford,  lly  maid's  aimt,  the  fat  woman  of 
Brentford,  has  a  gown  above. 

Mrs.  Page.  On  my  word,  it  will  serve  him; 
she 's  as  big  as  he  is :  and  there  's  her  tlirumm'd 
hat,  and  her  muffler  too  :'"  Eun  up,  sir  John. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Go,  go,  sweet  sir  Jolm :  misti-ess 
Page  and  I  will  look  some  linen  for  yoxir  head. 

Mrs.  Page.  Quick,  quick ;  we  'U  come  drt'ss  you 
straight :  put  on  the  go^Ti  the  wliile.    \_Exit  Fai,. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  would  my  husband  would  meet 
him  in  this  shape  :  he  cannot  abide  the  old  woman 
of  Brentford ;  he  swears  she  's  a  witch  ;  forbade 
her  my  house,  and  hath  threatened  to  beat  h^r. 

3[rs.  Page.  Heaven  guide  him  to  thy  liu.sbimd's 

cudgel;  and  the  devil  guide  his  cudgel  iJ'ter\T;ud3 ' 

111 


THE  MEEllY  WIVES  OF  WlNDSOli. 


scEite  n. 


Mrs.  Ford.  But  is  m^;  husband  coming  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Ay,  in  good  sadness  is  he ;  and  talks 
of  the  basket  too,  howsoever  he  hath  had  intel- 
ligence. 

Mrs.  Ford.  \ie  'U  try  tliat ;  for  I  'U  appoint 
m\  men  to  carry  the  basket  again,  to  meet  him  at 
the  door  with  it,  as  they  did  last  time. 

Mrs.  Page.  Nay,  but  he  'U  be  here  presently  : 
let 's  go  dress  him  like  the  witch  of  Brentford. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  'U  first  direct  my  men  what  they 
shall  do  -n-ith  the  basket.  Go  up;  1  'U  biing  linen 
for  him  sti'aight.  [Exit. 

Mrs.  Page.  Hang  him,  dishonest  varlet !  we 
cannot  misuse  him  enough. 

We  '11  leave  a  proof,  by  that  whicli  wo  ^-iU  do, 

Wives  may  be  merry,  and  yet  honest  too  : 

We  do  not  act  that  often  jest  and  laugh 

'T  is  old  but  true.  Still  swine  eat  all  the  diaff. 

\_Exit. 
Re-enter  3Ies.  Foed,  with  two  Servants. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Go,  sirs,  take  the  basket  again  on 
your  shoulders ;  yom-  master  is  hard  at  door ;  if 
ho  bid  you  set  it  down,  obey  him:  quickly,  de- 
fpatch.  [Exit. 

1  Serv.  Come,  eome,  take  it  up. 

2  Serv.  Pray  heaven  it  be  not  fuU  of  knight 
again. 

1  Serv.  I  hope  not ;  I  had  as  lief  bear  so  much 
lead. 

Enter  Toed,  Page,  Shallow,  Caws,  and  Sm 
Hron  Evans. 

Ford.  Ay,  but  if  it  prove  true,  master  Page, 
have  you  any  way  then  to  unfool  me  again  ? — Sot 
down  the  basket,  villains  : — Somebody  call  my 
wife  : — Youth  in  a  basket ! — 0,  you  panderly 
rascals  !  there  's  a  knot,  a  ging,'"'  a  pack,  a  con- 
spiracy against  me  :  Now  shall  the  devil  be  sham'd. 
Wliat !  wife,  I  say  ! — Come,  eome  forth.  Behold 
what  honest  clothes  you  send  forth  to  bleaching. 

Page.  "^Tiy,  this  passes  !  Master  Ford,  you  are 
not  to  go  loose  any  longer ;  you  must  be  pinion' d. 

Eva.  "NMiy,  this  is  limatics !  this  is  mad  as  a 
mad  dog ! 

Shal.  Indeed,  master  Ford,  tliis  is  not  well ; 
indeed. 

Enter  Mrs.  Fonn. 

Ford.  So  say  I  too,  sir. — Come  hither,  mistress 
Ford;  mistress  Ford,  the  honest  woman,  the 
modest  wife,  the  \-irtuous  creature,  that  hath  the 
jealous  fool  to  her  husband  ! — I  suspect  without 

oause,  mistress  do  1  ? 

11'2 


Mrs.  Ford.  Heaven  be  my  witness  you  do,  if 
you  suspect  me  in  any  dishonesty. 

Ford.  Well  saii'i,   brazen-face!    hold  it  out.— 
Come  forth,  siiTah. 

\ Pulls  the  clothes  out  of  the  hnktil 

Page.  Tliis  passes  ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  Ai-e  you  not  asham'd  r  let  the  clothes 
alone. 

Ford.  I  shall  find  you  anon. 

Eva.  'T  is  unreasonable !  Will  you  take  up 
yoiu-  wife's  clothes  ?     Come  away. 

Ford.  Empty  the  basket,  I  say. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  man,  why? 

Ford.  Master  Page,  as  I  am  a  man,  there  was 
one  convey'd  out  of  my  house  yesterday  in  this 
basket :  Why  may  not  he  be  there  again  ?  In  my 
house  I  am  sure  he  is :  my  intelligence  is  true : 
my  jealousy  is  reasonable.  Pluck  me  out  all  the 
linen. 

Mrs.  Ford.  If  you  find  a  man  there,  he  shaU  die 
a  flea's  death. 

Page.  Here  's  no  man  here."''' 

Slial.  By  my  fidelity,  this  is  not  well,  master 
Ford ;  this  wrongs  you. 

Eva.  Master  Ford,  you  must  pray,  and  not  fol- 
low the  imaginations  of  y;ur  own  heart:  tliis  \t 
jealousies. 

Ford.  Well,  he  's  not  here  I  seek  for. 

Page.  No,  nor  nowhere  else,  but  in  your  brain. 

Ford.  Help  to  seai-ch  my  house  this  one  time : 
If  I  find  not  what  I  seek,  show  no  colour  for  my 
extremity;  let  me  for  ever  be  yoiir  table-sport ;  let 
them  say  of  me,  As  jealous  as  Ford,  that  search'd 
a  hollow  walnut  for  his  wife's  leman.'"  Satisfy 
me  once  more ;  once  more  search  with  me. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  hoa,  mistress  Page !  come  you, 
and  the  old  woman,  down ;  my  husband  wiU  come 
into  the  chamber. 

Ford.  Old  woman !  What  old  woman  's  that  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  "\^Tiy,  it  is  my  maid's  aunt,  of  Brent- 
ford. 

Ford.  A  ■^\-itch,  a  quean,  an  old  cozening  quean ! 
Have  I  not  forbid  her  my  liouse  ?  She  comes  o. 
en-ands,  docs  she  ?  Wo  arc  simple  men ;  we  do 
not  know  what  's  brought  to  pass  under  the  pro- 
fession of  fortuno-tcUing.  She  works  by  charms, 
by  spells,  by  tlic  figure,  and  such  dauhery  as  this  is ; 
beyond  our  element :  we  know  nothing. — Come 
down,  you  wituh,  you  hag  you;  come  down,  1 
say. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Kay,  good,  sweet  husband;— good 
gentlemen  let  him  not  strike  the  old  womiui. 


TKE  MEREY  "WIVES  OP  WIJSDSOE. 


SCENE    m. — iV. 


Enie)-  Yalstavf  in  woman's  clothes,  led  by  Mrs.  Page. 

3Trs.  Page.  Come,  mother  Prat,  come,  give  mo 
j-our  hand. 

Ford.  I'W  prathav : — Out  of  my  door,  you  witch, 
[beats  him,']  you  rag,  you  baggage,  you  polecat,  you 
ronyon ! "'  out !  out !  I  '11  conjure  you,  I  '11  for- 
lune-tcll  you.  \_Exit  Falstaff. 

Mrs.  Page.  Are  you  not  asham  d  ?  I  think  you 
have  kill'd  the  poor  woman. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  ho  ^vill  do  it : — 'T  is  a  goodly 
credit  for  you. 

Ford.  Hang  her,  witch ! 

Eva.  By  yea  and  no,  I  think,  the  'oman  is  a 
witch  indeed  :  I  like  not  when  a  'oman  has  a  great 
peard  ;  I  spy  a  great  peard  under  her  muffler. 

Ford.  "Will  you  follow,  gentlemen  ?  I  beseech 
you,  follow ;  see  but  the  issue  of  my  jealousy  :  if 
I  cry  out  thus  upon  no  traU,  never  trust  me  when 
I  open  again. 

Page.  Let  's  obey  his  humoiu-  a  little  furtlicr  : 
Come,  gentlemen. 

[Exeunt  Page,  Foed,  Shai.,  and  Eva. 

Mrs.  Page.  Trust  me,  he  beat  him  most  pitifully. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  by  the  mass,  that  he  did  not ; 
lie  brat  him  most  unpitifuUy,  methought. 

Mrs.  Page.  I  '11  have  the  cudgel  haUow'd,  and 
hung  o'er  the  altar;  it  hath  done  meritorious 
semee. 

Mrs.  Ford.  "Wliat  think  you  ?  May  we,  wth  the 
warrant  of  womanhood,  and  the  witness  of  a  good 
conscience,  pursue  him  with  any  further  revenge  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  The  spirit  of  wantonness  is,  sure, 
scar'd  out  of  him ;  if  the  devil  have  him  not  in  fee- 
simple,  with  fine  and  recovery,  he  will  never,  I 
think,  in  the  way  of  waste,"'  attempt  us  again. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Shall  wo  tell  our  husbands  how  we 
have  serv'd  him  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Yes,  by  all  moans ;  if  it  be  but  to 
scrape  the  figures  out  of  your  husband's  brains. 
If  they  can  find  in  their  hearts  the  poor  unvirtuous 
fat  knight  shall  bo  any  further  afflicted,  we  two 
\vill  stUl  be  the  ministers. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  '11  warrant  they  '11  have  him  pub- 
licly sham'd ;  and,  methinks,  there  would  be  no  pe- 
riod to  the  jest,""  should  he  not  be  publicly  sham'd. 

Mrs.  Page.  Come,  to  the  forge  with  it  then ; 
shape  it :  I  would  not  have  things  cool.     \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— ^  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  Host  and  Bakdolph. 
Bard.  Sir  the  Germans  desire  to  have  three  of 

13 


your  horses:  the  duke  himself  wiU  be  to-morrow 
at  court,  and  they  are  going  to  meet  him. 

Host.  What  dulce  should  that  be  comes  so  se- 
cretly ?  I  hoar  not  of  him  in  tho  court.  Let  mo 
speak  with  the  gentlemen ;  they  speak  English? 

Jiard.  Ay,  sir;  I  'U  call  them  to  you. 

Most.  They  shall  have  my  horses ;  but  I  '11  make 
them  pay ;  I  '11  sauce  them :  they  have  had  my 
houses  a  week  at  command ;  I  have  tuiTi'd  away 
my  other  guests  :  they  must  come  off; "'  I  '11  sauco 
them:  Come.  [Exeun/. 

SCENE  IT.— ^  Room  in  Ford's  JTouse. 

Enter  Page,  Foed.  Mm.  Pace,  Mus.  Ford,  and 
Sib  Hugh  Evaxs. 

Em.  'T  is  one  of  the  pest  discretions  of  a  'oman 
as  ever  I  did  look  upon. 

Page.  And  did  he  send  you  both  these  letters  at 
an  instant  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Within  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Ford.  Pardon  me,  wife:  Henceforth  do  what 
thou  wilt ; 
I  rather  will  suspect  the  sun  with  cold 
Than  thee  with  wantonness :  now  doth  thy  honour 

stand, 
In  hiin  that  was  of  late  an  heretic. 
As  firm  as  faith. 

Page.  'T  is  well,  't  is  well ;  no  more  : 

Be  not  as  extreme  in  submission 
As  in  ofi'ence ; 

But  let  our  plot  go  forward :  let  our  wives 
Yet  once  again,  to  make  us  public  sport, 
Appoint  a  meeting  with  this  old  fat  fellow. 
Where  we  may  take  him,  and  disgrace  him  for  it. 

Ford.  There  is  no  better  way  than  that  they 
spoke  of. 

Page.  How !  to  send  him  word  they  '11  meet 
him  in  the  park  at  midnight  ?  Fie,  fie ;  he  '11 
never  come. 

Eva.  You  say,  he  has  peen  thrown  in  the  rifers ; 
and  has  peen  grievously  peaton,  as  an  old  'oman ; 
methinks,  there  should  pe  terrors  in  him  that  he 
should  not  come ;  methinks,  his  flesh  is  pxmish'd, 
he  shall  have  no  desires. 

Page.  So  think  I  too. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Devise   but  how   you  'U  use   hira 
when  he  comes. 
And  let  us  two  devise  to  bring  him  thiiher. 

Mrs.   Page.  There   is   an   old   tale   goes,    that 

Heme  the  hunter. 

Sometime  a  keeper  here  in  Windsor  forest' ' 

113 


T1£E  MERR^   WIVES  OF  WINDSOE. 


8CENB    V 


Doth  all  the  winter-time,  at  stUl  midnight, 
Wallc  round   about  an  oak,    with  great  ragg'd 

horns; 
And   there   he   blasts   the    tree,    and   takes    the 

cattle ; '" 
And  makes  mUch-kine  yield  blood,  and  shakes  a 

chain 
In  a  most  hideous  and  dreadful  manner : 
Yoa  have  heard  of  such  a  spirit;  and  well  you 

know, 
The  superstitious  idle-headed  eld 
Eeceiv'd,  and  did  deKver  to  our  age, 
This  tale  of  Heme  the  hunter  for  a  truth. 

Page.  TVli}^,  j-et  there  want  not  many  that  do 

fear 
In  deep  of  night  to  walk  by  this  Heme's  oak : 
But  what  of  this  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  Marry,  this  is  our  device; 

That  FalstafF  at  that  oak  shall  meet  with  us, 
Disguis'd  like  Heme,   •with  huge  horns  on  his 

head. 
Paye.  Well,   let  it  not   be  doubted  but  he'll 

come. 
And  in  this  shape :  "When  you  have  brought  him 

thither, 
Wlat  shall  be  done  with  him?  what  is  your  plot? 
Mrs.   Page.    That  likewise  have   we   thought 

upon,  and  thus : 
Nan  Page  my  daughter,  and  my  little  son, 
And  three  or  four  more  of  their  growth,   we'll 

dress 
LOic   urchins,    ouplics,'"*   and   i;iii-ics,  green  and 

white, 
With  rounds  of  waxen  tapers  on  their  heads, 
And  rattles  in  their  hands;  upon  a  sudden, 
As  F;Jstaff,  she,  and  I,  are  newly  met, 
Let  them  from  forth  a  sawpit  rush  at  once 
With  some  diffused  song ;  upon  their  sight, 
We  two  in  great  amazedness  will  fly : 
Then  let  them  aU  cneu'cle  him  about, 
And,  fairy-like,  to-pineh  the  unclean  knight ; 
And  ask  him,  why,  that  hour  of  fairy  revel, 
In  their  so  sacred  paths  he  dares  to  tread, 
Id  shape  profane. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Ajid  tUl  ho  tcU  the  tmth. 

Let  the  supposed  fairies  pinch  liim  sound, 
And  bum  him  with  their  tapers. 

Ifrs.  Page.  The  truth  being  knoTNTi, 

We  '11  aU  present  ourselves ;  dis-horn  the  spirit. 
And  mock  liim  home  to  Windsor. 

Ford.  The  children  must 

Be  practis'd  well  to  this,  or  tliey'll  ne'er  do't. 
114 


Fva.  I  wiU  teach  the  childi'en  their  behaviours 
and  I  wUl  be  like  a  jack-an-apes  also,  to  bum  t!if 
knight  -witli  my  taber. 

Ford.  That  •n-ill  be  excellent.  I  'U  go  buy  then; 
vizards. 

Mrs.  Page.  My  Wan  shaU  be  the  queen  of  all 
the  fairies, 
Finely  attired  in  a  robe  of  white. 

Page.  That  sUk  wiU  I  go  buy! — and  in  that 
time 
Shall  master  Slender  steal  my  Nan  away,    \_Aside. 
And  marry  her  at  Eton. — Go,  send  to    Falstoff 
straight. 
Ford.  Nay,  I  '11  to  him  again,  in  name  of  Brook; 
He  '11  tell  me  aU  his  purpose  :  Sm-e,  he  'U  come. 
Mrs.  Page.  Fear  not  you  that :  Go,  get  us  pro- 
perties,'" 
And  tricking  fur  our  fairies. 

Eva  Let  us  about  it :  It  is  admirable  pleasures, 
and  fery  honest  knaveries. 

[_Exe'unt  Page,  Ford,  and  Evans. 
Mrs.  Page.   Go,  mistress  Ford, 
Send  quickly  to  sir  John,  to  know  tiis  mind. 

[Exit  Mus.  Ford. 
I'll  to  the  doctor ;  lie  hath  my  good  will. 
And  none  but  he,  to  marry  with  Nan  Page. 
That  Slender,  though  well  landed,  is  an  idiot ; 
And  he  my  husband  best  of  aU  afTects  : 
The  doctor  is  well  money' d,  and  his  friends 
Potent  at  court ;  he,  none  but  he,  shall  have  her. 
Though  twenty  thousand  wcrthier  come  to  crave  her. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  v.— ^  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  Host  and  SrarLE. 

IPost.  WTiat  wouldst  thou  have,  boor?  what, 
thiokskin?  speak,  breathe,  discuss;  brief,  short, 
quick,  snap. 

Sim.  Many,  sir,  I  come  to  speak  with  sir  John 
Falstaff  from  master  Slender. 

ITost.  There  's  his  chamber,  his  house,  his  castle, 
his  standing-bed,  and  truckle-bed ; "'  't  is  painted 
about  with  the  story  of  the  prodigal,  fresh  and 
new :  Go,  knock  and  call ;  he  'U  speak  lilie  an 
Anthropophaginian  unto  thee  :  Knock,  I  say. 

Sim.  There  's  an  old  woman,  a  fat  woman,  gone 
up  into  his  chamber :  I  'U  be  so  bold  as  stay,  sir 
till  she  come  down;  I  come  to  speak  with  her 
indeed. 

Host.  Ha!  a  fat  woman  1  the  knight  may  bu 
robb'd :  I  'U  call.— Bully  knight !  Bidly  sir  John ' 
spe.nk  from  thy  lungs  military:  Art  thou  there  J 
it  is  thine  host,  thine  Ephesian,'"  calla 


THE  MEltllY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOE, 


Fal.  \_aloi-e.'\  How  now,  mine  host  ? 

Host.  Hero  's  a  Bohcini'ui-Tartur  tarries  the 
coming  do-\vn  of  thy  fat  woman,  ijct  her  descend, 
biilly,  let  her  descend ;  my  chambers  are  hononr- 
nble :  Fie  !  privacy  ?  fie ! 

Enter  Faistapf 

Fal.  There  was,  mine  host,  a.\  old  fat  woman 
even  now  with  me ;  but  she  's  gone. 

Sim.  Pray  you,  sir,  was  't  not  tlie  wise  woman 
of  Brentford ' 

Fill.  Ay,  marry,  was  it,  muscle-shell :  A^Tiat 
would  you  ^^'ith  licr  ? 

Sim.  My  master,  sir,  my  master  Slender,  sent 
to  her,  seeing  her  go  tlu'ough  the  streets,  to  know, 
sir,  whether  one  NjTii,  sir,  that  boguil'd  him  of  a 
chain,  had  the  chain,  or  no. 

Fal.  I  spake  with  the  old  woman  about  it. 

Sim.  And  what  says  she,  I  pray,  sir  ^ 

Fal.  Marry,  she  says  that  the  very  same  man 
ihat  beguil'd  master  Slender  of  his  chain  cozen'd 
him  of  it. 

Sim.  I  would  I  could  have  spoken  with  the 
woman  herself:  I  had  other  things  to  have  spoken 
with  her  too,  from  him. 

Fal.  What  are  they  ?  let  us  know. 

Host.  Ay,  come ;  quick. 

Sim.  I  may  not  conceal  them,  sir. 

Ilost.  Conceal  them,  or  thou  diest. 

Sim.  \(\\j,  sir,  they  were  nothing  but  about 
niistress  Anne  Page ;  to  know  if  it  were  my  mas- 
ter's forhme  to  have  her,  or  no. 

F(d.  'T  is,  't  is  his  fortune. 

Sim.  Wliat,  sir  ? 

Fal.  To  have  her,— or  no  :  Go  ;  say,  the  woman 
told  me  so. 

Sim.  May  I  be  bold  to  say  so,  sir  ? 

Fal.  Ay,  sir  Tike  ; "°  who  more  bold  ? 

Sim.  I  thank  your  worship :  I  shall  make  my 
master  glad  with  those  tidings.  [Exit  Sim. 

Host.  Thou  art  clerkly,  thou  art  clcrldy,  sir 
John :   Was  there  a  wise  woman  with  thee  ? 

Fal.  Ay,  that  there  was,  mine  host;  one  that 
hath  taught  me  more  wit  than  ever  I  leam'd 
before  in  my  life;  and  I  paid  nothiug  for  it 
•loither,  but  was  paid  for  my  learning. 

Enter  BiiDoi.m. 

Bard.  Out,  alas,  sir !  cozenage !  mere  cozenage. 
Hod.  Where  \i«  my  horses?  speak  well  of  them, 
•Tirletto. 

Bard.  Eun  awav  with  the  cozeners :  for  so  soon 


as  I  came  beyond  Eton,  tliey  threw  mo  off,  froir 
behind  one  of  them,  in  a  slough  of  mire ;  and  set 
spurs  and  away,  like  three  German  devils,  throe 
doctor  Faustuses. 

Host.  Tiiey  are  gone  but  to  meet  the  duke,  vil» 
lain :  do  not  say  they  bo  fled ;  Germans  are  honesi 
men. 

Enter  Sib  Hugh  Evaks. 

Eva.  Where  is  mine  host  ? 

Jlosi.  What  is  the  matter,  sir  ? 

Eva.  Have  a  care  of  your  entertainments  :  thern 
is  a  friend  of  mine  come  to  town,  tells  mo  there  is 
three  coiiziu  germans,  that  has  conzen'd  all  the 
hosts  of  Eoadings,  of  Maidenhead,  of  C'olcbrook,  of 
horses  and  money.  I  teU  you  for  good-will,  look 
you :  you  are  wise,  and  full  of  gibes  and  viouting- 
stogs ;  and  't  is  not  convenient  you  should  be 
cozened :  Fare  you  well.  [Exit. 

Enter  De.  Caixts. 

Cains.  Vere  is  mine  host  de  Jarterre  ? 

Host.  Here,  master  doctor,  in  pcri)lcxity,  and 
doubtful  dilenima. 

Caiits.  I  cannot  tcU  vat  is  dat :  But  it  is  teU-a 
me,  dat  you  midce  grand  preparation  for  a  duke  di 
Jarmany :  by  my  trot,  dare  is  no  duke  dat  de  court 
is  know  to  come  :  I  tell  you  for  good  vill :  adieu. 

[Exit. 

Host.  Hue  and  cry,  villain,  go : — assist  me, 
knight ;  I  am  undone :  fly,  nm,  hue  and  cry, 
villain !  I  am  undone  I       [Exeunt  Host  and  Bajsd. 

Fal.  I  would  all  the  world  might  be  cozened : 
for  I  have  been  cozened  and  beaten  too.  If  it 
should  come  to  the  ear  of  the  coiu-t,  how  I  have 
been  transformed,  and  how  my  transformation  hath 
been  wash'd  and  cudgell'd,  they  would  melt  me  out 
of  my  fat,  drop  by  drop,  and  liquor  fishermen's 
boots  ■with  me.  I  warrant,  tho}-  would  whip  me 
^vith  their  fine  wits,  till  I  were  as  crest-fall'n  as  a 
dried  pear.  I  never  prospcr'd  since  I  forswore 
myself  at  primcro."'  Well,  if  my  wind  were  but 
long  enough  to  say  my  prayers,  I  would  repent. — 

Enter  Mistress  QtncKi-T. 
Xow !  whence  come  you  ? 

Quick.  From  the  two  parties,  forsooth. 

Fal.  The  devil  take  one  party,  and  his  dam  the 
other,  and  so  they  shall  be  both  bestowed !  I  have 
sufter'd  more  for  their  sakes,  more  than  the  vil- 
lainous inconstancy  of  man's  disposition  is  able  to 
bear. 

Quicl;.   And  have   not   they  sufTer'd  ?     Yes,  J 

115 


THE  MERKY  "WIVES  OF  WINDSOK. 


SCSKE    VI. 


Hrarrant ;  speciously  one  of  them  ;  mistress  Ford, 
good  heart,  is  beaten  black  and  blue,  that  you  can- 
not see  a  -white  spot  about  her. 

Fal.  "WTiat  tcll'st  thou  me  of  black  and  blue  ?  I 
was  beaten  myself  into  aU  the  colours  of  the  rain- 
bow ;  and  I  was  Kke  to  be  apprehended  for  the 
witch  of  Brentford ;  but  that  my  admii-able  dex- 
terity of  wit,  my  counterfeiting  the  action  of  an  old 
woman,  dcliver'd  me,  the  knave  constable  had  set 
me  i'  th'  stocks,  i'  the  common  stocks,  for  a  witch. 

Quick.  Sir,  let  me  speak  with  you  in  your  cham- 
ber :  you  shall  hear  how  things  go ;  and,  I  war- 
rant, to  your  content.  Here  is  a  letter  will  say 
somewhat.  Good  hearts,  what  ado  here  is  to  bring 
you  together!  Sure,  one  of  you  docs  not  serve 
heaven  well  that  j'ou  are  so  crossed. 

Fal.  Come  up  into  my  chamber.  \_Exeunt. 

SCEIS'E  VI. — Another  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  Fentox  and  Host. 

Ilost.  Master  Fenton,  talk  not  to  me ;  my  mind 
is  heavy,  I  wiU  give  over  all. 

Fent.   Yet  hear  me  speak:    Assist  me  in  my 
purpose, 
And,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  'U  give  thee 
A  hundred  pound  in  gold,  more  than  your  loss. 

Host.  I  will  hear  you,  master  Feuton;  and  I 
will,  at  the  least,  keep  your  counsel. 

Fent.  From  time  to  time  I  have  acquainted  you 
With  the  dear  love  I  bear  to  fair  Anne  Page ; 
Who,  mutually,  hath  answerd  my  affection, 
(So  far-forth  as  herself  might  be  her  chooser,) 
Even  to  my  wish  :  I  have  a  letter  from  her 
Of  such  contents  as  you  will  wonder  at ; 
The  mirth  whereof  so  larded  with  my  matter. 
That  neither,  singly,  can  bo  manifested, 
Without  the  show  of  botli, — wherein  fat  Falstaflf 
Ilath  a  great  scene  :  the  image  of  the  jest 
I  '11  show  you  here  at  large.     Hark,  good  mine 
host  : 

116 


To-night,  at  Heme's  oak,  just  'twixt  twelve  and 

one. 
Must  my  sweet  Nan  present  the  fairy  queen : 
The  purjrose  why,  is  here ;  in  which  disguise, 
While  other  jests  are  something  rank  on  foot, 
Her  father  hath  commanded  her  to  slip 
Away  with  Slender,  and  with  him  at  Eton 
Immediately  to  marry  :  she  hath  consented : 
Now,  sir. 

Her  mother,  even  strong  against  that  match, 
And  firm  for  doctor  Caius,  hath  appointed 
That  he  shall  like^vise  shuffle  her  away, 
"WTiile  other  sports  are  tasking  of  their  minds, 
And  at  the  dean'ry,  where  a  priest  attends. 
Straight  marry  her:  to  this  her  mother's  plot 
She,  seemingly  obedient,  likewise  hath 
Made  promise  to  the  doctor. — Now  thus  it  rests : 
Her  father  means  she  shall  be  all  in  white ; 
And  in  that  habit,  when  Slender  sees  his  time 
To  take  her  by  the  hand,  and  bid  her  go, 
She  shall  go  with  him  :  her  mother  hath  intended - 
The  better  to  denote  her  to  the  doctor, 
(For  they  must  all  be  mask'd  and  vizarded,) 
That,  quaint  in  green,  she  shall  be  loose  enrob'd, 
With  ribands  pendant,  flaring  'bout  her  head; 
And  when  the  doctor  spies  his  vantage  ripe, 
To  pinch  her  by  the  hand,  and,  on  that  token. 
The  maid  hath  given  consent  to  go  with  him. 
Rod.  Wliich  means  she  to  deceive  ?  father  o« 

mother  ? 
Frnit.  Both,  my  good  host,  to  go  along  with  me : 
And  here  it  rests, — that  you  '11  procure  the  vicar 
To  stay  for  me  at  church,  'twixt  twelve  and  one. 
And,  in  the  lawfid  name  of  marrying. 
To  give  our  hearts  united  ceremony. 

Hod.  Well,  husband  your  device ;  I  'U  to  tlK 

vicar: 
Bring  you  the  maid,  you  shall  not  lack  a  priest. 
Fent.  So  shall  I  evermore  be  bound  to  thee ; 
Besides,  I  '11  make  a  present  recompense. 

[  Exciini 


..— -"'.-^-"-^ 


THE  MEllliY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOJi. 


SCENE     L  — UL 


ACT     V. 


SCENE  l.—A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 
Enter  Falsiaff  and  Mes.  Quickly. 

Fal.  Prithee,  no  more  prattling: — go.  I  '11 
hold:'*"  This  is  the  third  time;  I  hope,  good  luck 
liea  in  odd  numbers.  Away,  go ;  they  say  there 
is  divinity  in  odd  numbers,  either  in  nativity, 
chance,  or  death. — Away. 

Quick  I  'U  proWde  you  a  chain :  and  I  '11  do 
what  I  can  to  get  you  a  pair  of  horns. 

Fal.  Away,  I  say ;  time  wears :  hold  up  your 
head,  and  mince.'"  l_Exit  3Ies.  Quickly. 

Enter  Foiid. 

How  now,  master  Brook?  Master  Brook,  the 
matter  will  bo  loiown  to-night,  or  never.  Be 
you  in  the  park  about  midnight,  at  Heme's  oak, 
and  you  shall  see  wonders. 

Forif.  "Went  you  not  to  her  j-estcrday,  sir,  as 
you  told  rae  you  had  appointed? 

Fal.  I  went  to  her,  master  Brook,  as  you  see, 
like  a  poor  old  man :  but  I  came  from  her,  master 
Brook,  like  a  poor  old  woman.  That  same  knave. 
Ford,  her  husband,  hath  the  finest  mad  devil  of 
jealousy  in  him,  master  Brook,  that  ever  govem'd 
frenzy.  I  wiU  teli  you : — he  beat  me  grievouslj-, 
in  the  shape  of  a  woman ;  for  in  the  shape  of  man, 
master  Brook,  I  fear  not  Goli;;h  with  a  weaver's 
beam ;  because  I  know  also,  Kfe  is  a  shuttle.  I 
am  in  haste  ;  go  along  with  me ;  I  'U  tell  you  all. 
master  Brook.  Since  I  pluck'd  geese,  played 
iTuant,  and  whipp'd  top,  I  knew  not  what  't  was 
to  be  beaten,  tUl  lately.  Follow  me  :  I  'U  tell  you 
strange  things  of  this  knave  Ford :  on  whom  to- 
night I  wUl  bo  revenged,  and  I  will  deliver  his 
wife  into  your  hand. — Follow:  Strange  things  in 
band,  master  Brook !  foUow.  \_Fxeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Windsor  Park. 
Enter  Page,  Shallow,  and  Slemdee.  i 

I'affe.  Come,  come ;  we  '11  couch  i'  the  castle- 
ditch,  till  we  see  the  light  of  our  fairies. — Remem- 
ber son  Slender,  my  daughter. 


Skn.  Ay,  forsooth ;  I  have  spoke  with  her,  Ln<l 
we  have  a  nay-word,  how  to  know  one  another 
I  come  to  her  in  white,  and  cry  wiMm,-""  she  cries 
ludf/el ;  and  by  that  wo  know  one  another. 

Shal.  That 's  good  too  :  but  what  needs  either 
yonr  mum,  or  licr  liuhjet  ?  tlie  white  will  decipher 
her  well  enough. — It  hath  struck  ten  o'clock. 

Poije.  The  night  is  dark ;  light  and  spirits  will 
become  it  well.  Heaven  prosper  our  sport !  No 
man  means  evU  but  the  devil,  and  we  shall  know 
him  by  his  hoiT.s.     Let's  away;  follow  me. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— ^  street  in  Windsor. 
Enter  Mrs.  Page,  Mrs.  Ford,  and  De.  Caius. 

Mrs.  Page.  Master  doctor,  my  daughter  is  in 
green :  when  you  see  your  time,  take  her  by  the 
hand,  away  with  her  to  the  dcancrr,  and  despatch 
it  quickly  :  Go  before  into  the  park;  we  two  ma-it 
go  together. 

Caius.  I  know  vat  I  have  to  do  :  Adieu. 

Mrs.  Page.  Fare  you  well,  sir.  [^Exit  C.Arus.] 
M}-  husband  will  not  rejoice  so  much  at  the 
abuse  of  Falstaff,  as  he  will  chafe  at  the  doctor's 
marrj-ing  my  daughter:  but  't  is  no  matter;  better 
a  little  chiding,  than  a  great  deal  of  heartbreak. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Where  is  Nan  now,  and  her  troop 
of  fairies  ?  and  the  Welsh  devil,  Hugh  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  They  are  all  couch'd  in  a  pit  hard 
by  Heme's  oak,  with  obscm-'d  liglits;  which,  at 
the  very  instant  of  Falstaff's  and  our  meeting, 
they  will  at  once  display  to  the  night. 

Mrs.  Ford.  That  cannot  choose  but  amaze  him. 

Mrs.  Page.  If  he  bo   not  amaz'd,   he  wUl   b< 
mock'd ;  if  he  be  amaz'd,  he  will  every  way  be 
mock'd. 

Mrs.  Ford.  We  'U  betray  him  finely. 

Mrs.  Page.  Against  sucli  lewdstcrs,'"  and  (hoil 
Icchcrj-, 
Those  that  betray  them  do  no  treachery. 

Mrs.  Ford.  The  hour  draws  on      Tc  the  oak 
to  the  oak  I  [Ejeutit. 

117 


T3E  ilEKfiY  WIVES  OF  WLSTDSOR. 


SCENIS    tV.- 


SCENE  IV — Windsor  Park. 

Enter  Sir  Hugh  Evaxs  and  Faeeies. 

Eva.  Trib,  tiib,  fairies;  come;  and  remember 

your  parts :  pe  pold,  I  pray  you ;  follow  mc  into 

the  pit ;  and  -when  I  give  the  watch-'ords,  do  as  I 

[)id  you ;  Come,  come  ;  trib,  trib.  ^^^Exeunt. 

SCENE  1' .—Another  part  of  the  Park. 

Enter  Faxstaff,  disguised  ivith  a  htick's  head  on. 

Fal.  The  Windsor  bell  hath  struck  twelve ;  the 
minute  draws  on  :  Now,  the  hot-blooded  gods  as- 
sist me : — Kemember,  Jove,  thou  wast  a  bull  for 
thy  Europa ;  love  set  on  thy  horns.  0  powerful 
love  I  that,  in  some  respects,  makes  a  beast  a  man ; 
in  some  other,  a  man  a  beast.  You  were  also,  Jupi- 
ter, a  swan,  for  the  love  of  Loda  : — 0,  omnipotent 
love !  how  ne.^^  the  god  drew  to  the  complexion 
of  a  goose ! — A  fault  done  first  in  the  form  of  a 
Dcast ; — 0  Jove,  a  beastly  fault !  and  then  another 
fault  in  the  semblance  of  a  fowl;  think  on't,  Jove;  a 
foul  fault.  ^\nien  gods  have  hot  backs,  what  shall 
poor  men  do  ?  For  me,  I  am  here  a  AVindsor 
stag ;  and  the  fattest,  I  think,  i'  the  forest :  Send 
me  a  cool  rat-time,  '"  Jove,  or  who  can  blame  me 
to  piss  my  tallow  ?  who  comes  here  ?  my  doe  ? 

Enter  Mrs.  Fokd  and  Mrs.  Page. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Sir  John  ?  art  thou  there,  my  deer  ? 
my  male  deer  ? 

Fal.  My  doe  with  the  black  scut ! — Let  the  sky 
luLu  potatoes;"^  let  it  thunder  to  the  tune  of 
'  Green  Sieves ;'  hail  Idssing-comfits,  and  snow 
cringoes  ;  let  there  come  a  tempest  of  provocation, 
I  will  shelter  me  here.  \_Emlracing  her. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Mistress  Page  is  come  with  me, 
sweetheart. 

Fal.  Divide  me  like  a  brib"d-buck,"''  each  a 
Imunch :  I  will  keep  my  sides  to  myself,  my 
shoulders  for  the  fellow  of  this  walk,  and  my  horns 
I  bequeath  your  husbands.  Am  I  a  woodman  ? 
lia !  Sjicak  I  like  Heme  the  hunter  ? — Wh}-,  now 
is  Cupid  a  child  of  conscience ;  he  makes  restitu- 
tion.    As  I  am  a  true  spirit,  welcome ! 

\_NoiM  within. 

Mrs.  Page.  Alas !  what  noise ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  Heaven  forgive  our  sins ! 

Fal.  What  should  this  be  ■: 

Mrs.  Ford.  (   .  ,  _  „,  _ 

,,       „        !  .'Vway,  away!  Iheti  run  off. 

Mrs.  Page.  )  J'         J  l       j  m 

Fal.  I  think  th?  de\-il  will  not  have  me  damn'd, 

lest  the  oil  that's  in  me  should  set  hcU  on  fire  ; 

he  would  never  else  cross  mc  thus 

\18 


^«<er  Sir  Hugh  EvAUS,  like  a  satyr;  Mas.  Quick.,-/, 
and  Pistol  ;  Anne  Page,  as  the  Fairy  Queen 
attended  Ig  her  brother  and  otheis,  dressed  lib 
fairies,  with  waxen  tapers  on  tlieir  heads. 

Atme.  Fairies,  black,  grey,  green,  and  white,''-' 
You  moonshine  revellers,  and  shades  of  night, 
You  orphan  heirs  of  fixed  destiny,'** 
Attend  your  office  and  your  quality. 
Crier  Hobgoblin,  make  the  fairy  eyes. 

Pist.  Elves,  list  your  names;  silence,  you  airy 

toys. 
Cricket,  to  Windsor  chimneys  shalt  thou  leap : 
AATicro   fires   thou  find'st  unrak'd,    and  heartlts 

unswept, 
There  pinch  the  maids  as  blue  as  bilberry:"' 
Our  radiant  queen  hates  sluts  and  sluttery. 

Fal.  They  are  fiiiries ;    he  that  speaks  to  them 

shall  die  : 
I  'U  wink  and  couch :   no  man  their  works  must 

eye.  [_Zies  down  upon  his  face. 

Eva.  Where's  Bead  ? — Go  you,  and  where  yuu 

find  a  maid, 
That,  ere  she  sleep,  has  thrice  her  prayers  said. 
Kaise  up  the  organs  of  her  fanttey,'*' 
Sleep  she  as  sound  as  careless  infancj' ; 
But  those  as  sleep  and  think  not  on  their  sins, 
Pinch  them,  arms,  legs,  backs,  shoulders,  side; 

and  shins. 
Anne.  About,  about; 
Search  Windsor-castle,  elves,  within  and  out: 
Sti'cw  good  luck,  ouphes,  on  every  sacred  room ; 
That  it  may  stand  till  the  pei-petual  doom. 
In  state  as  wholesome,  as  in  state  't  is  fit; 
Worthy  the  owner,  and  the  owner  it. 
The  several  chairs  of  order  look  you  scour 
With  juice  of  balm,  and  every  precious  flower: 
Each  fair  instalment,  coat,  and  sev'ral  crest, 
With  loyal  blazon  evermore  be  bless'd ! 
And  nightly,  meadow-fairies,  look,  you  sing, 
Like  to  the  Garter's  compass,  in  a  ring : 
Th'  expressure  that  it  bears,  green  let  it  be, 
More  fertile-fresh  than  all  the  field  to  see ; 
And,  Hong  soil  qui  mal  g  jyense,  write, 
In     cmrold    tuffs,'"    flowers   purple,   blue,    an^ 

whit*: 
Like  sapphire,  pearl,  and  rich  cmbroideiy, 
Buckled  below  fair  knighthood's  bending  knee : 
Fairies  use  flowers  for  their  charactciy. 
Away ;  disperse  :  But  till  't  is  one  o'clock, 
Our  dance  of  custom,  round  about  the  oak 
Of  Heme  the  hunter,  let  us  not  forget. 


ACr  V. 


THE  MEIUIY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOE. 


scim:  V. 


Ji'ra.  Pray  you,  lock  hand  in  hand  ;  yourselves 
in  order  set : 
And  twenty  glow-worms  shall  our  lanterns  bo, 
To  guide  our  measure  round  about  tlie  tree. 
But,  Btay  :  I  smell  a  man  of  middle-earth.'*' 
/"((/.    Heavens    defend    me   from  that   Welsh 
fairy. 
Lest  he  transfonn  mo  to  a  piece  of  cheese  ! 
Fist.  Vild  worm,  thou  wast  o'erlook'd  even  in 

thy  birth. '^^ 
Amie.  With  trial-fire  touch  me  his  finger-end. 
If  he  be  chaste,  the  flame  will  back  descend. 
And  turn  him  to  no  pain  ;  but  if  he  start, 
ft  is  the  flesh  of  a  corrupted  heart. 
Fiat.  A  trial,  come. 
Uva.  Come,  will  this  wood  take  fire  ? 

\_They  hum  him  tcith  their  tapers. 
Fal.  Oh,  oh,  oh  ! 

Anne.  CoiTupt,  comipt,  and  tainted  in  desire  ! 
\bout  him,  fairies ;  sing  a  scomfid  rhyme  ; 
Ind,  as  you  trip,  stiU  pirich  him  to  youi'  time.'"' 
SOXG. 
Fie  on  sinful  fantasy ! 
Fie  on  lust  and  luxury  !'•" 
Lust  is  but  a  bloody  fire, 
Kindled  with  unchaste  desire, 
Fed  in  heart ;  whose  flames  aspire. 
As  thoughts  do  blow  them,  Iiighcr  and  higher. 
Pinch  him,  fairies,  mutually ; 
Pinch  him  for  his  villainy  ; 
Pinrh  him,  and  bum  him,  and  turn  him  about, 
Tin  candles,  and  stai'Ught,  and  moonshine  be  out. 

Thiring  this  sonj  tho  fairies  2}inch  FiLSTirF. 
Doctor  Catos  comes  one  way,  and  steals  a  fairy 
in  green  ;  Slendeb  another  icay,  and  takes  off  a 
fairy  in  white ;  and  Fenion  cotnes,  and  steals 
away  Mits.  Anne  Page.  A  noise  of  hunting  is 
made  within.  All  the  fairies  run  away.  Falstaff 
pulls  off  his  buck's  head,  and  rises.'\ 

Enter  Page,  Fokd,  Mrs.  Page,  and  Mrs.  Fobd. 
They  lay  hold  on  him. 

Page.  Nay,  do  not  fly;  I  think,  we  have  watch'd 
you  now : 
Will  none  but  Heme  the  hunter  senx  your  turn  ? 
iilis.  Page.  I  pray  you,  come  ;   hold  up  the  jest 
no  higher  : 
•.ow,  good  sir  John,  how  like  you  Windsor  wives? 
•cc  you  tlicse,  husband  ?  do  not  those  fair  yokes'*' 
Uecuine  the  forest  better  than  the  town  ? 

Ford.  Now,  sir,  who  's  a  cuckold  now  ? — Mas- 
ter Brook,  Falstaff 's  a  knave,  a  ctiekoldly  knave  ; 
here  are  Ids  horns,  master  lirook  :    And   masier 


Brook,  he  hath  enjoyed  notliing  of  Fc^^'8  bat  his 
buck-basket,  his  cudgel,  and  twenty  pounds  Oi 
money,  which  must  be  paid  to  mast(?r  Urook ;  his 
horses  are  arrested  for  it,  master  Erook. 

3Irs.  Ford.  Sir  John,  we  have  had  ill  luck ;  W8 
could  never  meet.  I  will  never  take  you  for  my 
love  again,  but  I  wUl  always  coimt  you  my  deer. 

Fd.  I  do  begin  to  perceive  that  I  am  mado 
an  ass. 

Ford.  Ay,  and  an  o.x  too ;  both  the  proofs  are 
extant. 

Fal.  And  these  are  not  fairies  ?  I  was  three  or 
four  times  in  tho  thought  tliey  were  not  fairies  : 
and  yet  tho  guiltiness  of  my  mind,  the  sudden  sur- 
prise of  my  powers,  drove  the  grossness  of  tho 
foppery  into  a  receiv'd  belief,  in  despite  of  the 
teeth  of  aU  rhjrme  and  reason,  that  they  were 
fairies.  See  now,  how  wit  may  bo  made  a  Jack-a 
lent,  when  't  is  upon  ill  emplo}Tnent. 

Eva.  Sir  John  Falstaff,  serve  Got,  and  leave 
your  desires,  and  fairies  wiU.  not  pinse  you. 

Ford.  Well  said,  fair}-  Hugh. 

Eva.  And  leave  you  your  jealousies  too,  1  pra) 
you. 

Ford.  I  wiU  never  mistrust  my  wife  again,  till 
thou  art  able  to  woo  her  in  good  English. 

Fal.  Have  I  laid  ni)-  brain  in  the  sun,  and 
dried  it,  that  it  wants  matter  to  prevent  so  grcra 
o'errcaching  as  tliis  ?  Am  I  ridden  with  a  Wtlch 
goat  too  ?  Sha'J  I  have  a  coxcomb  of  frize  : '" 
'T  is  time  I  were  cliok'd  with  a  piece  of  toasted 
cheese. 

Eva.  Seese  is  not  good  to  give  putter ;  j-oui 
pelly  is  all  putter. 

Fal.  Seese  and  putter  !  liave  I  liv'd  to  stand  at 
the  tatint  of  one  that  makes  fritters  of  English  ? 
This  is  enough  to  be  tlio  dcoaj-  of  lust  and  htte- 
walking  through  the  realm. 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  sir  John,  do  you  think,  though 
we  would  liave  thrust  ^-irtue  out  of  our  hearts  by 
the  head  and  shoulders,  and  have  given  ourselves 
without  scruple  to  hell,  that  ever  the  devil  could 
have  made  you  our  delight  ? 

F'ord.  What,  a  hodge-pudding  :  "*  a  bag  of  flax 

Mrs.  Page.  A  puff'd  man  ? 

Page.  Old,  cold,  wither" d,  and  of  intolerable 
entrails  ? 

Ford.  And  one  that  is  as  slanderous  as  tfaian  ? 

Page.  And  as  poor  as  Job  ? 

Ford.  And  as  wicked  as  his  wife  ? 

Eva.  And  given  to  fornications,  and  to  taverns 

and  sack,  and  wine,  and  mctheglins,  and  to  diink 

119 


THE  MEJIEY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOK. 


BOESE    V. 


irigs,  arid  s^vcarings,  and  staiings,  pribbles  and 
prabbles  ? 

Fal.  "Well,  I  am  your  theme  :  you  have  the 
start  of  me  ;  I  am  dejected ;  I  am  not  able  to 
answer  the  Welch  flannel :  ignorance  itself  is  a 
plummet  o'er  me  ;'"  use  me  as  you  ■will. 

Ford,  ilarry,  sir,  we  '11  bring  you  to  Windsor, 
to  one  master  Brook,  that  you  have  cozen' d  of 
money,  to  whom  you  should  have  been  a  pander  : 
over  and  above  that  you  have  sufFcr'd,  I  tliink,  to 
repaj-  that  money  will  be  a  biting  affliction. 

Faffe.  Yet  be  cheerful,  knight :  thou  shalt  eat  a 
posset  to-night  at  my  house  ;  where  I  will  desire 
thee  to  laugh  at  my  wife  that  now  laughs  at  thee  : 
Tell  her  master  Slender  hath  married  her  daughter. 

Mrs.  Page.  Doctors  doubt  that ;  if  Anne  Page 
be  my  daughter,  she  is,  by  this,  doctor  Caius'  wife. 

\_Aside. 

Enter  Slender. 

Slen.  A^^loo,.ho!  ho!  father  Page  ! 

Page.  Son  !  how  now  ?  how  now,  son  ?  have 
you  despatch'd  ? 

Slen.  Despatch'd  ! — I  'li  make  the  best  in  Glo- 
ccstershu-e  know  on  't ;  would  I  were  hang'd,  la 
else. 

Page.  Of  what,  son  ? 

Slen.  I  came  yonder  at  Eton  to  many  mistress 
Anne  Page,  and  she  's  a  great  lubberly  boy.  If  it 
had  not  been  i'  the  church,  I  would  have  swing'd 
him,  or  he  shoiild  have  smng'd  me.  If  I  did  not 
think  it  had  been  Anne  Page,  would  I  might  never 
stir,  and  't  is  a  post-master's  boy. 

Page.  Upon  my  life  then  you  took  the  ■wrong. 

Slen.  What  need  you  teU  me  that  ?  I  think  so, 
when  I  took  a  boy  for  a  girl :  If  I  had  been 
married  to  him,  for  aU  he  was  in  woman's  apparel, 
I  would  not  have  had  him. 

Page.  Why,  this  is  j-our  own  foUy.  Did  not  I 
tell  j-ou  how  you  should  know  ray  daughter  by  her 
garments  ? 

Slen.  I  went  to  her  in  white,  and  cried  mum, 
and  she  cried  liulget,  as  Anne  and  I  had  appointed ; 
and  j-et  it  was  not  Anne,  but  a  post-master's  boy ! 

Jfrs.  Page.  Good  George,  be  not  angry  :  I  knew 
of  your  pui-pose  ;  tum'd  my  daughter  into  green  ; 
and,  indeed,  she  is  now  witli  th:  doctor  at  the 
tleanerj-,  and  there  married. 

Enter  Caitts. 

Cai'uf.  Vere  is  mistr(»s  Page  ?  I3c  gar,  1  am 
cozened;    I   ha'    nianic^d    iin  garcon,   a  hoy:    iw 

79(, 


paisan,  be  gar,  a  I  oy ;  it  is  not  Anne  Page :  be 
gar,  I  imi  cozened. 

Mrs.  Page.  "WTiy,  did  you  take  her  in  green  ' 

Caius.  Ay,  be  gar,  and  't  is  a  boy  ;  be  gar,  I  '11 
raise  all  Windsor.  [Exit  Cah-s. 

Ford.  This  is  strange :  Who  hath  got  the  ri  ght 
Anne  ? 

Page.  My  heart  misgives  me  :  Here  comes  mas- 
ter Fenton. 

E}iter  Ffnton  and  Anne  Page. 

How  now,  master  Fenton  ? 

Anne.  Pardon,  good  father !  good  my  mother, 
pai'don  ! 

Page.  Now,  mistress  ?  how  chance  you  went 
not  with  master  Slender  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Why  went  you  not  with  mastei 
doctor,  maid  ? 

Fent.  You  do  amaze™  her :    Hear  the  truth 
of  it. 
You  would  have  married  her  most  shamefully, 
'UTiere  there  was  no  proportion  held  Li  love. 
The  truth  is,  she  and  I,  long  since  contracted. 
Are  now  so  sure  that  nothing  can  dissolve  us. 
Th'  ofl'ence  is  holy  that  she  hath  oommitted  : 
And  this  deceit  loses  tlis  name  of  craft, 
Of  disobedience,  or  undutcous  title ; 
Since  therein  she  doth  evitate  and  shun 
A  thousand  iiTeligious  cursed  hours, 
'Wliich  forced  marriage  would  have  brought  upon 
her. 

Ford.  Stand  not  amaz'd  :  here  is  no  remedj- : 
In  love,  the  heavens  themselves  do  guide  the  state ; 
Money  buys  lands,  and  wives  are  sold  by  fiite. 

Fal.  I  am  glad,  though  you  have  ta'en  a  special 
stand  to  strike  at  me,  that  your  arrow  hath  gianc'd. 

Page.  Well,  what  remedy  ?      Fenton,  heaven 
give  thee  joy  ! 
What  cannot  be  esehew'd  must  he  cmbi'ac'd. 

Fal.  AMicn  night-dogs  run,  all  sorts  of  deer  are 
chas'd. 

Mrs.  Page.  Well,  I  will  muse  no  further  :  mas- 
ter Fcntcn, 
Heaven  give  you  many,  many  merry  da3''8 ! 
Good  husband,  let  us  every  one  go  home, 
And  laugh  this  sport  o'er  by  a  country  fire ; 
Sir  John  and  aU. 

Ford.  Let  it  be  so  : — Sir  Jolm, 
To  master  Erook  you  j-et  shall  hold  your  word  • 
For  ho,  to-night,  shall  lie  with  misiresR  Ford. 

lExeuju- 


NOTES  TO   THE  MERRY  AVIVES    OF  WINDSOR 


'  Sir  High,  persuade  me  rot. 
Clergymen  foi-merly  had  the  title  of  sir,  from  the  Latin 
dominies,  to  which  any  one  is  entitled  who  has  taken  the 
degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts.  All  priests  were,  in  common 
parlance.  Sir  Johns.  The  editor  of  the  first  sketch  of  the 
[ilay,  1602,  imi.ropcrly  calls  him  "Syr  llugh,  the  Welch 
kniakt." 

2  Justice  of  peace  and  coram. 

Slender  is  generally  spealcing  by  book,  and  here  quotes 
the  legal  form,  coram  being  a  common  corruption  of  quorum, 
A  justice  of  quorum  was  so  called  from  the  words  in  the 
commission,  Quorum  A.  unum  esse  volumus.  and  he  was  of 
gi-catcr  dignity  than  those  not  cf  the  quorum,  who  could 
not  proceed  without  him.  The  corrupted  form  coram  is 
found  in  epitaphs,  as  in  the  chm'chos  of  Lacock,  co.  Wilts, 
Tottenham,  co.  Bliddlese.^,  itc.  "  And  of  the  collections  of 
tlic  sriatterings,  a  justice,  tam  Marti  quam  Mercuric,  of 
peace  and  coram,"  Pierce  Pemiilessc,  1592.  Cust-ahrum, 
an  abbreviation  of  custos  rotutorum,  the  person  who  had  the 
care  cf  the  rolls  and  records  of  the  sessions  and  commission 
jf  the  peace.  Slender,  not  understanding  this,  ignorantly 
says,  "  and  ratolorum  too ;"  and  adds  that  he  signs  himself 
arrniijero.  Ho  had  seen  an  indictment,  "  coram  Roberto 
Shallow  armigcro  et  sociis  suis  custodibus  pacis." 

^  Any  time  these  three  hundred  years. 

Mr.  Kniglit  thinks  we  are  to  understand  Shallow  as 
wying,  we  (I  and  my  ancestors)  hare  done  so  anytime 
these  three  hundred  years.  Is  it  certain  that  Shakespeare 
did  not  intend  to  raise  a  laugh  at  Shallow's  expense,  by 
representing  him  as  saying  this  literally  in  his  anxiety  to 
boast  of  his  ancestry  ?  Bishop  Montagu  mentions  a  person 
who,  in  giving  evidence  on  a  question  of  tythes,  swore,  in 
the  bishop's  healing,  that  he  had  known  the  place  tytheablo 
for  three  hundred  years ! 

The  three  hundred  years  mentioned  by  Shallow,  accord- 
ing to  another  authority,  refer  to  the  antiquity  of  the  Lucy 
familv,  wlioso  pedigree  is  deduced  by  Dugdale  from  the 
ri-'igu  of  Richard  I.,  a  period  of  about  four  hundred  years 
before  the  play  w  as  written ;  but  the  family  did  not  take 
the  name  of  Luey  until  the  34th  of  Ilcnry  III.,  which 
exactly  corresponds  viith  the  period  .ibove  stated. 

*  The  dozen  white  luces. 
There  is   here  an  e^ndent  allusion  to  the  family  of  the 
'.ueyB  of  (iharleiKte,  near  Stratford-on-Avon.       It  wiis  in 


the  park  of  this  scat  that  Shakespeare  is  traditi  inDll5 
said  to  have  stolen  the  deer :  and  on  being  persecuted  oi 
reprimanded  by  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  on  the  occasion,  he  re- 
venged himself  by  ^vriting  a  baUad  commencing  as  follows, — 

"A  parliement  member,  a  jn.stiee  of  peace. 
At  home  a  poor  scare-crowe,  at  London  an  asso, 
If  lowsie  is  Lucy,  as  some  volke  miscalle  it, 
Then  Lucy  is  lowsie  whatever  befall  it : 
He  thinks  himself  greate, 
•  Yet  an  asso  in  his  state. 

We  allow  by  his  ears  bat  with  asses  to  mate. 
If  Lucy  is  lowsie,  as  some  volke  miscalle  it, 
Sing  lowsie  Lucy,  whatever  befall  it." 

These  lines  are  as  ancient  as  the  time  of  Oldys,  but  are 
undoubtedly  not  the  genuine  verses  written  by  the  poet. 
The  coat  of  the  I.uey  family  contains  three  luces,  not 
twelve  as  blimderingly  stated  by  Slender ;  though  the  eeal 
of  one  of  the  family,  given  by  Dugdale,  is  quartered  in 
four  divisions,  with  three  fish  in  each.  A  luce  is  a  pike,  or. 
more  properly,  a  pike  when  full  grown.  This  is  the  fresh 
fish  mentioned  by  Shallow,  who  is  very  anxious  to  explain 
Evans'  blunder,  and  therefore  tells  him  the  luce  is  the  fresh 
fish,  but  in  his  ancient  coat  of  arms,  a  sea-water  luce  was 
depicted.  Shallow  will  not  even  have  a  fresh  fieh  in  his 
coat  of  aims,  and  hence  the  humour  of  his  explanatoiy 
observations.  This  explanation  of  the  passage  has  not  boon 
suggested  by  any  former  editor.  That  there  was  a  salt  watei 
luce  appears  from  Stowe's  Survey  of  London,  1598.  who 
mentions  "luces  of  the  sea." 

5  A  familiar  beast  lo  man,  and  signifies  love. 

The  compliment  to  this  insect  is  not  undesen'cd,  being 
one  of  the  few  animals  that  are  eminent  for  fidelity  to 
man,  never  deserting,  but  being  still  more  attached  to  him 
in  adversity. 

^  Tlie  council  shall  hear  it. 

By  the  council  is  only  meant  the  court  of  St-Ti-ehoinber, 
composed  chiefly  of  the  king's  council  sitting  in  Camera 
Stellata,  which  took  cognizance  of  atrocious  riots.  Sir 
John  Harrington,  in  his  Epigrams,  IGIS,  says, 

"  No  man'el,  men  of  such  a  sumptuous  dyet 
Were  brought  into  the  Star-Ch.-unber  for  a  ryot" 

Seo  also  the  Magnetick  Lady,  act  iii.  sc.  4,  and  W.ilcne  ! 
Shakespeare  by  Boswell,  riii.  R,  13. 

121 


NOTES  TO  THE  MEllEY  WniiS  OF  WINDSOR. 


'  Take  your  vizaments  in  that. 

\"lzaments,  that  is,  adTisements  or  deliberations.  "  Having 
i.n  huge  lake  or  portion  of  the  sea  in  the  niiddest  of  them, 
which  ia  not  Trithout  perill  to  such  as  'wnth  small  advisement 
enter  into  the  same,"  Harrisan's  Description  of  Britaiue, 
p.  33. 

8  Ar.d  speaks  small  like  a  woman. 
To  speak  small  was  to  speak  in  a  gentle  feminine  voice. 
"Somebody  must   cry  'murder"  then,  in  a    small  voice," 
Ben  Jonson's  Poetaster.     So  Chaucer, — 

the  company  answered  all. 

With  voice  sweet  entuncd,  and  so  smaii, 
That  methought  it  the  sweetest  melody. 

^  Seven  hundred  pounds,  and  possibilities. 
Pi  smbJities  is  generally  used  for  possessions.  The  M'ord 
is  well  illustrated  by  a  MS.  in  Dulwich  College,  dated 
about  1610,  being  a  letter  from  a  suitor  to  a  father  for  his 
permission  to  woo  the  daughter,  in  which  he  says, — "  I 
ryette  to  you  first  this  eisone,  as  Londoue  fashcn  is,  to 
mtrcte  you  that  I  may  have  yoiu-  good  will  and  your  wiefs, 
for  if  we  geete  the  fathers  good  will  first,  then  may  wee 
bolder  spake  to  the  dattcr,  for  my  possebelctis  is  abel  to 
mantcyne  her." 

10  lie  was  outrun  on  Cotsall, 
The  Cotswold  hills  in  Gloucestershire  have  long  been 
eminent  for  racing  and  coui'sing.  An  attorney  of  Barton  on 
the  Heath  of  the  name  of  Dover  instituted  annual  amuse- 
ments here  in  the  time  of  James  I.,  but  the  hills  had 
pre%'iou3jy  obtained  a  sporting  celebrity.  One  of  them  near 
Campden  is  still  called  Dover's  hill.  A  volume  of  poems  on 
these  sports,  entitled,  "  Annalia  Dubrensia,  upon  the 
yeerely  Celebration  of  Mr.  Eobert  Dover's  Olympick 
Games  upon  Cotwold  Hill?,"  appeared  at  London  in  1636, 
baving  a  representation  of  Dover  on  horseback  in  the  lower 
part  of  the  frontispiece.  The  poet  elsewhere  mentions 
"Will  Squcle,  a  Cotswold  man,"  as  a  famous  swinge- 
buckler.  It  is  not  generally  kno-n-n  that  the  Cotswold 
games  have  been  annually  continued  at  "Viliitsuntide  up  to 
the  present  time,  the  chief  amusements  being  backsword- 
playing,  wrestling,  horse,  pony  and  donkey  races  for  belts 
and  silver  cups,  purchased  by  subscription  collected  from 
tho  inhabitants  of  Campden,  and  the  adjoining  parishes, 
the  places  where  most  of  the  competitors  come  from. 
Some  half  century  since,  these  people  ranked  high  as 
wrestlers  and  backsword  pl.ayers,  and  the  meeting  w,a3  not 
only  looked  forward  to  by  them  as  the  gi-eat  holiday  of  tho 
neighbourhood,  but  was  well  attended  by  all  classes  of 
Bociety.  Within  tho  last  twenty  years  it  has,  however, 
nmch  deteriorated.  It  is  true  tliat  backsword  playing  and 
other  amusements  are  still  canicd  on,  but  on  a  vci-y  limited 
Bcale ;  and  as  the  open  fields  of  Weston  Subedge  are 
abjut  to  bo  enclosed,  the  present  year  (1850)  has  probably 
Been  the  last  vestige  of  the  '  Cotswold  Games.' 

1'  '  y  is  your  fault. 
That  is,  it  is  your  misfortrino.      I'auh  is  frequently  used 
in  this  sense  by  old  writers.     Shallow,  v.'ith  great  kindness, 
tries  to  console  Pago  in  a  matter  to  which  Slender  injudi- 
niouflly  persists  in  alluding. 
122 


'-  But  not  hiss'd  your  keeper's  daughter. 

The  commentators  think  this  a  burden  of  some  oW 
ballad.  Sir  Walter  Scott  gives  us  a  different  explanation 
in  his  novel  of  '  Keiulworth ;' — 

"  Sussez.  By  my  faith,  I  wish  WUl  Shakespeare  no 
harm.  He  is  a  stout  man  at  quarter-staff,  and  single 
falchion,  though,  as  1  am  told,  a  halting  ftUow :  and  he 
stood,  they  say,  a  tough  fight  with  the  i  angers  of  old  Sii 
Thomas  Lucy,  of  Charlecot,  when  he  broke  his  deer-park, 
and  kissed  his  keeper's  daughter. 

Elizabeth.  That  matter  was  he!.rd  in  council,  and  wc 
will  not  have  this  fi;llow'3  offence  exaggerate  i — there  was 
no  kissing  in  the  matter,  and  the  defendant  put  the  denial 
on  record. 

1^  lyit  were  knoivn  in  counsel. 
Steevens  suggests  that  Falstaff  q\iibblc3  between  council 
and  counsel.  In  this  sense,  Falstaff's  meaning  would  be — 
'Twere  better  for  you  if  it  were  known  only  in  secresy,  i.e. 
among  yoiu'  friends  :  a  more  public  complaint  would  sub- 
ject you  to  ridic-ule.  llitson  thinks  the  ordinary  inter- 
pretation just,  but  Malone  adduces  the  spelling  of  the 
words  in  the  old  quarto  as  an  argument  in  favour  ol 
Steevens'  reading;  and,  from  a  MS.  mentioned  by  Malone, 
it  would  seem  that  the  equivoque  was  less  strained  then 
than  it  appears  to  be  now. 

^*  Good  worts .'  good  cabbage. 

Worts  wore  any  kind  of  pot-herbs,  but  here  and  in  some 
otlicr  places,  the  term  seems  to  apply  only  to  coleworta  oi 
cabbages.  "  Jl'ourls,  all  kind  of  heaibcs  that  serve  for  thi 
potte,"  Baret,  1580. 

'5  Your  coney-catching  reseats. 
Coney-catch,  to  cheat.     An  old  cant  term  in  common  use 
in  Shakespeare's  time. 

'°  You  Banbury  cheese. 

Banbury  cheese  was  remarkable  for  its  thinness,  and  i:: 
here  very  humorously  applied  to  Slender.  The  elder  Hcy- 
wood  obsen-es  that  he  "  never  saw  Banbury  cheese  thick 
enough."  The  following  receipt  for  malcing  it,  is  extracted 
from  MS.  Sloane  1201,  a  curious  early  miscellany  presented 
in  the  British  Museum : — ■ 

"  To  make  Banbcry  chese.  Take  a  thin  ches-fat,  and 
bote  mylk  as  it  comes  from  the  cou,  and  ryn  it  forth  withal 
in  somer  t^Tue  ;  and  kned  your  cruddz  hot  ones,  and  kned 
them  not  to  snial,  bot  brcko  them  ones  with  your  hondez ; 
and  in  somer  tymc,  salt  tho  cruddz  nothj-ng,  bot  let  the 
chese  lye  iij.  daycs  imsalted,  and  then  salt  them ;  and  lav 
oon  upon  another,  but  not  to  much  salt ;  and  so  shal  they 
gethir  buftur.  And  in  x\-)'ntur  tynie  in  lyke  wyse,  bot  then 
bete  your  mylk,  and  salt  your  cruddz,  for  then  it  wil  getbef 
buttur  of  itself.  Take  the  ^vnmge  whey  of  the  same  mylk. 
and  let  it  stand  a  day  or  ij.  til  it  have  a  ereiue,  ard  it  slal 
make  as  good  buttur  as  any  other." 

Mephistophilis,  the  nan.e  of  tho  spirit  in  tho  old  liiston 
of  Dr.  Faustus.     He  had  been  made  famous  by  Marlowe 

1"  Seven  grmits  in  mill-siTpences. 

Douce  informs  us  that  these  sixpences  were  cometl  ir 
15G1,  and  were  tlie  fiist  milled  muncv  used  in  tliis  kiiigdam 


NOTES  TO  THE  MERKY  WIVES  OF  ■WINDSOR. 


EdB'ard  shovol -boards  were  the  broad  sliillings  of  Edward 
VI.,  ofUn  used  at  the  game  of  shovel-board,  an  amusement 
in  \vfiich  our  poet  participated,  if  we  may  buUovo  the 
tra.litiona  of  Stratford.  The  commentators  are  at  consider- 
able pains  to  account  for  tlie  sum  paid  by  Slender  for  these 
shillings ;  but  it  requires  little  sagacity  to  perceive  that  the 
same  person  wio  could  aUinn  that  he  lost  seven  groats  in 
Diill-sLxpences,  would  be  vciy  likely  to  commit  another 
eiTur  of  a  similar  kind. 

Yciid  Miller,  that  is,  Edward  JliUer.  Yead  or  Yed  is  still 
a  pioviiiclal  curt  name  for  Edward. 

'"  I  combat  challenge  of  this  latlen  billio. 

Pistol  is  comparing  Slender  \vith  tie  long  and  tliin 
bUhoa  blades,  made  of  latejt,  a  hard  metal  resembling  braes 
in  its  coloiu-.  The  comparison  is  of  older  date,  for  in 
Grange's  Garden,  1577,  we  read, 

"  Hir  husbandes  wealth  shall  wasted  be. 
Upon  hyr  bUbowo  boyes." 

It  may  bo  mentioned,  as  some  difference  of  opinion  eyjsts 
among  the  commentators,  that  laten  metal  is  thus  defined  in 
the  I'rjmplorium  Parvuloriim,  MS.  Ilarl.  221,  "  Latone 
metal,  auricalcum."  Cotgi-ave  translates  arcou,  "  a  kind  of 
laten  or  copper,  whereof  kettles  ai'e  made." 

Labras,  lips.  (Span.)  Shakespeare  might  have  met  with 
ihe  word  in  the  tale  in  Tarlton's  Newcs  out  of  Purgatorie, 
1590,  on  which  this  comedy  is  supposed  to  be  partially 
founded.  Marry  trap,  perhaps  equivalent  to,  '  By  Maiy, 
you  are  caught;'  but  I  have  not  met  vsith  the  phrase 
ebewhere. 

i'^  /f  you  run  the  nuthook's  humour  on  me. 

That  is,  if  you  call  me  a  thief.  The  nuthook  was  used 
by  the  thief  for  hooking  up  articles  through  a  ■window,  a 
practice  which  is  again  alluded  to  by  Shakespeare.  The 
word  humour  was  very  fashionable  in  our  author's  time,  and 
used  in  a  variety  of  ways,  applied  to  every  particularity  of 
character.  A  character  in  lien  Jensen's  '  Eveiy  Man  out 
of  his  Humour'  says  of  another,  "  'SMiy,  this  fellow's  dis- 
course were  nothing  but  for  the  word  humour."  The  reply 
is  in  the  spirit  of  true  comedy.  "  0  bear  with  him ;  an  he 
should  lack  matter  and  words  too,  'twere  pitiful." 

2"  What  say  you,  scarlet  mtd  John. 

Falstaff  here  alludes  to  Eardolph's  red  face.  Scarlet  and 
John,  in  the  phraseology  of  the  time,  would  be  equivalent 
to  scarlet  John.  The  commentators,  however,  say  there  is 
an  allusion  to  Eobin  Hood's  companions,  mentioned  in  the 
old  ballad, — 

All  this  be-heard  three  witty  yoimg  men, 
Twas  Robin  Uo'od,  Scarlet  and  John  : 

With  that  they  espy'd  the  joUy  pinder. 
As  he  sat  imder  a  thorn. 

Bardolph's  face  became  proverbial.  There  is  a  curious 
passage  in  Gayton's  'Notes  upon  Don  Qubcot;'  fol.  Lond. 
1C.54,  p.  48, — "If  you  -n-ill  have  names  more  known  and  to 
the  life,  a  llobin  GoodfeUowes  face,  a  Bardiilj,hs,  a  Fumifals 
June  face,  or  a  Emdwcls  face,  wliich  was  the  blessed-dest 
that  ever  1  saw  " 


**  And  being  ftip,  ^'c. 
Fap,  i.e.  intoxicated ;  a  cant  term.  Cashier' d,  dismis'ed 
sent  out  of  the  room.  Barot,  l.'iSO,  ctplains  carW.'t,  "th( 
short  turning  of  a  nimble  torse,  now  this  way,  nowp  tha 
way."  A  dnmken  man  might,  therefore,  aiipropiialely  bj 
said  to  "  pass  the  carriers." 

^-  By  your  leave,  good  mistress. 
Falstaff  hero  kisses  her,  the  stage  direction  being  au- 
thorised by  the  quai-to  of  1602.  Kissing  was  formerly 
more  in  fashion  between  acquaintances  than  it  is  now.  In 
'Westward  for  Smelts,'  1G20,  a  gentleman  sent  on  a 
message  to  a  lady,  whom  he  had  never  seen,  "espied  her  in 
the  fields,  to  v.-hom  he  went  and  kissed  her,  a  thing  no 
modest  woman  can  deny. 

"  Tlie  Book  of  Biddies. 

The  Book  of  Riddles  was  a  verj'  popular  collection,  and 
was  no  doubt  well  kno\m  to  Shakespeare.  It  is  mentioned 
by  Laneham,  157.5,  and  in  the  'English  Courtier,'  1.586; 
but  the  earliest  edition  now  preserved  is  dated  1629,  a  copy 
of  which  is  in  the  library  of  the  Earl  of  Ellcsmere, 
entitled,  "The  Booke  of  Merry  Riddles,  together  with 
proper  Questions  and  mtty  Proverbs,  to  make  pleasant 
pastime ;  no  lesse  usefull  then  behovcfuU  for  any  yong  man  i 
or  child,  to  know  if  he  be  quick-witted  or  no."  An  extract 
from  this  very  rare  work,  -nhieh  has  not  been  quoted  by 
any  former  editors,  cannot  fail  to  prove  acceptable  to  our 
readers ; 

"Here  beginneth  the  first  Kiddle. 

Two  legs  sat  upon  three  legs,  and  had  CLe  leg  in  hei 
band ;  then  in  came  foure  legs,  and  bare  away  one  leg; 
then  up  start  two  legs,  and  threw  three  legs  at  foure  legs, 
and  brought  againe  one  leg. 

Solution. — That  is   a  woman  with  two  legs  sate  on   a 
stoole  with  three  legs,  and  had  a  leg  of  mutton  in  her 
hand ;  then   came   a  dog  that  hath  foure  legs,  and  bare 
away  the  leg  of  mutton;   then  up  start  the  woman,  and 
threw  the  stoole  with  three  legs  at  the  dog  with  foure  legs, 
and  brought  againe  tlie  leg  of  mutton. 
Tlie  second  Riddle. 
He  went  to  the  wood  and  caught  it. 
He  sate  him  downe  ana  snu^ht  it ; 
Because  he  could  not  finde  it, 
Home  ■n-ith  Idm  he  brought  it. 

Solution. — That   is   a  thome ;  for  a  man  went  to  the 
wood,  and  caught  a  thome  in  his  foot ;    and  then  he  sat* 
him  down,  and  sought  to  have  pulled  it  out,  and  because  he 
could  not  find  it  out,  he  must  needs  bring  it  home. 
The  iii.  Riddle. 

What  work  is  that,  the  faster  ye  worke,  longer  it  is  ere 
ye  have  done,  and  the  slower  ye  worke,  the  sooner  ye  make 
an  end? 

So/uft'oT!.— That  is  turning  of  a  spit:  f(-r  if  ye  tiune 
fast,  it  will  be  long  ere  the  meat  be  rested,  Lut  if  ye  turn 
slowly,  the  sooner  it  is  rostcd. 

The  iv.  Riddle. 

What  is  that  that  shineth  bright  all  day,  and  at  night  ij 
ralced  up  in  its  owne  diit  ? 

Solution. — That  is  the  fire  that  bumett  bright  all  the 

dav,  and  at  niiiht  is  rak'd  up  in  his  ashes. 

Ii3 


NOTES  TO  THE  MERRY  WIVES  OP  WLNDSOIi. 


The  v.  Biddte. 

I  have  a  tree  rf  great  honor. 
Which  tree  beareth  both  fruit  and  flower; 
Twelve  branches  tills  tree  hath  nake, 
Fifty  (sic)  nests  therein  he  make, 
And  evciT  nest  hath  birds  seaven; 
Thanked  be  the  King  of  Heaven  ; 
And  every  bird  hath  a  divers  name : 
llow  may  all  this  together  iiame  ? 

l>o!utian. — The  tree  is  the  yeare ;  tlie  twelve  branches  be 
the  tn-elve  moneths;  the  fifty-two  nests  be  the  fifty-two 
weekes ;  the  seven  birds  be  the  seven  daycs  in  the  weeke, 
whereof  every  one  hath  a  divers  name." 

Slendcr's  '  book  of  songs  and  sonnets'  was  not  necessarily 
the  colloction  of  Lord  Surrey's  published  under  that  title. 
It  was  customary  at  that  time  to  have  common-place  books 
of  poetical  scraps,  and  it  is  not  unlikely  that  Slender  may 
refer  to  one  of  these. 

"  Allhallowmas  last,  a  fortnight  afore. Michaelmas,"  is,  of 
course,  a  blunder ;  but,  as  it  is  put  into  the  mouth  of 
Simple,  it  is  probably  intentional. 

Parcel,  i.e.,  a  part  or  portion. 

"  Upon  fumiliarily  will  grow  more  content. 

So  the  first  folio,  and  I  am  quite  at  a  loss  to  account  for 
the  iteration  made  by  modem  editors  of  contempt  for 
Content.  Of  course,  either  reading  makes  perfect  sense ; 
but  it  is  more  consistent  with  Slenders  phraseology  to 
E-ppose  he  mistakes  the  word,  than  to  regard  the  sentence 
»s  a  mere  misapplication  of  a  well-known  proverb.  Heath 
has  well  observed  that  the  humour  in  cither  ease  is  equally 
good. 

^  With  a  master  of  fence. 

.\  master  of  defence  was  properly  one  who  had  taken  a 
master's  degree  iu  the  science  of  fencing.  The  phrase  was, 
however,  applied  to  any  professor  of  the  art. 

Three  veniea.  Slender  means  to  say  that  the  wager  for 
which  he  played  ^«as  a  dish  of  stewed  primes,  which  wss 
to  be  paid  by  him  who  received  three  hits.  See  Bullokar's 
'English  Expositor,'  1GI6; — "  Venie,  a  touch  in  the  body 
at  playing  with  weapons."  Stccvens  gives  several  instances 
of  the  use  of  the  word,  but  the  above  is  quite  sufficient. 
Shakespeare  uses  the  word  mctaphorieaUy  in  another  play. 

■■^  That  'y  meat  and  diink  to  me. 

A  common  s;iying,  meaning  great  fondness  for  any- 
thing. Touchstone,  in  "  As  You  Like  It,"  uses  the  same 
phiase — "  It  is  meat  and  diirJc  to  me  to  see  a  clown,"  and 
a  writer  of  our  o\ra  time,  Jlr.  Ijickeus,  introduces  it  in 
one  of  his  novels, 

-"  /  have  seen  Sacherson  loose. 
Tlic  name  of  a  celebrated  bear  in  the  garden  at  Soulh- 
wark.  lie  is  thus  alluded  to  in  the  comedy  of  Sir  Giles 
Goosecap,  1G06  : — "I  would  ratlier  have  lost  the  dearest 
friend  that  I  ever  lay  with  in  my  life  ;  by  tliis  light,  never 
Btir  if  he  fought  not  with  great  Scckerson  foiu-  hours  to 
one,  foremost  lake  up  hindmost,  and  took  so  many  loaves 
fi-om  him,  tliat  he  starv'd  liini  presently  :  so  that  at  last  the 
Jog  (/luld  do  no  more  tlian  a  bear  could  do  :  and  the  bear 
being  heavy  with  hunger  yo .  know,  fcdl  upon  t)io  dog, 
j-iikehi'  baol  .  atd  the  dos;  never  stirr'd  any  more." 


2s  Jiy  coch  and  -pye. 

An  oath,  comprising  a  corruption  of  the  name  »t  U'.c 
Deity,  and  pie,  the  sacred  book  of  offices. 

"'  Of  Doctor  Caius'  houae  which  is  the  wai/. 

That  is,  which  is  the  way  to  Dr.  Cains'  house.  Th 
particles  were  often  interchanged  in  this  way.  I  veiy  much 
doubt  whether  Shakespeare  had  the  learned  founder  of  an 
eminent  Cambridge  College  in  his  mind  when  he  gave  a 
name  to  thia  character,  who  is,  of  course,  intended  as  a 
satire  on  the  foreign  physicians  of  the  time,  who  were  sc 
fashionable  and  popular  with  tLe  English  gentry.  Fanner, 
however,  says  that  the  doctor  was  handed  down  as  a  sort  of 
Eosicrucian,  and  I  have  seen  a  MS.  of  his  on  magic  and 
astrology.  In  the  "  Merry  Tales  of  Jack  of  Dovor,' ' 
IGOl,  a  story  told  by  "the  fool  of  Windsor,"  begins  thus  :  — 
"  Upon  a  time  there  was  in  Windsor  a  certain  simple  out- 
lancUsh  doctor  of  physick  belonging  to  the  dean,"  <S:c.  The 
character  may  then  possibly  have  been  drawn  from  life ; 
and,  as  Shakespeare  would  scarcely  have  introduced  the  real 
name  into  his  play,  he  may  have  made  qiute  an  arbitraiy 
choice. 

French  doctors  were  common  subjects  for  satire.  Ga3rton 
puts  the  following  absurd  speech  into  the  mouth  of  one  ol 
them,  as  an  illustration  that  medicine  is  not  alike  to  all 
constitutions : — "  If  te  body  be  full  of  grosse  humours, 
and  that  it  operates  excessively,  all  de  better  for  dat ;  and 
if  the  physick  doe  not  stirre  the  patient,  'tis  a  good  signe 
that  de  grosse  humours  are  not  in  te  body,  and  so  all  te 
better  for  dut  too. 

2^  Or  his  laimdri/. 

Laundry  for  launder,  a  washer  of  clothes. 

3^  There  '5  pippjts  and  cheese  to  come. 

It  wxs  formerly  a  common  practice  to  conclude  a  repast 
vdih  fi'uit  and  cheese,  both  being  placed  on  the  table  at  the 
same  time.  Taylor,  the  water-poet,  thus  alludes  to  the 
custom : — 

Contentions,  emulations,  and  debate, 

Th^se  furnish  forth  his  table  in  great  state. 

And  then  for  picking-meat  or  daintie  hits, 

The  second  course  is  Actions,  cases,  icrits 

Long  Suits  from  Tcrme  to  termc,  and  Fi'ies  and/CG', 

At  the  last  cast  comes  in  for  Fruit  and  chceae. 

'-  ^yhat  says  my  bully-rook  f 

Bully-rook  was  a  cant  term,  applied  to  a  sharper.  The 
Ilost  is  not  very  choice  in  his  language,  but  it  is  an  odd 
designation  for  liim  to  apply  to  Falstaff,  even  although  the 
fat  knight  was  chiefly  liWng  by  his  wits.  Ho  uses  it, 
again,  in  act  ii.  sc.  2,  in  addressing  Shallow  and  Fcrd. 

^^  I  sit  at  ten  pounds  a  wceh. 

That  is,  1  e.Npend  ten  pounds  a  week.     This  assiTlion 
liowever,  appears  somewhat  inconsistent  with  the  circnm- 
staneo   afterwards   recorded,    that  he  shared  fiftcin  .pence 
with  Pistol  wl'cn  the  lat'xr  stole  iho  handle    if  Mistrcs? 
Bridt^et's  fan. 


Js'OTES  TO  TllK  MEUKY   WIVES  OF  WINDSUK. 


"'  Casar,  Keinar,  ami  IVieezar. 

Kcisar,  tlie  (Id  English  word  for  Ctosar,  and  goneially, 
111  emperor.  From  tlje  Anglo-Saxon,  Cisure.  riicczar  Vi, 
pcrliaps,  a  vorJ  of  arbitrary  composition.  Malcnu  tliinlsa 
it  is  a  laado  word  from  phccze,  to  boat. 

3^  I^et  me  see  theej'roth  and  lime. 
According;  to  Stecvens,  beer  ^vds  /rothed  by  putting  soap 
int3  the  bottom  of  the  taiJcard  wlicn  it  was  dravni ;  and 
Bacit  was  ma.lo  to  sparkle  by  mixing  lime  with  it.  Falstalf 
elsewhere  complains  of  limed  sack.  Mr.  Knight  adopts  the 
reading,  "  Let  me  see  thee  froth,  and  Hue."  liatfiotli  was 
as  technical  a  term  as  lime. 

^^  O  base  Hungarian  wight .' 
Hungarian  was  a  cant  term,  generallj'  applied  in  a  con- 
temptuous manner.  The  quarto  of  1G02  reads  Gongarian, 
and  Steevens  quotes  the  following  line  from  an  old  play, 
here  inserted  by  Shakespeare  into  the  mouth  of  Pistol,  who 
is  perpetually  quoting  "  old  ends," — 

"  0  base  Gongarian !  wilt  thou  the  distalT  wield  ?" 

3^  Is  to  steal  at  a  minute's  rest. 
That  is,  at  a  partieiJar  moment  favourable  to  the  operator. 
The  plirase  was,  perhaps,  derived  from  tournaments.     Cvn- 
veij,  the  technical  cant  term  for,  to  steal. 

^^AJjcoJor  the  phrase! 
Pistol  here,  no  doubt,  is  supposed  to  make  a  Jig,  or  thrust 
out  the  thumb  between  the  first  and  second  fingers,  a  sign 
indicative  of  supreme  contempt. 

And  when  you  come  unto  the  wheel  or  gibbet, 
Bidfwa  for  the  world,  and  go  out  martyrs. 

Shirley's  Sisters,  1652. 

Kilies  are  chilblains. 

3^  Young  rattens  jnust  hare  food. 
A  similar  expression  is  used  by  a  braggadocio  character 
in  the  Poetaster,  and  may  possibly  be  borrowed  from  Serip- 
tuio.    Pistol's  language,  according  to  Gilford,  is  made  up  of 
bui'lesquo  scraps  from  old  plays. 

*"  But  I  am  now  about  no  waste. 

The  same  play  upon  words  ocou-s  in  Hcywood's  "Epi- 

granimes,"  1562^ 

"Where  am  I  least,  husband.'  quoth  he,  in  the  wai.H; 
■Uliich  comcth  of  this,  thou  art  vengeance  strait-lac'd. 
Where  am  I  biggest,  wife  ?  in  the  waste,  quoth  she, 
For  all  is  waste  in  you,  as  far  as  I  see." 

And  again  in  Shirley's  comedy  of  "The  Wedding,"  1629— 
"  He  is  a  great  man  indeed  :  something  given  to  the  wast, 
for  he  lives  within  no  reasonable  compass."  (Malone'3 
Shaltcspcare,  by  Boswell,  ^■iii.  38.) 

*'  She  discourses,  she  carves. 
Mr.  Hunter  has  shown  that  carve,  in  Shakespeare's  time, 
was  used  in  the  sense  of  to  woo ;  but  I  am  rather  doubtful 
of  its  application  in  this  particular  instance.  It  was 
formerly  esteemed  a  compUmcnt  for  a  lady  to  carve  at  table 
for  a  gentleman.  So,  in  Vittoria  Corombona,  1612, — 
"Yoiu'  husband  is  wcudrous  discontented. —  Vit.  I  did 
notliing  to  displease  him :  I  carved  to  him  at  supper  time." 


*-  Out  of  honesty  into  Eiigliih. 

The  meaning  of  tlus  speech  is,  Ho  hath  studied  h(.T  irill 
and  translated  or  explained  her  will  out  of  her  honesty  iuta 
a  confession  in  plain  English.  Sliakespeare  elsewhere  lue 
translate  in  the  sense  of,  to  explain. 

The  anchor  is  deep.  Nym  merely  means  to  say  thill 
Fakstaffs  sclicnies  arc  deeply  laid.  He  is  speaking  ironically. 

'•^  A.1  many  devils  entertain. 
The  old  quarto  reads,  "  as  many  devils  attend  her,' 
which  clearly  shows  the  meanii:g  here  intended.  Coleridge, 
who,  nolwitlistanding  his  great  philosophical  genius,  waa 
one  of  the  worst  verbal  critics  tliat  ever  lived,  proposes  to 
read, — 

As  n'any  iknila  enter  (or  enter' d)  ewinc ; 
Alii  to  her,  boy,  say  I. 

and  believes  it  to  bo  a  somewhat  profane,  but  not  un- 
Shakespearian,  allusion  to  the  legion  in  the  Gospel  of  St 
Luke! 

^'  With  most  judicious  ei/liads. 
Ei/Uatls,  sjK'It  ilJmds  in  the  first  fjlio.     It  is,  of  course, 
fi'om  the  French  oeillade,  a  soft  glance. 

*^  ^\'ith  such  a  greedy  intention. 
Intention  is  here  used  in  the  sense  of  a  fixed  or  earnest 
gazing.     So  Jonson,— 

Like  one  that  looks  on  ill-alTccted  eyes, 
Is  liiut  \\'ith  mere  intention  on  their  follies. 

^''  /  will  be  cheater  to  them  both. 
Cheater,  i.e.,  escheator,  an  officer  appointed  by  the  Lord 
Treasurer  to  make  inquests  of  titles  by  escheat,  oi  tene- 
ments  that   casually  fell  to  a  lord  within  his  manor  by 
forfeitm-e. 

*'  Tightly,  cleverly  quickly 

*^  Sail  like  my  pinnace. 
A  pinnace  ivas  a  light  vessel  built  for  speed,  and  generally 
employed  as  a  tender  to  a  larger  ship.     According  to  Kolt, 
it  was  chiefly  used  as  a  scout  for  intelligence,  and  for  land- 
ing of  men. 

^^  T7te  humour  of  the  age. 

The  quarto  of  1C0.3  reads  the  humour  of  this  age,  and  the 
folio,  the  honour  of  the  age.  Honour  was  often  mi-sprinted 
humour,  as  in  Shhlcy's  Witty  Fair  One,  It.  6.  By  French 
thrift,  Falstaff  alludes  to  the  practice,  which  then  had 
recently  been  adopted,  of  maldng  a  richly-dressed  page 
answer  the  place  of  a  band  of  retainers.  Ben  Jonson 
deplores  the  change  in  one  of  his  plays. 

"And  how  are  coach-makers  and  coach-men  increased, 
that  fifty  years  ago  were  but  few  in  number ;  but  now  a 
coachman  and  a  foot-boy  is  enough,  and  more  than  every 
knight  is  able  to  keep," — Kich's  Honest'ie  of  this  Age,  1614. 

*'  Let  vultures  gripe  thy  guts. 

Clifford  quotes  this  passage  i.T  one  of  his  attacks  on 
Drvden,  and  the  manner  in  which  he  introduces  it  is  so 
quaint  and  interiisting,  I  am  induced  to  give  a  sorar'what 
long  extract  from  'nis  pamplilet : — 

"To  begin  with  your  character  of  Alinanzor,  w  lich  you 

avow  to  have  taken  ft-t  m  the  Achilles  in  Homer ;  pray  hear 

125 


JS'UTES  TO  THE  MEKEY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOK. 


what  Famfanus  StraJa  says  of  such  talljcrs  as  Mr.  Dryden ; 
JUiiUre  soieo,  cum  video  homines  ah  Jlomeri  virtutibus 
sircniie  declinames,  it  quid  vera  irrepsit  vitii.  id  avidi  arri- 
yientes.  But  I  miglit  have  spared  tliis  quotation,  and  you 
your  avowing ;  for  this  character  might  as  well  have  been 
(lorrowed  from  some  of  the  stalls  in  Bedlam,  or  any  of  your 
own  hare-brained  coxcombs,  which  you  call  heroes,  and 
persons  of  honour.  I  remember  just  such  another  fuming 
Achilles  in  Shakespeare,  one  Ancient  Pistol,  whom  ho 
avows  to  be  a  man  of  so  fiery  a  temper,  and  so  impatient 
of  an  injiuy,  even  from  Sir  John  FalstafF,  his  captain  and 
a  knight,  that  ho  not  only  disobeyed  his  commands  about 
carrying  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Page,  but  returned  him  an  answer 
as  full  of  contumely,  and  in  as  opprobrious  terms,  as  he 
could  imagine : 

'  Let  vultures  gripe  thy  guts,  for  gourd  and  fullam  holds, 
And  high  and  low  beguUes  the  rich  and  poor. 
Tester  I'U  have  in  pouch,  when  tliou  shalt  lack, 
Base  Phrygian  Turk.' 

"  Let's  see  e'er  an  Abencerrago  fly  a  higher  pitch.  Take 
him  at  another  turn,  quaiTclling  with  Cori)oral  Nj-m,  an  old 
Zegri.  The  difference  arose  about  mine  hostess  Quickly, 
(for  I  would  not  give  a  rush  for  a  man  unless  he  be  parti- 
cular in  matters  of  this  moment;)  they  both  aimed  at  her 
body,  but  Abenccn-ago  Pistol  defies  his  rival  in  these  words : 

Fetch  from  the  powdering-tub  of  infamy 

That  lazar  lute  of  Cressid's  kind, 

Doll  I'earsheet,  she  by  name,  and  her  espouse :  I  have, 

and  I  will  hold, 
The  quondam  Quickly  for  the  only  she. 
And  pauca.' 

There's  enough.    Does  not  this  quotation  sound  as  ■well  as  I  ? 

"  Hut  the  four  sons  of  Ammon,  the  three  bold  Eeachams, 
ihe  four  London  Prentices,  Tamerlain,  the  Scythian  Shep- 
herd, Muleasses,  Amurath,  and  Bajazel,  or  any  raging  Turk 
at  the  Eed  Bull  and  Foi-tune,  might  as  well  have  been 
urged  by  you  as  a  pattern  of  your  Almanzor,  as  the  Achilles 
m  Homer ;  but  then  our  laureat  had  not  passed  for  so 
teamed  a  man  as  he  desires  his  unlearned  admirers  should 
esteem  him. 

"  But  I  am  strangely  mistaken,  if  I  have  not  seen  tins 
very  Almanzor  of  yours  in  some  disguise  about  this  town, 
and  passing  imder  another  name.  Prithee  tell  me  true,  was 
not  this  huff-cap  once  the  Indian  Emperor,  and,  at  anotlier 
time,  did  not  he  call  himself  Maximinc  ?  Was  not  Lynda- 
raxa  once  called  Almeria,  I  mean  under  Moatezuma  the 
Indian  Emperor  ?  I  protest  and  vow  they  are  cither 
tlie  same,  or  so  alike,  that  I  can't  for  my  heart  distinguish 
one  from  the  other.  You  arc,  therefore,  a  strange  uncon- 
Bciouable  thief,  that  art  not  content  to  steal  fiom  others, 
but  do'st  rob  thy  poor  wretched  self  too." 

^'  Guurd  and  J'ullam  hold, 

Goui-ds  and  fullams  were  species  of  faLie  dice.  The 
jrmcr  were  not  much  in  fashion  in  Shakespeare's  time 
being  considered  too  liable  to  detection.  Fullams  m'e 
described  in  the  '  JIanifest  Detection  of  Dice  Play'  to  be 
"  square  outward,  yet  within  at  the  coracr  with  lead  or 
other  ponderous  ma  '.er  stcoped."  Whalley  supposes  they 
derived  their  name  from  Jeing  diielly  manufactured  at 
Fulliaiu. 

12f 


*-  II'<jh  and  low  begvile. 
The  dice  were  loaded  to  run  high  or  low,  and  hence  wen 
called  high  men  or  low  men.    These  are  what  Pistol  alludeb  to. 

'^  /  will  incense  Ford. 
Tnccnsc,  i.e.  instigate.     "  lie  ineenseth  their  hearti-s  with 
an  exceeding  desire  of  warrc,   bdlnndi  /urore  corda  czli- 
miilat,"  Barct,  15S0.      Yellowness,  i.e.  jealousy.     The  latter 
term  is  very  common 

5*  The  revolt  of  mine. 
Mien  was  sometimes  spelt  mine;  but  Pistol  seems  to 
aUude  to  the  sense  of  the  above  reading  in  his  reply  to 
X}*m.  Mr.  Knight  says  the  matter  is  not  worth  discussing. 
Is  t'uis  the  reverence  to  the  original  text  of  Shakespeare  so 
much  insisted  upon  in  the  pages  of  that  editor  ?  The  earlv 
quartos  do  not  contain  the  passage. 

^^  Here  will  be  an  old  abusing. 
Old,  i.e.,  famoiis,  great ;  a  familiar  term,  still  retained  in 
the  dialect  of  'Warwickshire.  '*  On  Sunday,  at  masse, 
there  was  olde  ringing  of  bels,  and  old  and  yong  came  to 
chm'ch  to  see  the  new  roode,"  Tarlton's  Newes  out  of 
Purgatorie,  1590. 

^  Nor  no  breed-bate, 
Breed-bate,  or  breed  debate,  a  breeder  or  causer  of  strife. 

5"  Something  peevish  that  way. 
Peevish,  that  is,  foolish.  "  Albemare  kept  a  man-fool  of 
some  forty  years  old  in  his  house,  who,  indeed,  was  so 
i\aturally  peevish,  as  not  Milan,  hardly  Italy,  could  match 
liim  for  simp)icity," — God's  Picvengc  Against  Adulteiy. 
Malone,  however,  thinks  it  is  here  one  of  Mrs.  Qidckly's 
blunders  for  precise.     Either  explanation  is  probable. 

'5  Lihe  a  glover's  paring-knife. 
A  "  great  round  bc.ird"  was  one  of  the  simplest  modes  in 
vcg;ae  in  those  days  of  fantastic  beai'ds.     Taylor  thus  jocu- 
laiiy  alludes  to  the  quick-sct-beard, — 

And  some,  to  set  their  loves  desire  on  edge, 
Are  cut  and  prun'd  like  to  a  qiuck-set-hedge. 

^^  A  Cain-coloured  beard. 
Cain  and  Judas  were  fi-equently  represented  in  old 
tapestries  and  pictures  with  coloured  beai-ds,  and  hence 
expressions  like  the  above  are  supposed  to  be  derived. 
Middleton  alludes  to  Abram-coloured  and  Judas-coloured 
beards.  A  Judas-beard  was  red,  as  appears  from  Maiston'g 
Insatiate  Coimtess,  1G13, — "  I  ever  thought  by  his  red  beard 
he  would  prove  a  Judas."  A  Cain-colom-cd  beard  was  a 
yellow  beai'd. 

^  He  is  as  tali  a  man  of  his  hands. 
A  provcrbiial  phrase  for  a  brave  or  valiant  person.     Tall 
men  were  brave  men.    'A  man  of  his  hands,  homo  strcmiui:, 
impiger,  manu  jtromptus,"  Coles.        iVarrencr,  the  keeper  of 
a  wancu. 

^'  We  shall  all  be  shent. 
Shent  anciently  meant  ruined,  but  in  Sliakeepeare's  time 
it  had  oinaiued  the  sense  of  srcldcd.     "  .Ui,  sir,  tliat  is  suci 
a  secrete  as  I  list  net  rcvtlo  unto  you  hr  doubt  lest  1  l>e 
shi'ni."  Fulwell's  Ar    of  Flnt'^erv,  loTC. 


JSOTES  TO  THE  MERllY  WIVES  OF  VVINDSOK. 


"  And  you  are  Jack  Rcgoby. 
i  cdopl  tlic  method  of  spelling,  liixjoby^  from  the  iirat 
jlcoujh,  repr.  p.  25.     The  doctor  seems  to  intend  a  pun  on 
his  name ;  otlierwise,  the  speech  is  ohuost  unmeaning. 

^  Dere  is  no  honest  vum^  S)C. 

This  is,  of  course,  a  blunder  of  the  doctor's  at  his  own 
expenoc,  and  implies  he  could  not  be  an  honest  man. 

"  Do  for  your  master. 

The  firet  folio  reads  yoe  corrected  by  the  second  folio  to 
for.  Collier  and  Knight  omit  the  word  altogether.  Wrinr), 
i.e.  wring  his  clothes. 

'5  Are  you  avis' d  o'  Oiat? 

A  proverbial  phrase,  enuivalent  to,  Have  you  foimd  out 
that  ?  lias  tliat  occurred  to  you  ?  It  is  of  frequent  oc- 
currence in  old  plays. 

'"  To  meddle  or  make. 
To  meddle  or  make,  i.e.,  to  interfere.     The  phrase  is  still 
Clu-rent  in  the  North  of  Englaivd,  and  in  Scotland,  meddle 
or  mak. 

^1  What  the  good-jer  I 

An  exclamation,  the  precise  meaning  of  which  has  not 
been  Batisfactorily  determined.  It  seems  to  be  sometimes 
equiTalent  to,  "  Wiat  the  dev-il !"  Narcs  would  derive  it 
ft  oni  the  French  goujere.  Goodger  is  a  term  for  the  devil 
in  some  pai'ts  of  Devonshire.  "  What  a  goodyer  aU  you, 
'i.other,"  Isle  of  Gulls,  1606. 

68  But,  I  detest. 

-Mrs.  Q-.uekly's  mistake  for  protest.  "  Given  too  much  to 
allicholhj,"  i.e.  melancholy,  a  provincial  term  still  in  use, 
and  often  put  into  the  mouths  of  uneducated  choractcra  in 
old  plays, 

'^'^  I'  faith,  that  I  will. 
The  old  editions  read,  tliat  we  will,  an  obrious  blimder, 
left  unaltered  by  Knight  and  Collier.    It  is  coiTccted  in  the 
old  manuscript  copy  of  the  play  in  my  possession. 

■">  Though  love  use  reason  for  his  precisian. 

This  is  an  obscure  passage.  Dr.  Johnson  explains  it, 
"  Though  love,  when  he  would  submit  to  rcgulatioa,  may 
use  reason  as  his  precisi.an  or  dii'ector  in  nice  cases,  yet 
when  he  is  only  eager  to  attain  his  end,  he  takes  not  reason 
forliis  coimsellor."  The  same  writer  proposed  to  read  physi- 
cian, an  emendation  receiving  probability  from  a  line  in  the 
Sonnets,  "My  reason  .the  physician  to  my  love."  Mr. 
Knight  gives  the  word  a  meaning  it  never  possessed  in  our 
language.  Puritans  were  usually  termed  precisians,  but 
here  the  term,  if  genuine,  must  mean  one  that  limits  or 
vpstoalpa. 

^^  liy  day  or  night. 

An  old  proverbial  phi-ase,  equivalent  to  altvays.  The 
cuncl'.ision  of  FalstafTs  letter  may  be  compared  with  the 
colophon  at  the  end  of  Ca.xton'3  edition  of  Malory's  Morte 
d'Arthm-,  1495,  wliich  "  was  fynysshed  the  is.  ycre  of  the 
reygac  of  Kynge  Edwardc  the  Fourth, — 


—  by  Syr  Tbomag  Maleore  knyght, 
As  Jhesu  helpe  hym  fi^r  his  grete  myghti', 
As  he  is  the  eervaunt  of  Jhesu  bothe  day  and  ny^'hte.  " 

But    perhaps   Hhakcspcare  was   merely  ridiculing  this 
Skcltonical  mode  of  rhj-thm. 

'-  For  the  putting  down  of  men. 
Theobald  introduced  fat  before  men,  a  reading  followed 
by  Mr.  Collier ;  but  there  is  no  real  necessity  for  an  altera- 
tion of  the  original.  Mrs.  Page  merely  means  to  imply  a 
bill  for  repressing  men's  impertinence  ;  putting  down  beirfi 
frequently  used  in  tl)at  sense. 

"  These  knights  will  hack. 
Alluding  to  the  immense  number  of  knights  made  by 
the  king.  See  the  introduction  to  this  play.  A  vcrv 
curious  unpublished  anecdote,  in  connexion  with  tliis  sub- 
ject,  is  preserved  in  a  MS.  in  the  Bodleian  Librar)-,  entitled, 
"  The  chai-acter  of  Sir  Martin  liamham,  Knt.,  written  by 
his  son  Sir  Francis,  who  was  the  father  of  the  Lady  Salkeld, 
in  whose  closet  it  was  found  after  her  death  :" — 

"About  this  time,  ICing  James  came  to  this  crownc,  to 
whom  Queen  Elizabeth,  by  her  constant  sparing  hand  of  all 
sorts  of  honour,  left  great  power  of  satisfaction  and  rewards 
of  that  kind ;  of  which,  amongst  others,  knighthood  was 
most  pursued,  as  being  that  of  which  so  many  men  were 
then  fittly  capable.  The  King,  hai-ing  bin  very  bountifull 
of  that  honor  in  his  journey  from  Scotland  to  London, 
most  part  of  the  gentlemen  in  the  other  parts  of  the  king, 
dom  wore  desirous  to  addresse  themselves  in  that  gencrall 
fashion,  and  though  in  some  particiJar  men  by  the  king's 
favour,  or  mediation  of  some  great  men,  that  honour  was 
freely  bestowed ;  yet  generally  it  was  purchased  att  gi'cat 
rates,  as  att  3  or  4  or  5  hundred  pounds,  according  to  the 
circumstances  of  precedency  and  grace  mth  which  it  was 
accompanied.  Now  Sir  John  Grey,  my  noble  friend  and 
near  allye,  finding  the  way  of  knighting  by  favor  somewhat 
slack,  and  not  allwayes  ceitain,  out  of  his  affection  to  me, 
att  the  kings  first  coming  to  London  treated  with  a  Scotch- 
man, an  acquaint.ancc  of  Ms,  that  for  80  lb.  and  some  cour- 
tesies which  he  should  do  him,  my  father  and  myself  should 
be  knighted,  and  gave  me  present  knowledge  thereof  that 
it  might  be  suddenly  effected,  with  which  I  made  my 
father  instantly  acquainted,  and  told  him  tiat  though  I 
doubted  not  to  procure  both  our  knighthoods  without  money 
by  the  power  of  some  great  friends  I  had  in  court,  yet 
considering  the  obligation  to  them,  and  the  time  that  would 
be  lost  before  that  could  certainly  be  effected,  I  thought  it 
would  be  a  better  way  to  make  a  speedy  end  of  it  att  sc 
small  a  charge,  rather  than  to  linger  it  out  att  uncertaintys, 
att  such  a  time  as  every  man  made  hast  to  crowd  in  att  the 
now  play  of  knighthood.  Hereto  my  father  made  this 
answer,  that  having  by  God's  blessing  an  estate  fit  enough 
for  knighthood,  and  having  managed  those  offices  of  creditt 
which  a  countrey  gentleman  was  capable  of,  he  shoidl  not 
be  unwilling  to  take  that  honor  upon  him,  if  he  might  have 
it  in  such  a  fashion  as  that  himself  might  hold  it  an  honor, 
but  said  he,  '  if  I  pay  for  my  knighthood,  I  shall  never  bo 
called  Sir  Maitin,  but  I  shall  blush  for  shame  to  think  how 
I  came  by  it ;  if  therefore  it  cannot  be  had  freely,  I  am 
resolved  to  content  myself  with  my  present  condition  ;  and 
for  my  wife,'  said  he,  merrily,  '  I  will  buy  her  a  new  gown 

127 


NOTES  TO  THE  MELEY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOK. 


i  istoaci  of  a  ladyship  ;  this  is  my  resi  ution  for  myself,  and 
Uiat  which  I  think  fittest  for  you.'  Finding  him  thus 
rcsolvod,  I  gave  over  that  way,  and  made  mcancs  to  my 
z  C'hle  friend,  the  Lord  of  Pembrook,  to  procure  my  father 
a  free  hnighthood,  whiuh  be  readUy  imdertook,  and  ap- 
rcinted  him  a  day  to  attend  for  it  att  Green\vich ;  hut  tha', 
morning  there  came  some  ncwes  out  of  Scotland  that  pitt 
the  King  so  out  of  humor,  as  made  that  time  unfitt  for  it,  ani 
instantly  after,  it  was  published  that  the  king  would  make 
no  more  knights  till  the  day  of  his  coronation,  as  rcsol\"ing 
to  honour  that  day  wHth  a  great  proportion  of  that  honor ; 
on  which  day  my  father,  by  the  favor  of  my  Lord  of  Pem- 
brook,  had  the  honor  of  knighthood  freely  bestowed  on 
him,  and  was  ranked  before  three  foui-th  parts  of  that 
daycs  numerous  knighting." 

"*  TT'e  burn  daylight. 

That  is,  we  waste  time.  Lilly  uses  the  phrase,  to  bum 
tune,  which  would  lead  us  to  suppose  it  meant  originally 
notliing  more  than  destroying  time.  Liking,  constitution  of 
body.  "  If  one  be  in  better  plight  of  bodie,  or  better 
liking,"  Baret,  loSO. 

'Sblood!  we  hum  daylight;  they  wiU  think,  anon, 
We  are  afraid  to  see  their  glittering  swords. 

Hcywood's  Edward  IV.     First  Part. 

"  To  the  tune  of  '  Green  Sleeves.' 

Greeiuleves  was  a  very  popular  old  song.  The  words 
have  not  come  down  to  us,  but  it  wo'Jd  appear,  fiora 
several  allusions  in  contemporary  writers,  they  were  grossly 
indelicate.  A  great  number  of  other  songs  were  set  to  the 
same  time,  which  was  aftei-warda  long  known  as  the  tuno 
of,  "  which  nobody  can  deny."  In  the  Stationers'  Registers, 
1580-1,  is  entered,  "  A  new  Northern  dittye  of  the  Lady 
Groene-sleves ;"  and,  what  is  more  to  our  purpose,  in  the 
same  year  occurs,  "  Greene  Sieves  moralised  to  the  Scrip- 
ture, dcclaringe  the  manifold  benefites  and  blessinges  of 
Rod  bestowed  on  sinfull  man." 

'''  A  thousand  of  these  letters,  sure  more. 
1  have  ventiu-ed  to  transpose  the  two  last  words  to  their 
present  position.  In  other  editions,  they  are  placed  after 
different  names,  and  are  then  incxpUeable.  The  compositor 
might  easily  have  transposed  them  fi-om  one  line  to  another 
by  a  mistake  not  unusual  in  printing.  An  early  MS.  cor- 
rection in  a  copy  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Turmo  reads,  see 
mine,  but  the  above  alteration  appears  to  be  less  ^•ioleut 

"  Unless  he  hww  some  strain  in  me. 

Strain,  i.e.  humour,  disposition.  It  occurs  again  in  this 
play  in  the  same  sense,  act  iii.  sc.  3.  It  is  probably  derived 
from  A.  S.  strynd,  stock,  race,  breed,  tribe.  The  chariness 
vf  our  hiinesly,  tlie  caution  which  belongs  to  our  honesty. 

'8  Well,  I  hope  it  be  not  so. 

It  was,  till  lately,  the  universal  practice  to  omit  this  dia- 
logue in  representation,  and  even  now,  it  is  only  seldom 
retained ;  but  it  is  necessary  to  the  complete  development 
of  this  part  of  the  plot,  '\\nmt  else  is  Uie  use  of  the  de- 
rUiratiou  of  Pistol  and  Nym  to  lie  revenged  on  J'ulstaiff 
12S 


'     Hope  is  a  curtail  dog  in  some  affairs. 
A  curtail  dog  is  a  worthless  dog,  a  dog  without  a  tail 
good  for  any  sernce.   "  A  curtald  dogg,  chien  courtaud,  ecu 
a  dire  chien   sans  queue   oit  esqueue,  bon  a  tout  se/vice  '' 
nowcU's  Lex.  Tet.  16G0. 

^^  He  loves  the  galhj-maipfry. 
Gaily  mawfry,  the   whole  hotchpotch  of   the  fair  scs, 
"A  gallcmalfi-ie  or  hotchpotch,''  Baict,   1.580.      Perpend, 
consider  attentively. 

^'  //  shall  bile  upon  my  necessity. 
To  bite  was  an  old  technical  term  for  cutting  with  a 
sword.     Pistol  says  his  sword  shall  cut,  he  will  go  to  the 
wars,  when  it  is  necessary  to  do  so  for  his  li\'ing. 

^~  Frights  English  out  of  his  V}its. 
Alluding  to   Nym's  bombastic  language.     The   quarto 
reads  humour  instead  of  English. 

^3  Suck  a  drawling  affecting  rogue. 
Affecting  is  merely  the  active  participle  used  for  the  pas- 
sive, several  instances  of  which  occur  in  Shakespeare  and 
contemporary  writers.     So  we  have  in  the  Winter's  Tale, 
"Your   discontenting   father,"    for,    "Your    discontented    ] 
father."     This  would  scarcely  have  seemed  to  require  a    | 
note,   had   not   Mr.    Collier   given   an   entirely  erroneous 
explanation  of  the  line. 

8*  /  wdl  not  believe  such  a  Catalan. 
Catalan,  according  to  Stcevens,  was  an  old  cant  term  for 
a  sharper. 

*^  Cavalero-Justice. 
Ono  of  the  cant  compounds  used  by  mine  host,  meanhig 
my  esquire  justice. 

^  Good  even  and  twenty. 

That  is,  in  the  language  of  the  time,  twenty  good  evens 
to  you. 

"  And  tell  him  my  name  is  Brook. 
Ford's  assumed  name  is  Brook  in  the  quarto  edition,  and 
Broom  in  the  folio.  Theobald  says  that  we  need  no  better 
eridenee  in  favour  of  the  reading  of  the  quartos  than  the 
pun  that  Falstaff  makes  on  the  name,  when  Brook  sends 
him  some  burnt  sack ;  but  it  may  be  objected  that  tliis  pim 
is  almost  entirely  lost  in  the  early  edition.  In  favour  of 
the  adopted  reading  in  the  amended  play,  the  following 
lines  may  be  adduced,  which  appear  to  be  intended  to 
rhyme — 

"  Nay,  I'll  to  him  agaui  in  name  of  Brome : 
He  "U  tell  me  all  his  purpose  :  Sure,  he  '11  como." 
These  lines  do  not  occur  in  the  sketch  of  the  play. 

8*  Will  you  go  on,  sirs  f 
The  folio  reads  an-heirts,  a  hopeless  corruption.  Mr 
Knight  saj's  the  p-araTcl  passage  in  the  quarto  is,  "  hoio 
hoys,  shall  we  wag  ?"  but  these  words  are  found  a  littlo 
lower  down  in  the  foLo,  and,  in  truth,  the  quarto  has  no 
corresponding  passage.  The  long  s  in  old  writing  was 
sometimes  like  the  h,  and  if  we  suppose  the  author  WTotc 
on  syrs,  and  bear  in  mind  the  chaiactor  of  peruiiniisliip  i-i 
that  day,  the  coiTuption  to  an-heires  wil  not  appea/ 
imsoseiblc. 


NOTES  TO  TlIK  MEllRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOK. 


8'  So  firmly  on  his  wifc'sfraiUy. 
Uix   trifea  fraithj  is  an  old  mode  of  expression  for  hia 
^,->i'il  wife.       It   is   a   singular  kind   of  eonstniction,    and 
il.nuld  lie  carefully  observed.     What  they  made  there,  i.e. 
n-hat  Uiey  did  there. 

'"  /  will  retort  tlie  sum  in  equipage. 
Tliis  line  is  taken  from  the  quartos,  and  is  perhaps  war- 
ranted by  Faktafl's  reply.     The  tcnu  equipuye  appears,  in 
Shakespeare's  time,  to  have  been  applied  to  any  kind  of 
goods,  and  would  here  bo  goods  that  Pistol  could  pilfer. 

*'  And  your  coach-fellow. 
Coach-fellow,    an   intimate    companion.      The    term   is 
generally  employed  in  a  contemptuous  sense.     Beu  Jonson 
has  coach-horse,  applied  in  a  similar  maimer. 

^-  A  short  knife  and  a  throng. 
That  is,  a  short  knife  and  a  crowd.     "  The  eye  of  this 
ivoif  is  as  quick  in  his  head  as  a  cutpurso  in  a  throng," 
Overbury's  Characters,  1616. 

"  To  your  manor  of  Pickt-hatch. 
Tlicre  is  great  humoxir  in  designating  this  place  Pistol's 
manor.  Pickt-hateh  was  a  notorious  rendezvous  for  bad 
characters  in  the  cast  of  London,  and  is  continually  alluded 
to  by  our  early  wiiters.  Hedge,  to  shift  dishonestly.  Lurch, 
to  cheat.  Cat-ainountain,  from  the  Spanish  gdto-montCs, 
the  wild  cat.  Red-lattice  phraies,  i.e.  ale-house  plu-ascs. 
The  anciont  ale-houses  were  frequently  distinguished  by  red 
li'itticfs,  and  we  have  many  allusions  to  them  in  old  plays. 

^^  And  your  blunderbuss  oaths. 
The  old  editions  read  bold-beating  oaths,  an  evident  cor- 
ruption, though  retained  by  Messrs.  Collier  and  Knight 
without  any  observation.  The  present  correction  ia  ob- 
tained iVom  the  old  play-house  MS.  copy  of  the  play  before 
referred  to. 

*5  Wdt,  one  Mistress  Ford. 
The  old  copies  read  on,  these  two  words  being  often 
mistaken  for  each  other     Douce  made  the  correction. 

^  Into  such  a  canaries. 
Sirs,  (iuickly'3  eiTOr  for  quandaries. 

"  Nay,  which  is  more,  pensioners. 
Alluding  to  the  gentlemen  pensioners  attendant  on  the 
sovereign.    They  were  very  splendidly  dressed,  and  perhaps 
on  that  account,  superior  to  earls  in  Mrs.  Quiekly's  imagi- 
uation.     So,  in  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream, — 

The  cowslips  taU  her  pensioners  be ; 
In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see. 

According  to  Holme's  Acad.  Arm.  III.  iii.  p.  43,  the 
captain  of  the  band  of  Gentlemen  Pensioners  had  £1000  a 
ye.TT ;  but  this  was  prokibly  at  a  later  period. 

™  A  very  frampold  life. 
Frampold^  \measy,  troublesome.  The  term  occm"s  in  old 
writers  in  various  shades  of  meaning.  Kennett,  MS. 
Lansd.  1033,  says  it  was  used  in  his  time  m  the  sense  of, 
trelfid,  peevish.  "  lU-wiil'd  and  frampled  waspishnesa," 
Bulk  ar.d  Sclvedgs  of  the  World,  1674. 


"o  Your  little  page,  of  all  love*. 
Of  all  loves,  a  pretty  quaint  old  r)hra.se,  equivalent  to,  // 
yuu  love,  on  account  of  love,  kc.     The  carliist  instance  cf  it 
I  have  met  with  occurs  in  the  incditcd  romance  of  Sil 
Ferumbras, — 

And  saide  to  him,  she  mosto  go 

To  viseten  tlie  prisoneria  that  daye, 

And  said,  Sir,yyr  alle  loves, 
Lete  me  thy  prisoneres  seno. 

100  ^aij.word,  i.e.  a  watch-word. 

""  One  of  Cupiifs  carriers. 

Currier  was  applied  to  any  sort  of  messenger ;  a  page. 

102  l/p  with  your  fights. 
Fights  arc  e.^plained  by  Coles,  in  hia  English  Dictionaiy, 
1676,  to  be,   "coverts,   any  places  where  men  may  stand 
imsccn  and  use  their  arms  in  a  ship."      Mr.  Knight  very 
erroneously  interprets  it,  short  sails. 

'"'  A  moryiing's  draught  of  sack. 

Morning-draughts  of  ale  or  sack  were  replaced  in  the 
seventeenth  century  by  coffee.  Ilowel,  in  noticing  Sir 
Hemy  Blount'a  Organon  Hulutis,  10.50,  observes  that, 
"  This  cofFee-diink  hath  caused  a  great  sobriety  among  all 
n.itions :  formerly  apprentices,  clerks,  &c.,  used  to  take 
their  vwmivg  draughbi  in  ale,  beer,  or  wine,  which  often 
made  them  unfit  for  business.  Now  they  play  the  good- 
fellows  in  tills  w.akeful  and  civil  drink.  The  worthy  gentle- 
man Sir'  James  Muddiford,  who  introduced  the  practice 
hereof  first  in  London,  deserves  much  respect  of  the  whole 
nation." 

It  was  formerly  tne  fashion  for  persona  to  introduce 
themselves  to  strangers  with  a  propitiatoi-y  present  of  a  cup 
of  WTnc,  which  preceded  their  appearance.  A  story  is  told 
of  Corbet  and  Jonson  in  MS.  Ilarl.  6395,  which  mentions 
an  instance  of  tlus  practice.  "  Ben  Jonson  was  at  a  tavern, 
in  comes  Bishop  Corbet  (but  not  so  then)  into  tlie  next 
room.  Ben  Jonson  calls  for  a  quart  of  raw  wine,  and 
gives  it  to  the  tapster.  'Sirrah!'  says  he,  'carry  tliis  to 
the  gentlemaa  in  the  next  chamber,  and  tell  him  I  sacrifice 
my  service  to  him.'  The  fcUow  did,  and  in  those  tcrnu. 
'Friend,'  says  Bishop  Corbet,  'I  thank  him  for  his  love, 
but  prithee  tell  him  from  me  that  he  is  mistaken,  for  sacri- 
fices are  always  burnt."  Beu  Jonson  thus  humorously 
alludes  to  the  custom  in  'Bartholomew  Fair,' — 

Now,  gentles,  I  take  it,  here  is  none  of  you  so  stupid, 
But  that  you  have  heard  of  a  little  god  of  love  call'd  Cupir!; 
>Mio,  out  of  kindness  to  Leander,  hearing  he  but  saw  her, 
This  present  day  and  hour  doth  turn  himself  to  a  drawer. 
And  because  he  would  have  their  first  meeting  to  bo  merry, 
He  strikes  Hero  in  love  to  him  with  a  pint  of  sherry; 
Which  he  tells  her  from  amorous  Leander  is  sent  her, 
Who  after  him  into  the  room  of  Hero  doth  venture. 

'»*  Go  to ;  via  I 
A  cant  phrase  of  ey-ultatiou  or  defiance.     It  occurs  again 
in  Love's  Labours  Lost,  v.  2. 

'"'  SitA,  i.e.  since,     .'i.  common  archaism. 

1"**  To  know  what  sne  would  have  given. 
That  is,  to  know  what  Idud  of  presents  she  would  prefoi 
to  be  given  to  iier. 

129 


r?-^ 


NOTES   TO   THE    MERPY   WIVES   OF    Wl.NUSUii. 


'<"  Pursuing  iluit  that /lies. 

I'ocaibly  a  misreading  for  "that  which  flies,  but  the 
original  text  may  be  right,  and  should  not,  therefore,  be 
lUeturbed  \rithout  authority.  A  similar  idea  occurs  in  the 
Wizard,  a  MS.  play  written  about  the  year  16i0  : — 

Never  till  now  unkindc,  unkinde  as  Death, 
StiU  slow  and  tedious  unto  those  that  seek 't, 
Flj-ing  away  from  her  pursuer's  eye. 
And  vdth  all  speed  pursuing  them  that  tie. 

""  Of  great  admittance. 

That  is,  says  Stcevens,  admitted  into  all  or  the  greatest 
companies.  Allowed,  approved.  Amiable  siege,  a  siege  of 
love.     Instance,  example. 

'The  ward  of  her  purity,  that  is,  the  defence  she  at 
present  derives  from  her  purity. 

109  /  will  aggravate  his  style. 

That  is,  add  to  his  titles.  This  play  is  full  of  allusions 
to  cuckoldism,  wliich  are  not  always  worth  explanation  for 
renders  of  the  present  day. 

1'^  Amaimon  sounds  well. 

Amaimon  and  Barlr.;:c.u  pre  found  in  the  old  lists  of 
devils.  "  Amaymou  L;  the  chief  wliose  dominion  is  on  the 
North  part  of  the  infernal  gulf,"  Holme's  Acad.  Arm.  II.  i. 
22 ;  "  Barhos  is  li!;e  a  lion ;  under  him  are  tliirty-six 
legions,"  ibid.  Witlul-cuchold,  one  who  knows  his  wife's 
fcilsehood,  and  does  not  hinder  it. 

"'  An  Irishman  with  mi/  aqua-vitce  bottle. 

Hey  wood,  in  his  "  Challenge  for  Beauty,"  1G36,  mentions 
the  love  of  aiiua-viire  as  chai-actcristic  of  the  Iiish :  — 

"The  Briton  he  mcthegbu  quaffs, 
The  Iriih  aqna-vittc." 

The   Irish  aqua-tHtu,  says  Malonc,  was  not  brandy,  but 
usqmhaugh,  for  which  Ireland  has  been  long  celebrated. 

"-  To  see  theefoin. 

To  foln  was  to  make  a  slight  wound  on  the  skin  in 
fencing.  This  i?  the  old  meaning  of  the  word.  Fencing 
is  now  termed /oi'nmi/.  To  traverse,  to  pass  thy  pxmto,  thy 
stock,  &c.,  were  all  technical  phrases  in  fencing,  fuUy  ex- 
plained in  the  books  of  the  day  on  that  popular  science, 
the  stock  appears  to  denote  the  stoccuta,  commonly  called 
in  England  the  stoccado,  a  species  of  thrust.  Our  space 
will  not  permit  us  to  enter  more  fully  into  the  subject. 

"-  Tltou  art  a  Cas'ilian. 

A  Castilian  was  originally  a  tei-m  for  a  Spaniard,  but 
it  was  afterwards  more  generally  applied.  The  Host 
lakes  advantage  of  the  doctor's  ignorance  of  the  English 
language,  and  apph'cs  to  him  all  kinds  of  inappropriate 
imd  ridiculous  tenns,  to  the  amusement  of  the  by-standers. 
King  Urinal  requires  no  explanation,  alluding  of  course  to 
liis  profession.  Hector,  a  cant  term  for  a  sharper.  Against 
the  luu'r,  against  the  grain. 
ISO 


'"  Ah,  monsieur  mochwatcr. 

An  allusion  to  the  urinals,  always  used  by  physicians  in 
former  days;  or  it  may  be  much-water,  a  term  applied  to 
the  drain  from  dunghills. 


"5  He  will  clapper-claw  Oiee. 
That  is,  beat  thee.     This  word  occurs  also  in   "Tore 
Tyler  and  his  Wil'c : " — "  I  would  clapper-claw  thy  bonee," 
and  earlier  in  a  curious  macaronic  poem  in  MS.  Lansd.,  762. 

I's  Master  justice  guest. 
The  wori  justice  is  here  inserted  on  the  authority  of  the 
MS.     It  is  not  in  the  old  copies. 

11"  Cried  1  aim  ?  Said  I  well? 

Cried  I  aim,  did  I  give  you  encouragement  ?  The  phrase 
is  common  in  our  old  dramatists,  and  occurs  agaia  in  this 
play  in  Act  iii.  so.  2.  The  expression  is  said  to  be  borrowed 
from  archery.  All  the  old  editions  read,  cried  game,  and  the 
quarto  of  1602  has  the  impossible  reading, — "and  thou 
shalt  wear  hir  cried  game."  Supposing  the  copy  read 
cry'd  I  ayme,  the  error  is  very  readily  accounted  for.  See 
Douce,  p.  44. 

118  The  Fetty-ward,  the  Fa.  k-u-ard. 

These  were  probably  names  of  localities  in  TN'indsor, 
and  a  wood  near  Wimbledon  is  still  called  Pett;  -wanL 
Numerous  streets  in  England  have  the  prefix  of  petty 

115  To  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls. 

It  is  scarcely  ncccssaiy  to  observe  that  this  is  an  I'xtruct 
from  the  beautiful  little  ballad,  attriouted  to  Marlowe, 
entitled  "  The  passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love."  Tiiert 
are  many  copies  of  it,  varying  considerably  from  each  other. 
It  is  not  geucraUy  known  that  Dr.  Wilson  set  it  to  music, 
the  original  being  in  the  Bodleian  library.  It  was  ex- 
tremely popular  in  the  time  of  Shakespeare,  as  may  bt 
gathered  from  the  plentiful  allusions  in  contemporar% 
writers.  "  Doe  you  take  me  for  a  woman,  that  you  comi 
upon  mee  \vith  a  ballad  of  Come  live  with  me  and  bo  ii\y 
Love." — Choices  Change,  and  Change,  or  Conceits  in  'Jtir 
Colours,  I60G,  p.  3. 

Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  ^(111  all  the  pleasures  prove 
Th.at  hills  and  valleys,  dales  and  lieldB, 
Woods,  or  steepy  mountain  yields. 

And  we  ■will  sit  upon  the  rocks. 
Seeing  the  sheplierds  feed  their  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigal^. 

And  I  wUl  make  thee  beds  of  rosos, 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies ; 
A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle 
Embroider' d  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 

A  gown  made  of  the  ^ncst  wool. 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull 
Fair-lined  slippers  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  jiuiest  gohJ, 


KOTES  TO  T-tLli  MEiiRY  WIVES  OF  WINBHOR. 


A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy-buda, 
With  coral  clasps  ami  amber  studs; 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  ine  and  be  my  love. 

The  shepherd-swains  shall  dance  and  aing 
For  thy  <lelight  each  May-moniing  :  • 

If  theso  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 

'-"  Whenas  I  sat  in  I'abi/lun. 

EvRM,  in  liis  "  trcmpling  of  mind,"  mixes  the  psalms 
with  the  ballad.  The  present  line  is  the  commencement  of 
Ihe  137th  psalm  in  the  old  version,  ed.  1638,  p.  93, — 

'Wlienas  wee  sate  in  Babylon, 

The  rivers  round  abont, 
And  in  remembrance  of  Sion, 

The  teares  for  griefe  bui-st  out. 

"1  Gallia  and  WJlla. 
The  orig^al  edition  reads,  Gallia  ami  Gaule.     The  cor- 
icction  is  obtained  from  the  early  MS.  in  my  possession. 

^--  Have  yju  inaka-a  de  sot. 
Sol,  i.e  a  fool.  (French.!  Scall,  scald,  a  term  of  reproach. 

'^^  Carry  a  letter  twenty  mile. 
The  singidar  used  for  the  plural,  a  common  practice  in 
S'tiakcspcare's  time,  especially  when  speaking  of  time  or 
dJstince.  Collier  and  Knight  alter  the  original,  but,  with 
sinf^ular  inconsistency,  in  the  '  Tempest'  tbey  retain  Pros- 
per&'a  expression,  "Twelve  year  since,  Mu-anda,"  as  in 
he  old  text. 

^-*  Tliey  are  laid. 
Ttiat  is,   conti'ived  or  plotted.     So  seeming.,   so  seemlv, 
comely,  or  virtuous. 

'-*  As  the  earth  is  firm. 
A  proverbial  phrase,  in  common  use  before  the  doctrines 
of  C^peniicus  became  popularly  adopted. 

'-°  He  speaks  holiday. 

That  is,  he  speaks  in  good  language  suited  to  a  holiday. 
Steevens  has  observed  a  similar  expression  in  Henry  IV., — • 
"  With  many  hohday  and  lady  terms,"  i.e.  fine,  affected 
(erms.  "We  have,  "  in  the  holiday  time  of  my  beauty,"  in 
act  ii.  EC.  1. 

He  smells  April  and  May^  i.e.  he  smells  of  April  and 
May.  The  particle  is  frequently  omitted,  and  several  other 
instances  occur  in  Shakespeare.  '  Tis  in  his  buttons,  equi- 
valent to,  "  he  Li  the  man  for  it. " 

'-'  The  gentleman  is  of  no  hiving. 
That  is,  he  has  no  fortune.     "  Lie  in  a  water-bearer's 
house, — a  gentleman  of  his  havings  I'' — Ben  Jonson's  Every 
Man  in  his  Humoiu-. 

•-^  Tlie  wild  Frinct  and  Fointz. 
So  Poiiitz  should  be  ^^^•itten,  as  in  the  old  editions.  The 
name  was  no  doubt  taken  fi'om  some  individual  contemporary 
with  Shakespeare.  In  Dnlwich  College  is  preserved  a  letf  er 
from  one  Anno  Pojnitz,  addressed  to  AUcync,  the  actjr, 
"to  request  so  much  loidng  kindenes  att  your  hands  to 
lends  me  v.  poundcs." 


'-'  And  drink  Canary  with  him. 
Venner  oaye,  "  Canario  wine,  which  bcareth  the  name  d 
the  islamli  from  whence  it  is  brought,  is  of  some  termed  t 
sackc,  with  tliis  adjunct,  Bweetc,"— Kiu  /lecta,  10'.'2. 
liowell  says  that  in  his  time,  1C34,  it  was  much  adultcrit<>d. 
"  I  shidl  drink  in,"  is,  of  course,  merely  equivalent  tu,  "/ 
shall  drink."  Falstaff  will  dance  U)  Ford's  Jiiping.  Canai-j' 
was  also  tlie  name  of  a  dance,  and  hence  the  double  quijble. 

""  Among  the  whilsters  in  Datcltet  mead. 
Wiitstera  were  blanehera  of  linen.     Bleachers  are  elill 
termed  whipsters  in  the  North  of  England. 

"'  How  now,  my  eyas  musket  f 
An  eyas  was  a  young  hawk  of  any  kind,  before  it  left  the 
nest.     An  eyas-musket  was,  therefore,  a  young  span-ow- 
hawk,  and  the  tenn  is  here  jocularly  applied  to  tlie  pagi. 
132  Ygji  iiiiig  Jack-a-LenL 
A  Jack-a-lent  was  a  stuffed  puppet  wliich  boys  used  to 
throw  at  dm-ing  Lent.     The  term  is  here  jnetaphorically 
appUed  to  the  page.     Quarles  writes, — 

How  like  a  Jack-a-Lent 

He  stands,  for  boys  to  spend  their  Shrove-tide  throwo, 
Or  like  a  puppet  made  to  frighten  crows. 

"'^  Have  I  eavght  thee,  my  heavenly  jewel  t 
This  is  a  quotation  from  a  song  in  Sir  P.  Sidney's  "  Af- 
trophel  and  Stella,"  first  printed  in  1591,  which  commenccl 
OS  follows, — 

Have  I  caught  my  heav'nly  jewel, 
Teaching  sleep  most  fair  to  be .' 
Now  wiU  I  teach  her  that  she, 

AVhen  she  wakes,  is  too-too  cruel. 

'^'  I  cannot  cog. 
"  Baliverner,  to  cog,  foist,  lye,  t.ilkc  idle,  vainely,  or  I-: 
no  purpose,"  Cotgrave. 

*35  That  becomes  the  ship-tire. 
The  ship-tire  is  said  to  be  an  open  flaimting  head-diesG, 
with  scai-fs  or  ribands  floatmg  in  the  air  !il:e  streamers. 
That,  and  the  tu'e-valiant,  if  the  latter  be  not  a  misprint 
for  tire-velvet,  refer  to  fashions  of  head-dresses  in  Elizabeth's 
time. 

136  Nature  thy  friend. 
We  must  understand  being  after  Nature.     This  is  l!oi' 
well's  explanation,  and  is  no  doubt  correct. 

13'  Like  Bucklershury  in  simple-time. 
Bucklersbury,  a  street  in  London,  near  Cheapside,  was 
chiefly  inhabited  in  Shakespeare's  time  by  herbahsts  ojai 
di'uggists. 

"s  Tlie  reek  of  a  lime-kill. 
Lime-kill  is  the  archaic  word  for  lime-kiln,  and  should 
be  preserved.     The  term  is  still  in  use  in  the  North  i  i 
England.    We  have  kill-hole  in  act  iv.  se.  2. 

133  /  will  ensconce  me  behind  the  arras. 
The  aiTas,  or  tapestry,  was  hung  at  some  little  dislance 
from  the  walls,  and  was  frequently  uscrt  us  a  mesr.s  ci 
concealment. 

i-i"  Whitinq-time,  Le.  bleaching  time, 

131 


NOTES  TO  THE  3IEIUIY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


1"  Mliete's  the  cowl-stjfff 
A  po.a  or  staff  used  fur  canying  a  tub  or  basket  having 
t\ro  handles  or  eai-s,  hold  on  the  shouldci-s  of  two  persons. 
A  cowl-stafF,   vectis,  palanga,'   Coles.       Drumble,  i.e.  to 
e  sU)w  or  sluggish.    Tlie  term  is  still  in  prorineial  use. 

^*-  You  were  best  methlle  with  buch-washing. 
In  the  process  of  bucking  clothes,  they  placed  them 
upon  a  smooth  board  or  table,  and  beat  them  with  a 
Hattoncd  pole.  A  quantity  of  linen  vashed  at  once  was 
railed  a  bnch,  a  t.ub  full  of  linen  in  buck.  Ilcnco,  to  wash 
n  buck,  to  w.ash  a  tub  full  of  bucklinen,  the  plirase  punned 
iipun  by  Ford. 

^*^  So,  now  iijtcape. 
According  to  Warburton,  uncape  is  a  term  in  fox-hunt- 
ing, signifying,  to  dig  the  fo.\;  out  when  earthed.     Capcil 
explains  it,  to  lurn  the  dogs  off. 

^^^  Wiiat  ioas  in  the  basket. 

Ml  the  old  copies  read,  "  wlio  was  in  the  basket,"  which 
15  tridently  incorrect,  for  had  it  entered  Ford's  imagination 
there  was  any  one  in  that  receptacle,  he  would  of  course 
have  discovered  the  trie^k.  The  speech,  indeed,  is  altogether 
an  error,  for  Ford  had  not  asked  the  question. 

Carrion  was  a  term  of  contempt,  applied  to  an  elderly 
person.  Wc  meet  with  it  again  in  the  Jlcrchant  of  Vcuice, 
hi.  1. 

'"  A-binUng,  i.e.  hawking. 

""  /'//  makt  a  shaft  or  a  bolt  on  't. 
Tnat  is,  I  will  make  something  of  it.      The  phrase  was 
proverbial.     A  shaft  was  a  proper  aiTow ;  a  Imli  was  a  thick 
short  Tnc,  with  a  knob  at  the  end  of  it,  only  used  for  shoot- 
ing birds. 

'*'  Come  cut  and  long  tail. 
A  curinis  proverbial  phrase,  equivalent  to,  let  anybody 
come  will)  likes.     So  Ben  Jonson, — 

At  Quintin  i'e. 

In  honour  of  this  bridaltoe, 

Hath  challenged  either  wide  countee, 

Come  cut  and  long  tail. 

"*  Happy  man  be  his  dole. 
That  is,  happy  bo  liis  dole  or  portion.     The  expression 
was  prcA'erbi.d. 

"'  And  lyjwTd  to  death  with  turnips. 
"  AVouUl  I  had  been  set  in  the  ground,  all  but  the  head 
of  me,  and  had  my  braii.s  bowl'd  at."     Ben  Jonson. 

ijii  Ilcr  fatlier  wilt  he  anijry  eUe. 
Tli'>  woi'cl  else  is  supplied  from  the  manuscript  in  my 
ytsscssion,  and  seems  neccssarj'  to  the  sense  of  the  passage. 

•^'  On  a  fool  and  a  physician. 
Dr.  Johnson  suggests  or  m  tlie  ])lace  of  and,  which  would 
certainly  be  more  accui'ate,  but  l\Irs.  Quickly  is  not  vciy 
pcrticiilar  in  her  jihrascologj-.  S!io  addressed  Page  and  his 
wife,  one  of  whom  wishes  to  throw  away  his  daughter  on  a 
fniil,  the  other  on  a  physii  ian.  "  To  bo  a  fool  or  a  phy- 
sician" was  a  common  old  proverb. 
132 


^^-  Once  to-night. 
That  is,  some  time  to-night     This  meaning  of  ths  Tcnl 
is  not  the  common  one,  even  in  old  writers.     Sloth,  to 
neglect. 

1^2  Xhe  rogues  slighted  me. 
Slighted,  i.e.  threw.     This    is   one  of    the  many  obso 
lote   words   entirely  imnoticed   in    all    former   editions  0 
Shalccspeare.     Slighted,  qu.  threw  me  aside  ? 

^^*  A  mountain  of  mummy. 
Jnimmy,  or  what  passed  for  it,  was  formerly  sold  by  the 
apothecaries  as  a  medicine.  It  was  esteemed  for  its  aro- 
matic qualities.  Blount  calls  it,  "  a  thing  lilie  pitch,  sold  by 
apothecaries ;  it  is  hot  in  the  second  degree,  and  good 
against  all  bruisings,  spitting  of  blond,  and  divers  c:her 
diseases."  There  were  two  kinds  of  mummy,  the  one  said  to 
have  been  obtained  from  real  Egyptian  mummies,  the  other 
being  merely  a  composition  chiefly  made  up  of  bitumen. 
Fiilstaff  here  uses  the  term  in  a  generic  sense. 

156  J^fcit)  jjig  (I  pottle  of  sack. 
Brew  is  eWdcntly  here  used  in  the  sense  of  draw.    Sock 
was  a  Spanish  white-wine ;    in   fact,  all   Spanish  white- 
v.-incs   were   termed  sacks.     The  wine   now  so   called   ia 
altogether  of  a  different  kind. 

^^^  By  the  Lord,  a  buek-basheil 
There   e^•idently   requires   an   cjaiailation   here,   though 
omitted  in  the  folio,  probably  on  account  of  the  statute  ci 
James.   The  present  reading  is  taken  from  the  early  quarto 

*^^  Another  ambassy  of  meeting. 
Amhassy  is  tlie  old  foiiu  of  embassy,  and  is  very  conmior 
in  old  works. 

i^s  /  („;;/  jlici  address  mc. 
That  is,  make  myself  ready, 

'■''  To  make  me  7nad. 
The   old   editions   read,    "To   make    one  mad."      Th? 
blunder  was  corrected  by  Mr.  Dyce,  in  his  Bemarks,  p.  IC. 

'""  Accusativo,  hunc. 

All  editions  read  hinc,  but  the  blunder  could  scarcely  r.e 
intended,  especially  as  it  is  repeated  by  Evans.  The  boy 
forgot  to  add,  hanc,  hoc,  wJiich  causes  the  latter  to  say,  ''  I 
pray  you,  have  your  rcmcmbranec,  child."  Evans  blunders 
in  his  language,  but  not  in  his  Latinity.  Focatire  is  caret, 
for  vocativo  caret.  A  few  lines  lower,  the  genitice  of  the 
old  editions  has  been  altered  to  genitiro.  Latin  is  generally 
printed  very  incoiTcctly  in  old  plays. 

You  must  be  preeches,  i.e.  you  must  bo  breeched,  or 
flogged.  "Cry  like  a  breech'd  boy,"  Beaumont  and 
Fhrteher. 

'^'  He  is  a  good  sprag  memory. 

Sprack,  mispronounced  by  Evans  sprag,  is  still  in  use 
in  the  West  of  England  in  the  sense  of  quick,  actti'e,  lircly 
Lord  Chcdwcrth  says  he  lias  oflen  hcai'd  in  Wiltshire,  "  He 
has  a  good  sprack  wit ;"  and  a  sharp  boy  is  termed  a  .-iprack 
'un.  liay  has,  "  A  .ipackt  hid  or  wench,  apt  to  Icani,  inge- 
nious," North  Couiitrey  AVords,  1G7-1,  p.  44,  no  doubt 
another  form  of  the  same  word. 

Olimptiou.H,  serious.  The  word  occm-s  again  in  th'j  same 
Eoiise  ill  Hamlet. 


NOTES  TO  THE  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


^^'-  Your  hushand  is  in  his  old  lines  again, 
l^ineSy  or,  as  it  ig  clsewlicrc  epolt,  luncs,  is  equivalent  to, 
Iuih-ii'3.     The  sketeh  reads  vei?t. 
I'afti-s  on,  i.e.  rages  violently. 

103  ]Valch  the  <luor  with  pistols. 
Jaflcson  ingeniously  conjc'etures   that   we   should  read, 
'  iratfh  the  door  with  Tistol, "  tlius  getting  rid  of  the  aria- 
jiiroiiisin  ;  but  tlio  old  text  is  undouiitctUy  as  it  camo  from 
Shaktspeaie's  pen. 

'"  Her  thrumm'd  hat,  and  her  muffler  Im. 

A  tlii-iimracd  hat  was  a  hat  made  of  very  eoarse  woollen 
cloth.  The  end  of  a  weaver's  warp  is  the  thrum.  "A 
thrummed  hat,  bardocucullus,"  Coles.  A  muffler  was  made 
of  linen,  and  usually  worn  so  that  it  covered  part  of  the 
face. 

The  wise  woman  of  Brentford  is  called  in  the  first  sketeh 
Gillian  of  lircntford,  who  was  rather  a  celebrated  character. 
.\.  work  called,  "Jyl  of  Brentford's  Testament"  was  in 
Captain  Coxe's  library,  and  two  copies,  I  believe,  and  no 
more,  have  descended  to  modern  times— one  in  the  Bodleian 
Library,  and  another  which  passed  through  the  hands  of 
Ritson  and  Ileber.  Dame  Gillian's  legacies,  although  dis- 
pensed with  the  utmost  libci-ality,  and  in  some  respects 
Tith  judgment,  were  not,  however,  very  acceptable.  Ac- 
cording tc  the  black-letter  tract,  she  was  hostess  of  a 
respectable  inn  at  Brentford,  and,  therefore,  wo  may 
[resnme,  suitable  company  for  Jlistress  Ford  : — 

At  Brentford  on  the  west  of  Lcmdon, 
iV'ygh  to  a  place  tjiat  called  is  Syun, 
There  dwelt  a  widow  of  a  hondy  sort. 
Honest  in  sulistaunee  and  full  of  sport: 
Daily  she  cowd  with  pastini  and  jestes. 
Among  her  neyghboiu's  and  her  gestes ; 
She  kept  an  inne  of  ryght  good  lodgjaig, 
For  all  estates  that  thyder  was  com}nig. 

This  is  on  the  supposition  that  Robert  Copland,  the  writer 
of  this  tract,  did  not  invent  the  circumstances.  The  joke 
of  Gillian's  legacy  continued  to  a  late  period,  for  I  find  it 
alluded  to  in  "  Ilariy  MTiite  liis  humour,"  r2mo.  Loud. 
.060:— 

The  author  in  a  rccorapenee, 

To  them  tliat  angry  be. 
Bequeaths  a  gift  that  's  cald 

Old  Gillian's  legacie.  ■ 

Shakespeare  was  probably  well  acquainted  with  Brent- 
ford, its  celebrated  inn,  the  '  Three  Pigeons,'  having  dramatic 
notoriety.  It  iii  still  standing,  but  the  outside  has  been 
much  altered.  In  a  little  sandy  pailoin'  to  the  left  of  the 
entrance  is  preserved-  a  small  painting,  dated  170-i,  of  a 
table  with  guests  seated  round  it,  and  the  following 
nscription, — • 

"We  are  new  beginners,  and  thrive  we  would  fain ; 

I  am  nonest  Half  of  EediUng,  my  wife  Suaane  by  name. 

^*^  A  knot,  a  ijinfj,  a  pack. 

A  knot,  i.e.  a  company,  generally  used  in  a  bad  sense. 
■  A  knot  of  rogues,  Jlagitiorum  <irex,"  Coles.  Ging,  the 
old  form  of  gang.  A  pack  was  a  conspired  baud  of  pei-sons, 
usually  said  when  t!ie  purpose  was  dishonest.  TTtis  passes, 
this  gcca  beyond  bounds. 


The  last  word  is  supplied  from  tlic  early  M.S.  copy  cf  ihf 
play  ill  my  possession ;  but  I  am  not  sure  it  is  abeolutelj 
neeessaiy. 

TViis  wrongs  you,  i.e.  tliis  does  you  WTOiig,  it  injures  y->\\i 
ch:iraeter. 

'"  Hi-t  V)ifi:'»  ler.tan. 

That  is,  his  wife's  lover.  The  word  occurs  again,  ano 
is  a  common  archaism. 

Daultery,  i.e.,  deceit,  triekerj-,  from  dauli,  an  old  word, 
to  flatter  or  deceive. 

1(19  Yi-u  rag, — gou  romjon  ! 
Both  these  are  termj  of  groat  contempt.    The  first  occurs 
again  in  '  Tiraon  of  Athena,'  the  sceofld  in  '  Macbeth.' 

""  In  the  wag  of  waste. 
The  meaning  of  the  passage  is  that,  if  the  devil  have 
him  not  as  an  estate  in  fee  simple,  secured  firmly  by  fine 
and  recovciT,  and,  therefore,  possess  liim  as  an  absolute 
property,  he  will  not  attempt  again  to  ruin  us  by  corrupting 
our  \'irtue. 

'""  No  period  to  thejist. 
That  is,  no  conclusion  or  end.    "  Let  me  moke  the  perioJ 
to  my  cm-se,"  Richard  III. 

^'^  I'hcg  must  come  ojf. 
Come  off,  i.e.  pay ;    a  common  plirase    in   ( arly  plays. 
We  still  say,  come  down  with  the  mcjieg,  a  similar  expres.=ien. 
Sauce,  to  season  ;  here,  metaphoricilly,  t*i  give  it  them. 

.  '"-  Somei!ime  a  keeper  here  in  Windsor  forest. 
It  has  been  stated,  I  know  not  on  what  authority,  thai 
Heme  was  a  keeper  in  Windsor  Forest  some  time  befort^ 
the  reign  of  Elizf.beth,  that  he  iianged  himself  on  the  oak 
from  the  dread  of  being  disgraced  for  some  olfence  that  he 
had  committfd,  and  tliat  liis  ghost  was  believed  to  haunt 
the  spot.  No  mention  is  made  of  the  oak  in  the  first 
sketch  of  the  play ;  in  which  it  is  merely  introduced  as 
follows, — 

Oft  have  you  heard  since  Home  the  hunter  died, 
That  women,  to  affright  their  little  childiTU, 
Says  that  he  wallts  in  siiape  of  a  great  stag. 

^^Tiere,  it  will  he  observed  that  the  hunter's  name  h 
Home;  and  a  IIS.  of  the  time  of  Heniy  VIII.,  preseiwed 
in  the  British  Museum,  mentions  a  "  Ryeharde  Home, 
yeoman,"  in  a  list  of  persons  who  had  hunted  illegally  in 
the  royal  forests.  This  fact  seems  to  give  grounds  foi 
belie%Tng  that  the  poet  alludes  to  a  genuine  tale  of  thi 
period,  and  tliat  the  incident  is  not  one  of  his  o«ni  invention. 
A  variety  of  papers  have  been  NVrittcn  on  the  locality  of 
Heme's  oak,  but  none  of  them  with  sufficient  consideration 
for  the  indefinite  changes  that  must  have  taken  plai'.o  ir 
Windsor  I'aik  since  Shakespeare's  time.  The  earliest  loenl 
notice  occurs  in  a  map  published  by  W.  Collier  in  17t'2, 
where  "Sir  John  FalstafTs  oak"  is  marked  as  being  neai 
Queen  Elizabeth's  Walk.  It  was  removed  at  the  close  ol 
tlie  last  eentuiy,  but  a  new  claimant  to  the  honour  of  being 
the  real  Simoii  Pure  is  shown  to  the  visitor.  The  following 
lament  "  upon  Heme's  oak  being  cut  down  in  the  spiisg  o* 

133 


NOTES  TO  THE  MEllRY  WIVES  OE  WINDSOli 


17  3o,  •  is  extracted  from  a  contcmpoiary  ncwspape!,  and  is 
^"ilh  prosei'ving  for  its  own  sake  : — 

•'  Within  this  dell,  fnr  many  an  age, 

Heme's  oak  uprear'd  its  antiiiue  head : — 
Oh  !  raosl  unhallow'd  was  the  rage 
^Vhich  tore  it  from  its  native  bed '. 

The  stoiTn  that  stript  the  forest  bare 
Would  yet  refrain  this  tree  to  \VTOag, 

And  Time  himself  appear'd  to  spare 
A  fragment  he  had  known  so  long. 

'Twas  marked  with  popular  regard, 

"WTien  fam'd  Elizabeth  was  queen  ; 
And  Shakespeare,  England's  matchless  hard, 

ilade  it  the  subject  of  a  scene. 

So  honour"  d,  when  in  verdure  drest. 
To  me  the  wither'd  trunk  was  dear; 

As,  when  the  warrior  is  at  rest, 
Uis  trophial  armour  men  revere. 

That  nightly  Heme  walk'd  round  this  oak, 

"The  superstitious  eld  receiv'd;" 
And  what  icy  of  his  outrage  spoke, 

The  rising  age  in  fear  believ'd. 

The  hunter,  in  his  morning  range. 

Would  not  the  tree  •n'ith  Kghtncss  view ; 

To  him.  Heme's  legend,  passing  strange. 
In  spite  of  scoffers,  still  seem'd  tj'ue. 

Oh,  where  were  all  the  fairy  erew 

Who  revels  kept  in  days  remote, 
That  round  the  oak  no  spell  they  drew, 

Before  the  axe  its  libres  smote  ? 

Could  wishes  hut  ensure  the  power. 
The  tree  again  its  head  should  rear ; 

Shrubs  fence  it  with  a  fadeless  bower, 
And  these  inscriptive  lines  appear : — 

'  Here,  as  wild  Avon's  poet  stray'd'^ 

Hold  ! — let  me  chock  this  feeble  strain^ 
The  spot  by  Shakespeare  sacred  made, 
A  verse  like  mine  would  but  profane  ! " 

.Ml  Xicholson,  the  late  eminent  painter,  in  an  original 
letter  in  the  possession  of  Mr  Crofton  Crokcr,  gives  the 
undoubted  authority  of  George  III.  himself,  that  the  re- 
mains of  the  real  Heme's  oak  were  removed  by  his  own 
order,  given  ciuite  inadvertently.  According  to  Mr.  Nichol- 
Eon,  the  soil  of  Windsor  does  not  at  all  suit  tlic  oak ;  so 
liiat  a  tree  which  was  old  in  Shakcspeai'c's  time  could 
scarcely  have  been  preserved  to  the  present  day. 

'"  And  lakes  t!ie  cattle. 

4  horse,  when  paralysed,  was  said  to  bo  talien,  Iho  usual 
beUef  being  that  he  was  stricken  by  a  planet  or  evil  spirit. 
Elil,  age,  old  people, 

"*  Like  urchins,  oujikes,  and  fairies. 

Uivhins  were  fairies  that  assumed  the  d^ape  of  urchins 
01  liedgchogs.  Ou/ilies,  elfs.  Diffused,  varied,  wild,  irre- 
gular. To-pinch,  equivalent  to  pinch  very  much ;  the  pre- 
fix to  anciently  annexed  to  verbs  of  Anglo-Saxon  origin, 
impljing  destnicUcn  or  dctenoration,  was  used  as  a:i  inten- 
sativc,  gi"ng  more  foroo  t*)  the  signification. 
134 


'"  Get  us  properties  and  tricking. 

Properties  are  and  were  little  incidental  necessaries  to  a 
theati'e,  exclusive  of  scenes  and  dresses.  Tricking,  i.e. 
dress.  "  Attifets,  attires  or  tues,  dressings,  trickjugs, 
attirals,"  Cotgrave. 

Affects,  loves.  Thick-skin,  a  term  of  abuse  or  ridicule 
applied  to  a  foolish  person.  Snap,  make  haste.  In  Xorf'.lk, 
to  do  anything  snap  is  to  do  it  quickly. 

I'S  His  standing-bed,  and  ti  nckU-led. 

The  standing-bed  was  for  the  master,  and  the  latter,  <i 
lower  couch,  for  the  sen-ant,  sometimes  placed  at  t!ie  fx>{ 
and  sometimes  at  the  side  of  the  other.  Middleton  B.en- 
tions,  "  aa  sweet  a  breasted  page  as  ever  lay  at  his  master's 
feet  in  a  truckle-bed."  The  counterpane  of  the  slauding- 
bed  was  often  very  costly.  Stowe  mentions  one  of  the 
value  of  a  thousand  marks. 

Anthropophaginian,  a  cannibal. 

'"  Thine  host,  thine  Ephesian. 

Ephesian  is  a  cant  term,  apparently  applied  to  a  jovial 
fellow.  Bohemian  Tartar,  meaning  Simple,  on  account  01 
his  wild  or  strange  appearance.  Muscle-shell,  a  joculai 
allusion  to  the  simpleton  standing  with  his  mouth  open. 

/  may  not  conceal  them.  Simple  here  by  mistake  usea 
cor-ceal  for  reveal,  and  Falstaff  amuses  himself  by  repeat- 
ing the  blunder. 

^'^  Ay,  sir  Tike. 

The  first  folio  reads,  "Ay,  sir,  like,"  which  is  evident!; 

a  coiTuption.     The  quarto  reads  Tike,  a  clown.     Howch 

mentions  "Yorkshire  tikes,"   I'rov.  p.  21.     The  tenu  wat- 

also  applied  to  a  dog.     Clerkly,  scholar-like.     Paid,  beaten. 

'"3  Since  I  forswore  myself  at  primcro. 

Primcro  was  a  game  at  cards,  and  said  to  bo  the  oldest 
known  in  England.  It  is  fully  described  in  Duchats  notes 
on  Rabelais. 

T17i(7e  other  jests  are  something  rank  on  foot,  Le.  whila 
other  jests  are  prevalent  or  numerous. 

IS"  ril  hold. 
That  is,  I  will  keep  to  my  word. 

'"  Hold  up  your  head,  and  mince. 
Mince,  i.e.  irip  away.      "Walking  and  mincing  as  tncy 
go,"  Isaiah,  iii.  IG.     Coles  translates  it,  Jununium  incidcrc. 

"*-  /  come  to  her  in  white,  and  cry  'mum.' 
Mumbudget  w.as  a  cant  term  for  silence.      So  Cotgravo, 
"  Avoir  le  bee  gele,  to  play  mumbudget,  to  be  tongue-tyod, 
to  say  never  a  word." 

i»3  Lewdsters,  i.e  lewd  people. 

18^  Send  me  a  C(h}1  rut-time, 
liut-time,  breeding  time.    Any  old  book  on  hunting  will 
fully  exphiin  the  terms  here  used.     Scut,  a  tail. 

'**  Let  the  shy  rain  potatoes. 
The  esculents  here  mentioned  were  formerly  conaidfrofl 
strong  provocatives.       Massinger  aiiudes  to   "comfits  ol 
i;:i«.igils  to  help  our  kisses." 


NOTES  TO  THE  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


'"  Like  a  brlb'd  biiLh. 

S  >  the  (ilJ  copies,  not  bribe-buck,  as  printed  liy  Kiiiglit 
iii'l  Collier.  Brib'd,  i.e.  stolen.  "Ijrib'd  signotts"  are 
mentioned  in  Rot.  Pari.,  as  quoted  by  Tyrwhitt,  and  Pals- 
ifViive  has,  "  I  bribe,  I  pull,  I  pyll." 

A  wiilk  was  a  particular  keeper's  district.  Windsor 
forest  was  parcelled  out  into  walks,  as  appears  from  Norden's 
iiap,  1G07. 

Wodilman,  a  forester,  according  to  Nares,  whoso  eliief 
jccnpution  was  hunting. 

'"'  Fairies,  black,  grey,  green,  and  while. 
With  considerable  hesitation,  I  have  followed  Knight 
and  Collier  in  giving  tliis  and  the  other  speeches  to  Anne, 
as  Queen  of  the  Fairies.  In  all  the  old  editions,  they  aro 
given  to  Mrs.  Quickly.  It  is  contended  they  are  not  in 
character  with  her  language,  but  neither  arc  the  words 
attributed  to  Evans  and  Pistol.  To  be  consistent,  wo 
should  also  alter  the  attribution  of  the  latter. 

'*'  You  orphan  heirs  of  fixed  destiny. 
This  is  one  of  those  difScult  passages  which  Messrs. 
Collier  and  Knight  complacently  pass  over  without  remark. 
I  agree  with  Malono  that  Shakespeare,  with  a  laxity  not 
unusual  to  him,  uses  heirs  for  chiklren.  Fairies  were  chil- 
djen  of  fixed  destiny,  and,  according  to  the  usual  belief,  in  one 
ix-spect  of  the  same  family  as  the  'NVhito  Lady  of  Avenel, — 

**  Happier  than  brief-dated  man, 
LiWng  ten  times  o'er  his  span  ; 
Far  less  happy,  for  we  have 
Help  nor  hope  beyond  the  grave." 

Oijes  is  e\-idently  a  monosyllable.  Unrak'd,  a  term 
applied  to  fires,  when  they  were  not  laked  out.  It  is  now 
used  differently  in  the  provinces,  but  Shakespeare  appai'ently 
intends  the  ordinaiy  meaning. 

'^^  As  blue  as  bilberry. 

"  'SMiortle  berries  are  called  in  England,  whortes,  whortlo 
ben'ies,  blackc-bemes,  bill-berries,  and  bull-berries,  and 
in  some  places  winbemes,"  Gerai'd's  Herball,  1231. 

The  notion  of  death  being  the  punishment  of  speaking 
to  fairies  is  aUuded  to  in  the  English  translation  of  Huon 
of  Bo\udeaux,  4to.  ICOl,  eh.  21. 

^^"  liaise  up  the  organs  of  her  fantasy. 
That  is,  give  her  pleasant  di'eanis. 

•'"  In  emrold  tuffs. 
Emtold,  i.e.  emerald.  Tuffs  is  an  old  word  for  tassels, 
md  I  think  modem  editors  are  \vrong  in  introducing  tufts, 
another  and  not  quite -an  equivalent  term.  Florio  trans- 
lates affioccare,  "to  betassle,  to  tnffe,  or  hang  with  locks." 
Character!,',  "a  writing  by  characters  or  by  strango 
marks,"  English  Expositor,  1671. 


"2  /  smell  a  ma  t  of  middle-earth. 

MidiPc-eartli,  an  old  English  term  lor  tho  world,  but 
nearly  obsolete  in  Shakespeare's  time.  It  is  found  in  the 
Coventry  Mysteries,  p.  30, — • 

Tyl  a  maydon  in  mcdt/l-erlh  bo  borne, 
Tnou  ff'onde,  I  warn  the  liefom, 
Xhonve  here  thi  he.l  xal  be  to-tom, 
On  wombo  awey  thou  wcude. 

^^•*  Thou  ijabt  o^erlook'd. 

That  is,  overlooked  by  a  witch.  The  term  is  still  in  use 
in  the  sense  of  bewitched  in  the  West  of  England. 

^^^  Still  pinch  him  to  your  time. 

Pinching  was  the  usual  pimishmeut  inflicted  by  the  fairies, 
and  especially  on  those  who  violated  tho  laws  of  chastity 
So  Fletcher,  in  the  '  Faithful  Shepherdess,' — 

"  Then  must  I  watch,  if  any  be 
Forcing  of  a  chastity  ; 
If  I  find  it,  then  in  hast 
Give  my  wreathed  horn  a  blast, 
And  the  fairies  all  will  run, 
Wildly  dancing  by  the  moon. 
And  wiU  pineli  him  to  the  bone. 
Till  his  lustful  thoughts  be  gone.  ■ ' 

"'  Luxury,  i.e.  incontinence.  Blucdy  fire,  equivalent  to, 
fire  in  thi  blood. 

^^  Do  nut  these  Jntr  yokes, 

Mrs.  Page  alludes  to  FalstafTs  horns.  It  is  rather  diffi- 
cult to  account  for  the  application  of  the  term,  unless  it  was 
given  to  any  protuberance.  "  A  yoke,  a  couple ;  also  the 
top  or  ridge  of  an  hUl,"  Baret,  1580. 

'5'  Shall  I  have  a  coxcomb  of  frizef 
A  fool's  cap  made  of  frizc,  a  warm  coarse  kind  ci  cljth. 

"*  What,  a  hodge-pudding  f 

I  have  not  met  n-ith  this  term  elsewhere.  Is  it  con- 
nected with  hog-pudding,  or  haggas-pudding .'  All  editors 
pass  it  over  without  remark. 

*33  Ignorance  itself  is  a  plummet  oer  me. 

That  is,  even  ignorance  is  a  v.-eight  or  plummet  over  mo. 
which  I  cannot  shake  off ;  or,  the  sounding-lead  or  pliunb 
line,  when  let  do^-n  into  the  water,  will  be  foimd  higher 
than  I  am.  Either  interpretation  makes  sense ;  but  ] 
think  the  first  is  what  was  intended.  Any  lump  of  lead 
was  formerly  termed  a,  plummet,  as  well  as  a  plumb-line. 

"*  Amaze,  Le,  confound,  confuse. 


13 


3lUmu  far  Mmnit 


Haste  still  pays  haste,  and  leisure  answers  leisure ; 
Like  dotli  quit  like,  and  Measuhe  still  Foa  Measitbs. 

'rHE  principal  incident  in  tliis  play,  the  infamous  conduct  of  Angelo,  has  been  related  of  a  variety  of 
persons  in  different  ages ;  but  the  primary  source  of  the  plot  adopted  by  Shakespeare  is  found 
in  the  novels  of  Cinthio,  Hecatommilhi,  1565,  v.  8.  In  the  novel  of  that  writer,  Juriste,  governor  of 
Inspruck,  a  man  renowned  for  wisdom  and  justice,  sentenced  a  youth  named  Lodovico  to  death  for 
violation.  Epitia,  sister  of  Lodovieo,  a  virgin  of  exquisite  beauty  and  highly  accomplished,  deeply 
loved  her  brother,  and  determined  to  attempt  his»deliverauce.  Kneeling  in  tears  before  the  feet  of 
Juriste,  and  pleading  her  brother's  cause  with  pathetic  eloquence,  her  graceful  beauty,  rendered 
Btill  more  attractive  by  her  position,  enraptured  the  stem  judge  who  had  previously  laughed  to  scorn 
Mio  power  of  love.  In  the  excess  of  tumultuous  passion,  he  makes  the  same  proposal  to  her  wliich 
Angelo  does  to  Isabella.  It  is  rejected  with  iudiguation,  but  Epitia  is  not  proof  against  the  tears  and 
entreaty  of  her  brother,  and  reluctantly  yields  to  the  wishes  of  Jimste  under  the  solemn  jiromise  of 
marriage.  "What  was  her  agony,  then,  to  find  that  his  vows  were  forgotten,  and  that  Lodovico  was 
executed,  notwithstanding  the  sacrifico  she  had  made.  She  appeals  to  the  emperor  of  the  Romans, 
before  whom  Juriste  is  convicted,  compelled  to  marry  her,  and  then  sentenced  to  death.  Epitia  now 
sues  for  her  husband's  life ;  forgets  her  wrongs  in  her  character  as  a  wife ;  and,  ha\ing  obtained  her 
prayer,  continues  the  faithful  partner  of  Juriste,  who,  on  his  part,  is  supposed  to  be  reformed  by  her 
unexampled  virtue  and  generosity. 

It  may  readily  be  supposed  that  a  tale  like  this,  though  not  weU  suited  to  a  very  refined  age,  would 
be  likely  to  attract  the  attention  of  our  early  dramatists  as  containing  the  material  for  much  effective 
situation.  We  accordingly  find  that  as  early  as  1578,  George  "Whetstone  published  a  drama  founded 
on  Cinthio's  tale,  under  the  quaint  title  of,  "The  right  excellent  and  famous  Historye  of  Promos  and 
Cassandra,  divided  into  Commical  Discourses :  In  tiio  f3Tste  Parte  is  showne  the  imsuffcrable  abuse  of  a 
lewde  Magistrate,  thS  vertuous  behaviours  of  a  chaste  Ladye,  the  imcontrowled  leawdcncss  of  a  favoured 
Curtisan,  and  the  undeserved  Estimation  of  a  pernicious  Parasyte :  In  the  second  Parte  is  discoursed 
the  perfect  Magnanimitye  of  a  noble  Kinge,  in  checking  Vice  and  favouringe  Yertue:  A\Tierein  is  sho\\-nc 
the  Euyne  and  Overthrowe  of  dishonest  Practises,  with  the  Advauncement  of  upright  Dealing."  Tin' 
following  argument  prefixed  to  this  play  will  enable  the  reader  to  discover  how  far  Shakespeare  lias 
deviated  from  Whetstone's  plot : — 

In  tlie  Cytio  of  Julio  (sometimes  under  the  dominion  of  Corrinus,  King  of  Ilimgarie  and  Bocmia)  there  iras  a  law, 

that  what  man  so  ever  committed  Adultery,  should  lose  his  head,  and  the  woman  offender  should  wcare  some  dis^ii»cj 

apparell,  during  her  Ufe,  to  make  her  infamouslyo  noted.     Tliis  severe  lawe,  by  the  favovir  of  some  mercifull  magistrate. 

became  little  regarded,  until!  the  time  of  Lord  Promos  auctority  :  who,  conrictiug  a  yong  Gentleman  named  Ar.dnipo  u- 

IS  137 


MEASURE   FOR  MEASURE. 


mcontineney,  iiondomned  both  him,  and  his  minion,  to  the  execution  of  this  statute.  Andrugio  had  a  very  vertuous  anO 
beawtifid  Gentlewoman  to  hi3  Sister,  named  Cassandra :  Ca-ssaudra,  to  enlarge  her  brothers  life,  submitted  an  huniblt 
petition  to  the  Lord  Promos :  Promos  regarding  her  good  behavours,  and  fantasying  her  great  beawtie,  was  much 
dflifhtcd  M-ith  the  sweete  order  of  her  talke  :  and  doying  good,  that  evill  might  come  thereof,  for  a  time  he  repryved  her 
brother ;  but,  wicked  man,  touming  his  liking  unto  unlawfull  lust,  he  sot  downe  the  spoUe  of  her  honour  raunsome  for  hei 
Brothers  life :  chaste  Cassandra,  abhorring  both  him  and  his  sute,  by  no  persuasion  would  yeald  to  this  raunsome.  But 
in  fine,  wonne  with  the  importunitye  of  hir  Brother  (pleading  for  life),  upon  these  conditions  she  agrcede  to  Promos. 
First  that  he  should  pardon  her  brother,  and  after  marry  her.  Promos  as  feareles  in  promisse,  as  caielesse  in  performance, 
with  soUerane  vowe,  sygned  her  conditions  :  but  worse  then  any  Infydel,  his  will  satisfyed,  he  perftrmed  neither  the  one 
uor  the  other :  for  to  keepe  his  aucthoritye,  unspotted  with  favour,  and  to  prevent  Cassandrae's  clamors,  he  conunaunded 
tlio  Gayler  secretly  to  present  Cassandra  with  her  brother's  head.  The  Gayler,  [touched]  with  the  outcryes  of  Andnigio, 
abhonyng  Promos  lewdencs,  by  the  providence  of  God,  provyded  thus  for  his  safety.  He  presented  Cassandra  with  a 
felons  head  newlie  executed,  who  (being  mangled,  knew  it  not  from  her  brother's,  by  the  Gaylor,  who  was  set  at  Ubertie) 
vaa  so  agreeved  at  this  trecherye,  that  at  the  pointe  to  kyl  hersclfe,  she  spared  that  stroke  to  be  avwiged  of  Promos 
And,  devisyng  a  way,  she  concluded  to  make  her  fortunes  knowne  imto  the  kynge.  She  (executinge  this  resolution)  was 
10  highly  favoured  of  the  king,  that  forthwith  he  hasted  to  do  justice  on  Promos :  whose  judgment  was,  to  marrye 
Cassandra,  to  repaire  her  erased  honour :  which  donne,  for  his  hainous  offence  he  should  lose  his  head.  Tliis  marryage 
eolompnised,  Cassauilra,  tyed  in  the  greatest  bondes  of  affection  to  her  husband,  became  an  earnest  suter  for  his  life  :  the 
kinge  (tendiinge  the  generall  benefit  of  the  common  weale,  before  her  special  case,  although  ho  favoured  her  much) 
would  not  graunt  her  sute.  Andj'ugio  (disguised  amonge  the  company)  sorrowing  the  giiefe  of  his  sister,  bewrayde  his 
safetye,  and  craved  pardon.  The  kinge,  to  renowne  the  vertues  of  Cassandra,  pardoned  both  him  and  Promos.  The 
circumstaDcca  of  this  rare  Historye,  in  action  lyvelye  foloweth. 

"WTietstone  gave  a  prose  version  of  the  story  in  his  "Heptameron,"  1582,  in  a  marginal  note  to  -which 
ho  informs  us  that  the  play  above-mentioned  had  not  then  been  "presented  upon  .stage."  The  drama 
of  "Promos  and  Cassandra"  is  unquestionably  the  immediate  source  of  Shakespeare's  play,  the  deTia- 
tiDus  of  Whetstone  from  Cinthio's  having  been  adopted  by  the  great  dramatist.  The  youth  is  not 
condemned  for  the  greater  crime,  but  for  incoutinency  after  solemn  affiance ;  and  the  culprit  is  saved 
&om  execution  by  the  substitution  of  another  head.  Shakespeare's  grand  improvement  is  the  introduc- 
tion of  Mariana,  whose  part  in  the  scene  so  infinitely  purifies  the  tale.  Some  of  the  minor  portions  of 
the  bye-play  in  "Measure  for  Measure,"  and  those  the  most  distasteful  to  modem  ears,  were  suggested 
by  scenes  in  "Promos  and  Cassandra."  I  will  give  an  extract  from  the  latter  play,  the  scene  corre- 
Bpouding  to  the  affecting  interview  between  Isabella  and  Claudio,  which  will  suffice  to  show  the  naturt 
of  the  slender  materials  worked  into  beauty  by  the  hand  of  Shakespeare : — 


Andrugio.  My  Cassandra  what  newes,  good  sister  showe. 

Cassandra.  All  thinges  conclude  thy  death,  Andrugio  : 
Prepare  thyselfe,  to  hope  it  ware  in  vaine. 

Andrugio.    My  death,      alas,    what    raysed    this     new 
disdaync  ? 

Cassandra.  Not  Justice  zeale  in  wicked  Promos  sure. 

Andruqio.  Swecte,  shew  tho  cause  I  must  this  doome 
indure. 

Cassandra.  If  thou  dost  live,  I  must  my  honor  lose 
Thy  raunsome  is,  to  Promos  fleslily  wyll 
That  I  do  yielde  :  than  which  I  rather  chose 
With  torments  sharpe  mysclfe  ho  first  should  kyU. 
Thus  am  I  ber.t :  thou  seest  thy  death  at  hand : 
0  would  my  life  would  satisfio  his  yre, 
Cassandra  then  would  cancell  soone  thy  band ! 

Andrugio.  And  may  it  be  a  judge  of  liis  account 
Can  spot  liis  mindo  with  lawles  love  or  lust? 
But  mor!,  may  ho  doome  any  faiilt  with  death, 
^\^len  in  such  faute  he  findes  himselfe  unjust  ? 
Byster,  that  wise  men  love  we  often  sec, 
.\nd  where  love  niles,  gainst  tnomes  doth  raason  spumo : 
But  who  so  loves,  if  he  rejected  be, 
Uis  passing  love  Ut  peevi.sh  liate  will  tume 
Oearo  sistei  then  note  how  my  fortune  standj 
138 


That  Promos  love,  the  like  is  ofl  in  use ; 

And  sith  he  crave  this  kindnesso  at  your  hands, 

Think  this,  if  you  his  pleasure  do  refuse, 

I,  in  his  rage  (poor  wretch)  shall  sing  Peccavi, 

Here  are  two  evyls,  the  best  tarde  to  digest ; 

But  whereas  things  are  driven  unto  necessity, 

There  are  we  byd,  of  both  e^yls  choose  tJie  least. 

Cassandra.  And  of  these  e^dls  the  least,  I  hold,  is  death 
To  shun  whose  dait  we  can  no  meanc  devise ; 
Yet  honor  lives  when  death  hath  done  his  worst : 
Thus  fame  then  lyfe  is  of  fiure  more  comprise. 

Andrugio.  Nay,  Cassandra,  if  tliou  thy  selfe  submyt. 
To  save  my  life,  to  Promos  flcashly  wyll, 
Justice  v.'yU  say  thou  dost  no  cr)Tne  commit, 
For  in  forst  faidtes  is  no  intent  of  yll. 

Cassandra.  How  so  th'  intent  is  construed  in  offenoo, 
Tlie  Proverbe  sales  that  tenne  good  tumes  lye  dead, 
And  one  yll  deedo  tenne  tymcs  beyond  pretence 
By  envious  tongues,  report  abrode  doth  spread. 
Andrugio,  so  my  fame  shall  vallewed  bee ; 
Dispite  will  blase  my  criine,  but  not  the  cause; 
And  thus,  althougli  I  fa}'ne  would  set  thee  free, 
Poor  wench,  I  feare  tlic  gi"ypo  of  slaunder's  pawew. 

Axf'rugio.  Nay  swecte  sister,  more  slaundei-  'voul  J  in£sme 


MEASURE   FOR   MEASURE;. 


1'or.r  spctlea  lyfe  to  reave  your  bro'Jier's  broatli, 

Whi'ii  you  have  power  for  to  enlarge  the  Bame ; 

Diioe  in  your  handcs  doth  lye  my  life  and  death. 

Way  that  I  am  the  solfe-same  flesh  you  are ; 

Ihinlij,  I  once  gone,  our  house  will  goe  to  wrack : 

Knowo,  forced  faultes  for  slaundcr  noede  not  care : 

Louke  you  for  blame,  if  I  guaile  through  your  lack. 

ron>iJer  well  my  great  extremitie  ; 

If  i.lherndse  this  doome  I  coidd  revol:c, 

I  wiiidd  not  spare  for  any  jebardye 

To  free  thee,  wench,  from  this  same  heavy  yoke  : 

li\it  ah,  I  se    else  no  way  saves  my  lifo. 

And  yet  his  hope  may  further  thy  consent ; 

tic  saydo,  he  maye  percaso  make  thee  his  wyfe, 

And  't  is  likelio  ho  cannot  bo  content 

With  one  night's  joye :  if  love  be  after  seckes ; 


And  I  discbarg'd,  if  thou  aloofo  then  bo, 

licforo  he  lose  thy  selfu  that  so  he  leekes, 
No  dought  but  he  to  niarryago  wyll  agree. 

Cassandra.  And  shall  I  stickc  to  sttjupo  to  Prclnos  wyll, 
Since  my  brother  injoycth  lyfo  thereby  i 
No,  although  it  duth  my  credit  kyll, 
Ere  tliat  he  should,  my  sclfe  would  chuse  to  dyo. 
My  Andrugio,  take  comfort  in  distrcsse, 
Cassandra  is  wonno  tliy  raunsome  great  to  payo ; 
Such  care  she  hath  thy  tlu'aldome  to  rcloaco 
As  she  consentes  her  honor  for  to  slay. 
FarewcU,  I  must  my  virgin's  weedes  forsake, 
And  lyke  a  l*age  to  Promos  lewdc  repajTc.  \Exf 

Andrugio,  My  good  slater,  to  God  I  tlice  betake, 
To  whome  I  pray  that  comforte  change  tliy  care. 


Mr.  Skottowo  lias  pointed  out  several  similarities  of  sentiment  in  the  old  play  and  "ileosnre  fo.: 
Measure."  Tliey  are  not,  perhaps,  extremely  striking,  but  they  show  at  all  events  the  extent  of  the 
poet's  obligations,  which  are  about  as  great  as  tliosc  a  sculptor  owes  to  his  block  of  marble.  Mrs. 
Collier  considers  that  Shakespeare  was  not  indebted  to  Whetstone  for  a  single  thought,  nor  for  a  casual 
expression,  excepting  as  far  as  similarity  of  situation  may  be  said  to  have  necessarily  occasioned  cor- 
responding states  of  feeling,  and  cmplopnent  of  language.  But  this  opinion,  is,  I  think,  put  somewhat 
too  strongly. 

We  first  hear  of  "  Measure  for  Measure"  as  ha\-ing  been  performed  at  court  on  December  2Gth,  lGO-1. 
On  the  evening  of  that  day,  his  Majesty's  players  acted  it  at  AVhitehall.  The  original  account-book 
preserved  at  the  Audit  Office,  Somerset  House,  edited  bj-  Mr.  P.  Cunningham,  records  that  Mr.  S/iaxber 
(0  for  another  essay  on  the  orthography  of  Shakespeare  !)  was  "  the  poet  which  mayd  the  plaie."  The 
mtry  is  as  follows  : — "  On  St.  Stivcns  night  in  the  hall  a  play  calcd  Mesur  for  Mesiir."  It  was  first 
printed  in  the  folio  of  1G23,  but  with  many  errors.  In  the  preparation  of  our  text,  I  have  had  th 
[idv;mtago  of  comparing  a  copy  with  curious  early  MS.  notes  in  the  library  of  E.  R.  Tunno,  Esq., 
purchased  by  him  at  the  sale  of  Mr.  Dent's  library,  ii.  1270,  for  £6.5  2s.  This  valuable  volume  has 
supplied  several  important  corrections,  which  have  every  appearance  of  genuineness.  Sir  W.  Davenant, 
who  wrote  an  alteration  of  the  play  entitled,  "Law  against  Lovers,"  1673,  also  made  some  useful 
emendations.  The  alterations,  however,  in  our  text  are  not  numerous  ;  and  it  will  generally  be  found 
to  be  a  faithful  copy  of  the  first  edition. 

In  the  year  1700,  an  alteration  of  this  comedy  by  Charles  Gildon  was  published,  under  the  title  of, 
"  Measure  for  Measure,  or  Beauty  the  best  Advocate,  as  it  is  Acted  at  the  Theatre  in  Lincoln's  Lin 
fields :  written  originally  by  Mr.  Shakespear,  and  now  very  much  alter'd,  with  additions  of  several 
entertainments  of  Musick,"  4to.  This  performance  is  of  very  questionable  merit,  and  the  autlior  hiia 
mifortimatoly  not  recorded  any  traditions  relating  to  the  original  drama  that  might  have  been  then 
current.     In  the  com'se  of  the  prologue,  he  says : — 

Let  neither  dance  nor  musick  be  forgof. 
Nor  scenes,  no  matter  for  the  sense  or  plot : 
Such  things  we  o\vn  in  Shakespcar's  days  might  do, 
But  then  his  audience  did  not  judge  like  you. 

Miilone  was  of  opinion  that  in  the  speech  of  (he  Duke  in  Act  i.  So.  1, — 


I  love  the  pcopii., 

But  do  not  like  to  stage  me  to  tiieii-  eyes  • 
Though  it  do  well,  I  do  not  relish  well 
Their  loxid  applause  and  ores  vehement ; 
Nor  do  I  think  the  man  of  safe  discretion 
That  does  affect  it 


139 


MEASURE  FOE  MEASUKE. 


ihcre  is  an  allusion  to  the  great  dislike  of  James  I.  to  popular  applause.  Knowing  that  the  play  was 
acted  before  that  sovereign  soon  after  his  accession  to  the  tlirone,  it  certainly  is  not  impossible  that  an 
apology  of  this  kind  for  a  reserve  which  does  not  appear  to  have  well  pleased  the  English  public,  would 
have  been  highly  relished  by  the  king.     It  might  have  been  one  of  those 

flights  upon  the  river  Thames, 

That  so  did  take  Eliza  and  our  James. 

James  had  exhibited  early  in  life  a  fondness  for  the  "  life  removed."  As  early  as  the  year  1586,  h€ 
ia  th-as  described  by  a  contemporary, — "  Generally,  he  soemeth  desirous  of  peace,  as  appeareth  by  his 
disposition  and  excrcis;  viz.,  his  great  delight  in  hunting,  his  private  delight  in  enditing  poesies,  and 
in  one  or  both  of  these  commonly  he  spendeth  the  day,  when  he  hath  no  public  thing  to  do ;  his  desii-e 
to  withdraw  himself  from  places  of  most  access  and  company,  to  places  of  more  solitude  and  repose,  with 
very  small  retinue."  A  similar  taste  pervaded  his  movements  after  he  had  ascended  the  throne  of  Great 
liritain.  "  In  his  publick  appe.irance,"  observes  Wilson,  "  especially  in  his  sports,  the  accesses  of  the 
people  made  him  so  impatient,  that  lie  often  dispersed  them  with  frowns,  that  we  may  not  say  with  curses." 
We  have  something  stiU  more  definite  in  the  account  which  Sir  Simonds  D'  Ewes  gives  of  the  king's 
conduct  in  his  progress  to  Parliament  in  the  year  1621, — "  In  the  King's  short  progress  from  Whitehall 
to  Westminster,  these  passages  following  were  accounted  somewhat  remarkable ;  First,  that  he  spake 
often  and  lovingly  to  the  people,  standing  thick  and  three-fold  on  all  sides  to  behold  him,  '  God  bless 
ye !  God  bless  ye !'  contrary  to  his  former  hasty  and  passionate  custom,  tchich  often  in  his  sudden  distemper 
would  hid  a  plague  on  such  as  flocked  to  see  him :  Secondly,  that  though  the  -nindows  were  filled  with 
many  great  ladies  as  he  rode  along,  yet  that  he  spake  to  none  of  them  but  to  the  Marquis  of  Bucking- 
ham's mother  and  wife,  who  was  the  sole  daughter  and  heiress  of  the  Earl  of  E'ltland :  Thirdly,  tlial 
he  spake  particularly  and  bowed  to  the  Count  of  Gondomar,  the  Spanish  ambassador;  and  fourthly 
that  looking  up  to  one  window  as  he  passed,  fidl  of  gentlewomen  or  ladies  in  yellow  bandf,  he  cried 

out  aloud,  'A take  ye,  are  ye  there?'  at  which  being  much  ashamed,  they  all  withdrew  them 

solves  suddenly  from  the  window."  This  graphic  accoimt  certainly  confirms  the  possibility  of  Malone's 
conjecture,  which,  however,  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  obseiwe,  is  not  founded  on  evidence.  If  it  be 
iidmittei  another  passage  may  be  produced  which  also  tends  to  the  same  conclusion, — 

and  even  so 

The  general,  subject  to  a  wcll-wish'd  king. 
Quit  their  oxm  part,  and  in  ohsequious  fondneoa 
Croud  to  his  presence,  where  their  untaught  love 
Must  needs  appear  offence. 

Tlie  other  circumstances  produced  by  Malone  in  support  of  his  chronological  argument  are  cithei 
too  trifling  to  be  repeated,  or  are  rendered  valueless  by  the  discovery  that  the  play  was  acted  at  court 
in  1604.*  It  is  now  generally  believed  to  have  been  composed  at  the  close  of  the  year  1603,  or  eai-ly 
'in  1604. 

Mr.  Hudson,  in  his  verj-  interesting  and  valuable  "Lectures  on  Shakespeare,"  a  work  which  exhibits 
how  carefuUy  and  pliilosophieally  the  plays  of  the  great  dramatist  are  studied  in  America,  observes 
that  "  Measure  for  Measiu-c  is  among  the  least  attractive,  yet  most  instructive,  of  Shakespeare's  plays." 
Coleridge  terms  it  "  the  only  painful  part  of  liis  genuine  works  "  llazlitt  observes  "  an  original  sin  in 
the  nature  of  the  subject,  which  prevents  our  taking  a  cordial  interest  in  it."  And  nearly  every  crilie 
has  his  say  against  tliis  remarkable  comedy. 

Taking  a  view  of  the  subject  somewhat  opposed  to  the  opinion  of  Coleridge,  it  is  necessary  to  sl.ile 
the  grounds  on  which  I  venture  to  differ  from  so  eminent  a  psychological  critic;  and  I  think  it  will  be 
found,  at  the  very  commencement  of  the  ai'gument,  a  serious  error  has  been  committed  by  nearly  all 

•  Jt  is  amusing  to  obsorvo  how  very  confident  Ulrici  is  that  it  was  not  written  before  1609,      Tho  interaal  evidence 
(a  of  htUe  aviiil. 
140 


M!<LASlJii£   FOR  MEASDRB. 


who  have  treated  on  the  play  in  CFtimating  the  extent  of  the  crime  tor  which  Claudio  was  condemned 
Ulrioi  says  he  had  "seduced  his  mistress  before  mamage."  This  is,  however,  erroneous.  In  Shakes- 
peare's time,  the  ceremony  of  bctrothment  was  usually  supposed  to  confer  the  power  of  matiimonia] 
anion.  Claudio  obtained  possession  of  Julietta  on  "a  true  contract;"  and  provided  man-iagi;  wa»  cele- 
bratcd  within  a  reasonable  time  aftenvards,  no  criminality  could  bo  alleged  after  the  contract  liad  been 
toiTaally  made.  So,  likewise,  the  DiUte  tells  Mariana  it  was  no  sin  to  meet  Angelo,  for  he  was  her 
'•  husband  on  a  pre-contract."  The  story  would  bo  more  properly  analyzed  by  representing  Claudio's 
,iTor  as  venial,  and  Angclo's  strictness  so  much  the  more  severe,  thus  involving  a  greater  antithesis  in 
his  fall.  The  only  painful  scene  in  the  play  is  the  subject  of  the  argument  between  Angelo  and 
Isabella ;  but  Shakespeare  is  not  to  be  blamed  for  the  direction  it  takes.  On  the  contrary,  he  lias 
infinitely  purified  a  barbarous  tale  which  the  taste  of  the  age  authorized  as  a  sulject  of  dramatic  representa- 
tion. The  scenes  between  the  lower  characters  woidd  have  been  readily  tolerated  liy  a  female  audience 
in  the  time  of  the  first  James,  and  although  they  must  now  be  passed  over,  we  can  hardly  censure  the 
poet  for  not  foreseeing'  the  extreme  delicacy  of  a  later  age.  The  offences  cliiefly  consist  of  a  few  gross 
words,  which  no  one  but  literary  antiquaries  -will  comprehend,  and  are  purposely  left  without  explana- 
tion in  the  notes. 

Bearing  in  mind  that  the  improprieties  of  language  above  alluded  to  are  faults  of  the  age,  not  of 

the  poet's  judgment,  and  that  a  similar  apology  may  be  advanced  for  the  choice  of  subject,  the  moral 

conveyed  by  "  Measure  for  Measure"  is  <,f  a  deeply  religious  character.     It  exhibits  in  an  outline   of 

^'ondcrful  power,  how  ineffective  are  the  strongest  resolutions  of  men  against  the  insidious  temptation 

of  beauty,  when  they  are  not  flrralj'  strengthened  and  guarded  by  religion.     The  prayers  of  Angelo 

came  from  his  lips,  not  from  his  heart,  and  he  foU.     Isabella,  on  the  contrary,  is  prcseiTcd  by  virtue 

grounded  on  religious  faith.     Her  character  is  presented  as  nearly  approaching  perfection  as  is  consistent 

with  possible  reality;  and  we  rejoice  that  such  a  being  should  be  snatched  from  the  gloomy  cloister  to 

I  xercise  her  mild  influence  in  a  more  useful  station.     The  minor  characters  complcto  the  picture  of  one 

f  tlie  cliief  phases  of  human  life,  tie  conflict  of  incontinence  and  chastity. 

141 


PERSONS     KEPRESENTED. 


VrscENTic,  iJie  Bulco. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3.  Act  II.  sc.  3.   Act.  III.  sc.  1 ; 

sc.  2.  Act  IV.  6c.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  sc.  3 :  sc.  5.  Act  V.  sc.  1. 

AxGELO,  the  deputy  [in  the  Duke's  absence']. 

ippears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.    Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  sc.  4.   Act  IV. 

sc.  4.     Act  V.  sc.  1. 

EscAECs,  an  ancient  lord  [joined  teith  Angelo  in  the 

deputation]. 

ippears,    Act   I.  sc.   1.     Act  II.  sc.  1.      Act  III.  sc.  2. 

Act  IV.  sc.  4.     Act  V.  sc.  1. 

CLiUDro,  a  young  gentleman. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.      Act  III.  sc.  1.     Act  IV.  sc.  2. 

Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Ltjcio,  a  fantastic. 

Appears  Act  I.  sc.  2  ;  sc.  4.    Act  II.  sc.  2.   Act  III.  sc.  2; 

sc.  3.     Act  IV.  sc.  3.     Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Two  other  like  Gentlemen. 
Appear,  Act  I.  sc.  2  ;  sc.  3. 

Provost. 

A]<pe3rB,  Act  1.  sc.  2.  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc  2 ;  sc.  3.  Act  III. 

BC.  1 ;  Bc.  2.     Act  IV.  sc.  2  ;  sc.  3.     Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Thomas,  a  friar. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  3. 

Peter,  a  friar. 
Appco  s,  Act  IV.  sc.  5  ;  sc.  G.     Act  V.  ic.  1. 

A  Justice. 
Appea't;  Act  II.  »c.  1. 


Varbius. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  5.    Act  V.  eo.  1. 

Elbow,  a  simple  constable. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  I.    Act  III.  sc.  2. 

Feotii,  a  foolish  gentleman. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1. 

Clowjt. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1.    Act  III.  sc.  2.   Act  IV.  bc  2 ;  so  3 

Abhokson,  an  executioner. 
Appears,    Act  IV.   sc  2 ;      sc.   3. 

Babnajidixe,  a  dissolute  prisoner. 
Appears,   Act  IV.   sc.   3.     Act  V.   sc.  1. 

Isabella,  sister  to  Claudio. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  4.   Act  II.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  4.     Act  lit.  s^.  i 

Act.  IV.  sc.  1  ;  sc.  3 ;  sc.  6.    Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Majiiaxa,  betrothed  to  Angela. 
Appears,   Act  IV.  sc.  1 ;    sc.  6.     Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Juliet,  beloved  of  Claudio. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.     Act  II.  sc.  3.     Act  V.  8o.  1. 

Fraxcisca,  a  nun. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  4. 

Mistress  Oveedoxe,  a  bawd. 
Appears,  Act  L  sc.  2.     Act  lU.  sr,  2 

Lardi,    Gentlemen,    Guards,    Officers,   and  other 
Attendants. 

SCEXE,— VxENTfA. 


M^mm  h  jlWMt 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I. — An  apartment  in  the  Duke's  palace. 

Enter  Duke,  Escaius,  Lords,  and  Attendants. 

Dnl-.e.  Escalus, — 

Escal.  My  lord. 

Buhe.  Of  government  the  properties  to  unfold, 
^''ould  seem  in  me  t'  affect  speech  and  discourse ; 
Since  I  am  put  to  know'  that  your  own  science 
Exceeds,  in  that,  the  lists  of  all  advice 
My   strength   can  give  you.     Then  no  more  re- 

maius. 
Put  that  to  your  sufficiency,^  as  your  worth  is 

able, 
And  let  them  work.     The  nature  of  our  people. 
Our  city's  institutions,  and  the  terms' 
For  common  justice,  y'  are  as  pregnant  in, 
As  art  and  practice  hath  enriched  any 
That  we  rememher :  There  is  our  commission, 
From  which  we  would  not  have  you  warp. — CaU 

hither, 
[  say,  bid  come  before  us  Angelo. 

[Exit  an  attendant. 
What  figure  of  us  think  you  he  will  bear  ? 
For  you  must  know,  wc  have  with  special  soul* 
Elected  him  our  absence  to  supply  ; 
Lent  him  our  terror,  dross'd  him  with  oui'  love  ; 
And  given  his  deputation  aU  the  organs 
Of  our  ov.Ti  pow'r :  What  think  you  of  it  ? 

Escal.  If  any  in  Vienna  be  of  worth 
To  undergo  such  ample  grace  and  honour, 
It  is  lord  Angelo. 


Enter  Anoelo. 

Dtike.  Look,  where  he  comes. 

Ang.  Always  obedient  to  your  grace's  will 
I  come  to  know  your  plea'sure. 

Bake.  Angelo, 

There  is  a  kind  of  character  in  thy  life, 
That,  to  th'  observer,  doth  thy  history 
FuUy  unfold.     Thyself  and  thy  belongings 
Are  not  thine  own  so  proper,'  as  to  waste 
Thyself  upon  thy  virtues,  they  on  thee. 
Heaven  doth  with  us  as  we  witli  torches  do  ; 
Not  light  them  for  themselves :  for  if  our  virtues 
Did  not  ge  forth  of  us,  't  were  all  alike 
As  if  -we  had  them  not.     Spirits   are  not  finely 

touch' d 
But  to  iine  issues :"  nor  Nature  never  lends 
The  smallest  scruple  of  her  excellence. 
But,  like  a  thrifty  goddess,  she  determines 
Herself  the  glory  of  a  creditor, 
lioth  thanks  and  use.'    But  I  do  bend  my  speech 
To  one  that  can  my  part  in  him  advertise  ;" 
Hold,  therefore,  Angelo:'  [  Giving  him  the  commission 
In  our  remove,  be  thou  at  full  ourself : 
Mortality  and  mercy'"  in  Vienna 
Live  in  thy  tongue  and  heart.     Old  Escalus, 
Though  first  in  question,"  is  thy  secondary : 
Take  thy  commission. 

Ang.  Now,  good  my  loid. 

Let  there  be  some  more  test  made  of  mj-  mctd, 
Before  so  noble  and  so  groat  a  figure 
Be  stamp'd  upon  it. 

143 


ACT  L 


MKASURB   FOR  MEASURE 


SCENE   U. 


Dule.  1^0  more  evasion  : 

We  have  with  a  leaven'd  and  prepared  choice '- 
Proceeded  to  you :  therefore  take  your  honours. 
Our  haste  from  hence  is  of  so  quick  condition, 
That  it  prefers  itself,  and  leaves  unquestion'd 
Matters  of  needful  value.     "We  shall  -write  to  you, 
As  time  and  our  conccmings  shall  importune, 
How  it  goes  with  us  ;  and  do  look  to  know 
■^liat  doth  hefol  you  here.     So,  fare  you  well : 
To  th'  hopeful  execution  do  I  leave  you 
Of  your  commissions. 

Aiiff  Yet,  give  leave,  my  lord. 

That  we  may  bring  you  something  on  the  way. 

Dulce.  My  haste  may  not  admit  it ; 
Nor  need  you,  on  mine  honour,  have  to  do 
With  any  scruple :  your  scope  is  as  mine  own, 
So  to  enforce  or  qualify  the  laws 
As  to  yotir  soul  seems  good.     Give  me  j-our  hand; 
I  '11  privily  away :  I  love  the  people, 
But  do  not  like  to  stage  me  to  their  eyes :'' 
Though  it  do  weU,  I  do  not  relish  well 
Their  loud  applause,  and  aves  vehement; 
Nor  do  I  think  the  man  of  safe  discretion 
That  does  affect  it.     Once  more,  fare  you  well. 

Atij.  The  heavens  give  safety  to  your  purposes  I 

anneal.  Lead  forth,  and  bring  you  back  in  happi- 
ness. 

Dulce.  I  thank  you :  Fare  you  well.  \_Hxit. 

Escal.  I  shall  desire  you,  sir,  to  give  me  leave 
To  have  free  speech  -^nth  you ;    and  it  concerns 

me 
To  look  into  the  bottom  of  my  place  : 
A  pow'r  I  have ;  but  of  what  strength  and  nature 
I  am  not  yet  instnictcd. 

Ang.  'T   is    so   with   me : — Let   us  withdi-aw 
together, 
And  we  may  soon  our  satisfaction  have 
Touching  that  point. 

Eical.  I  'U  wait  upon  your  honour. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— .4  Street  in  Vienna. 
Enter  Lucio  and  two  Gentlemen. 
Lucio.  If  the  duke,  with  the  other  dukes,  come 
not  to  composition   with  the  king   of  Hungary, 
why,  then  all  the  dukes  fall  upon  the  king. 

1  Gent.  Heaven  grant  us  its  peace,  but  not  the 
king  of  Hungary's ! 

2  Gent.  Amen. 

Lucio.  Thou  conclud'st  like  the  sanctimonious 
pirate,  that  went  to  sea  with  the  ton  command- 
mcnts,  but  scrap'd  on?  out  of  the  table. 
114 


2  Gent.  Thou  thaU  not  steal  ? 
Lucio    Ay,  that  he  raz'd. 

1  Gent.  Why,  't  was  a  commandment  to  com- 
mand the  captain  and  all  the  rest  from  tlieir  func- 
tions; they  put  forth  to  steal.  There's  not,  a 
soldier  of  us  all,  that,  in  the  thanksgiving  before 
meat,"  doth  relish  the  petition  well  that  prays  for 
peace. 

2  Gent.  I  never  heard  any  soldier  dislike  it. 
Lucio.  I  believe  thee;   for  I  think  thou  nevei 

wast  where  grace  was  said. 

2  Gent.  No  ?  a  dozen  times  at  Isast. 

1  Gent.  "\Miat  ?  in  metre  ^ 

Lucio.  In  any  proportion,  or  in  any  language. 

1   Gent.  I  think,  or  in  any  religion.  ■ 

Lucio.  Ay !  why  not  ?  Grace  is  grace,''  despite 
of  all  controversy  :  As  for  example  :  Thou  thyself 
art  a  wicked  \-iUain,  despite  of  all  grace. 

1  Gent.  AYell,  there  went  but  a  pair  of  sheais 
between  us. 

Lucio.  I  grant ;  as  there  may  between  the  bsts 
and  the  velvet.     Thou  art  the  list. 

1  Gent.  And  thou  the  velvet :  thou  art  good 
velvet;  thou  'rt  a  three-pU'd  piece,"  I  warrant 
thee :  I  had  as  lief  be  a  list  of  an  English  kersey,  \ 
as  be  pU'd,  as  thou  art  pil'd,  for  a  French  velvet.  ] 
Do  I  speak  feelingly  now  ? 

Lucio.  I  think  thou  dost;  and,  indeed,  •with 
most  painful  feeling  of  thy  speech,  I  wiU,  out  of 
thine  own  confession,  loam  to  begin  thy  health ; 
but  wliUst  I  live,  forget  to  drink  after  thee. 

1  Gent.  1  think  1  have  done  rayseK  wrong; 
have  I  not  ? 

2  Gent.  Yes,  that  thou  hast;  whether  thou  art 
tainted  or  free. 

Lucio.  Behold,  behold,  where  madam  Mitigation 
comes !  I  have  purchas'd  as  many  diseases  undei 
her  roof  as  come  to — 

2  Gent.  To  what,  I  pray? 

Lucio.  Judge. 

2  Gent.  To  three  thousand  doUars"  a  year. 

1  Gent.  Ay,  and  more. 

Lucio.  A  French  crown  more. 

1  Gent.  Thou  art  always  figuring  diseases  in 
me  :  but  thou  art  full  of  error ;  I  am  sound. 

Lucio.  Nay,  not  as  one  would  say,  healthy ;  bv  t 
so  sound  as  things  that  are  hollow :  thy  bones  ar? 
hollow :  impiety  has  made  a  feast  of  theo 

Enter  Mistkess  Ovebboxe. 
1  Gent.  How  now?     'Wliich  of  your  hips  haa 
the  most  profound  sciatica  r 


Acr  I. 


MEASUllE  FOR  MEASURE. 


SCnSNE    11, 


Over.  AVcU,  well;  there's  one  yonder  arrested, 
nnd  carried  to  prison,  was  worth  fivo  thousand 
of  you  all. 

I  Gent.  A\nio  's  that,  I  pray  thee  ? 

Over,  irarry,  sir,  that 's  Claudio,  signor  Claudio. 

1  Gent.  Claudio  to  prison !  't  is  not  so. 

Over.  Nay,  but  I  know 't  is  so  :  I  saw  him  ar- 
rested; saw  him  carried  away;  and  which  is  more, 
within  these  three  days  his  head's  to  be  chopp'd  oiT. 

Liicio.  But,  after  all  this  fooling,  I  would  not 
have  it  so.     Art  thou  sure  of  this  ? 

Over.  I  am  too  sure  of  it ;  and  it  is  for  getting 
madam  Julietta  ■\s'ith  child. 

Liicio.  Beliere  me,  this  may  be:  he  promis'd  to 
meet  mo  two  hours  since,  and  he  was  ever  precise 
in  promise-keeping. 

2  Gent.  Besides,  you  know,  it  draws  something 
near  to  the  speech  we  had  to  such  a  purpose. 

1  Gent.  But,  most  of  all,  agreeing  with  the  pro- 
clamation. 

Lueio.  Away;  let's  go  learn  the  truth  of  it. 

\_Exeimt  Lucio  and  Gentlemen. 

Qve'-.  Thus,  what  with  the  war,  what  with 
the  sweat,"  what  with  the  gallows,  and  what  with 
^cvi^rty,  I  am  custom-slu"unk.  How  now?  what's 
(he  news  ■«ith  you? 

Enter  Clown. 

Clo.  Ycmdcr  man  is  carried  co  prison. 

Over.  Well ;  what  has  he  done  ? 

Clo.  A  woman. 

Over.  But  what 's  his  offence  r 

Clo.  Groping  for  trouts  in  a  peculiar  river. 

Over.  \^\a.t,  is  there  a  maid  with  child  by  him? 

Clo.  No;  but  there  's  a  woman  with  maid  by 
him.  You  have  not  heard  of  the  proclamation, 
have  you? 

Over.  "Wliat  proclamation,  man  ? 

Clo.  All  houses  in  the  suburbs  of  Vienna  must 
be  pluck'd  down. 

Over.  And  whaf  shall  become  of  those  in  the 
city  ? 

Clo.  They  shall  stand  for  seed :  thoy  had  gone 
down  too,  but  a  wise  burgher  put  in  for  them. 

Over.  But  shall  all  our  houses  of  resort  in  the 
Tuburbs  be  pull'd  down  ? 

Clo.  To  the  ground,  mistress. 

Over.  Why,  hero  's  a  change,  indeed,  in  the  com- 
monwealth I    AVliat  shall  become  of  me  ? 

Clo.  Come ;  fear  not  you :  good  counsellors  lack 
no  clients:  though  you  change  your  place,  you  need 
tioi  change  your  ti'ade  •  I  'U  be  your  tapster  still. 


Courage;  there  will  be  pity  taken  on  you:  j'ou 
that  have  worn  your  eyes  almost  out  in  the  ser- 
vice, you  ^"ill  be  considered 

Over.  What's  to  do  here,  Thomas  Tapster*  Let  'a 
withdraw. 

Clo.  Here  comes  signer  Claudio,  led  by  tlie  pro- 
vost to  prison:  and  there  's  madam  Juliet. 

[  Exeunt. 

Enter  Provost,  Claubio,  Jrrr.iKT,  and  OFFicKK.'i 
Lucio,  and  two  Gentlemen. 

Claud.  Fellow,  why  dost  thou  show  me  thus  to 
th'  world? 
Bear  mo  to  prison,  where  I  am  committed. 

P)-o.  I  do  it  not  in  evil  disposition. 
But  from  lord  Angelo  by  special  charge. 

Claud.  Thus  can  the  derai-god.  Authority, 
Make  us  pay  down  for  our  offence  by  weight." — 
The  word  of  heaven — on  whom  it  -will,  it  will; 
On  whom  it  will  not,  so;  yet  still  't  is  just. 

Lucio.   WTiy,  hov,-  now,  Claudio?  whence  comes 
this  restraint  ? 

Claud.    From    too    much    liberty,    mv   Lucio, 
liberty : 
As  surfeit  is  the  father  of  much  fast, 
So  eveiy  scope,  by  the  immoderate  use, 
Turns  to  restraint.      Our  natures  do  purt'^o 
(Like  rats  that  ravin  down  their  propoi  lquc^) 
A  thirst)'  e-^-il,  and  when  we  drink  wo  die. 

Lueiu.  If  I  could  speak  so  wisely  under  an  ar- 
rest, I  would  send  for  certain  of  my  creditors. 
And  yet,  to  say  the  truth,  I  had  as  lief  have  the 
foppery  of  freedom  as  the  morality  of  imprisonment. 
— What 's  thy  offence,  Claudio  ? 

Claud.  What  but  to  speak  of  would  offend  again. 

L^teio.  AAHiat!  is  't  murder? 
No. 

Lecher}'  ? 
Call  it  so. 

Pro.  Away,  sir;  you  muse  go. 

Claud.  One  word,  good  friend : — Lucio,  a  woi-d 
with  you.  [Takes  him  aside. 

Lucio.  A  hundred,  if  they  'U  do  you  any  good. 
— Is  lechery  so  look'd  »fter  ? 

Claud.  Thus  stands  it  with  me  : — Upon  a  tnie 
contract, 
I  got  possession  of  Julietta's  bed ; 
You  know  the  lady ;  she  is  fast  my  wife, 
Save  that  wo  do  the  denimciation  lack 
Of  outward  order :   this  we  came  not  to, 
Only  for  propagation  of  a  dow'r^' 
Remaining  in  the  colfer  of  her  friends ; 


Claud. 
Lucio. 
Claud. 


MEASURE  FOJl  MEASUllE. 


Flora  -n-ho!!!  we  thought  it  meet  to  hide  our  love, 
Till  time  had  made  them  for  us.     But  it  chances, 
The  stealth  jf  our  most  mutual  entertaimnent, 
With  character  too  gross,  is  \VTit  on  Juliet. 

Zucio.  With  chUd,  perhaps  ? 

Claud.  Unhappily,  even  so. 

And  the  new  deputy  now  for  the  duke, — 
Whether  it  he  the  fault  and  glimpse  of  newness;^ 
Or  whether  that  the  body  public  be 
A  horse  whereon  the  governor  doth  ride. 
Who,  newly  in  the  seat,  that  it  may  know 
He  can  command,  lots  it  straight  feel  the  spur ; 
Whether  the  tp'anny  be  in  his  place, 
Or  in  his  eminence  that  iills  it  up, 
I  stagger  in : — But  this  new  governor 
Awakes  me  all  the  em'olled  penalties. 
Which  have,  like  unscoar'd  armour,  hung  by  th' 

wall 
So  long,  that  nineteen  zodiacs  have  gone  round. 
And  none  of  them  been  worn  ;  and,  for  a  name. 
Now  puts  the  drowsy  and  neglected  act 
Freshly  on  me  : — 't  is  surely  for  a  name. 

Lucio.  I  wan-ant,  it  is :  and  thy  head  stands  so 
•ickle"^  on  thy  shoulders,  that  a  milkmaid,  if  she 
be  in  love,  may  sigh  it  off.  Send  after  the  duke, 
and  appeal  to  liim. 

Claud.  I  have  done  so,  but  he  's  not  to  be  found. 
1  prithee,  Lucio,  do  me  this  kind  scrrice  ; 
This  day  my  sister  should  the  cloister  enter. 
And  there  receive  her  approbation  ; 
Acquaint  her  with  the  danger  of  my  state  ; 
Implore  her  in  ray  voice,  that  she  make  friends 
To  the  strict  deputy  ;  bid  herself  assay  him ; 
I  have  great  hope  in  that :  for  in  her  youth 
There  is  a  prone  and  speechless  dialect," 
Such  as  moves  men  ;  beside,  she  hath  prosperous  art 
When  slie  wUl  play  with  reason  and  discourse, 
And  well  she  can  persuade. 

Lucio.  I  pray  she  may  :  as  well  for  the  encou- 
ragement of  the  like,  which  else  would  stand 
under  grievous  imposition;  as  for  the  enjo3'ing  of 
thy  life,  who  I  would  be  sorry  should  be  thus 
foolishly  lost  at  a  game  of  ticktack.^     I  'U  to  her. 

Claud.  T  thank  you,  good  friend  Lucio. 

Lucio.  Witliiu  two  hours. 

Claud.  Come,  officer,  away.  {&eunt. 

SCENE  III.— ^  Monastery 

JSnter  Dcke  and  Friar  Tnojr.vs. 

Duhe.  No,  holy  father;  throw  away  that  thought; 
Believe  not  that  the  dribbling  dart  of  love'^ 
I  tr. 


Can  pierce  a  complete  bosom :  wliy  I  desire  theo 
To  give  me  secret  harbour,  hath  a  purpose 
More  grave  and  wrinkled  than  the  aiius  and  iwh 
Of  burning  youth. 

Fri.  May  your  grace  speak  of  il 

Duke.  My  holy  sir,  none  better  Imows  than  j'ou 
How  I  have  ever  lov'd  the  life  removed ; 
And  held  in  idle  price  to  haimt  assemblies, 
Where  youth,  and  cost,  and  witless  bravery  kepp." 
1  have  delivered  to  lord  Angelo 
(A  man  of  stricture^  and  firm  abstinence) 
My  absolute  power  and  place  here  in  Vienna, 
And  he  supposes  me  travell'd  to  Poland : 
For  so  I  have  strew'd  it  in  the  comcon  ear, 
And  so  it  is  rcceiv'd.     Now,  pious  sir, 
Tou  wUl  demand  of  me  why  I  do  this 

Eri.  Gladly,  my  lord. 

Duhe.  We  have  strict  statutes,  and  most  biting 
laws, 
(The  needful  bits  and  curbs  to  headstrong  steeds,  > 
Which  for  this  foui'teen  years  wo  have  let  sleep;" 
Even  like  an  o'ergrown  lion  in  a  cave. 
That  goes  not  out  to  prey.     Now,  as  fi^nd  fathci^ 
Havicff  bound  up  the  thi'oat'ning  twigs  of  hircb. 
Only  to  stick  it  m  their  childrcn"s  r.ight. 
For  terror,  not  to  use,  in  ti;ne  tlie  rod 
Becomes  more  mock'd  than  fear'd ;  so  our  decrees 
Dead  to  infliction,  to  themselves  are  dead ; 
And  liberty  plucks  justice  by  the  nose ; 
The  baby  beats  the  nurse,  and  quite  athwart 
Goes  all  decorum. 

Fri.  It  rested  in  your  grace 

To  unloose  this  tied-up  justice  when  you  pleas'd  : 
And  it  in  you  more  di'eadful  would  have  seem'd 
Than  in  lord  Angelo. 

Duho.  I  do  feai",  too  di-oadful : 

Sith  't  was  my  fault  to  give  the  people  scope, 
'T  would  be  my  tyranny  to  strike  and  gall  them 
For  what  I  bid  them  do :  For  we  bid  this  be  done, 
When  evil  deeds  have  theu-  permissive  pass, 
And  not  the  punishment.      Tliercforc,  indeed,  mj 

father, 
I  have  on  Angelo  impos'd  the  office ; 
Who  may,  in  th'  ambush  of  my  name,  strike  liomo 
And  yet  my  nature  never  in  the  tight. 
To  do  in  slander.""    And  to  behold  liis  sway, 
I  wiU,  as  't  were  a  brother  of  your  order, 
Visit  both  prince  and  people :  therefore,  I  pritheo 
Supply  me  v.-ith  the  nabit,  and  instruct  me 
How  I  may  formally  in  person  bear 
Like  a  true  friar.     More  reasons  for  this  action. 
At  our  more  leisure  shall  I  render  j-ou ; 


LCI    I. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


Oiily  this  one : — Lord  Aiigelo  is  precise  ; 
Btunds  at  a  guard  with  envy ; ''  scarce  confesses 
That  his  blood  flows,  or  that  his  appetite 
Is  more  U.  oread  than  stone.     Hence  shall  we  see, 
If  power  change  piirpose,  what  our  scemers  be. 

SCEIiE  -iN.—The  Nunnery  of  Si.  Clare. 
Enter  Isabeha  and  Feancisca. 

Isah.  And  have  you  nuns  no  further  privileges  ? 

Fran.  Are  not  tliese  large  enough  ? 

Isah.  Yes,  truly :  I  speak  not  as  desiring  more ; 
But  rather  wishing  a  more  strict  restraint 
Upon  the  sisterhood,  the  votarists  of  St.  Clare. 

Lucio.  Ho  !  Peace  be  in  this  place  !       [  WitJiin. 

Isah.  Who  's  that  which  calls  ? 

Fran.  It  is  a  man's  voice  :   Gentle  Isabella, 
Turn  you  the  key,  and  know  his  business  of  him ; 
You  may,  I  may  not ;  you  arc  yet  unsworn : 
When  you  have  vow'd,  you  must  not  speak  with 

men, 
But  in  the  presence  of  the  prioress  : 
Then,  if  you  speak,  you  must  not  show  your  face ; 
Or,  if  you  show  your  face,  you  must  not  speak. 
He  calls  again ;  I  pray  you  answer  him. 

\_Exit  Fran. 

Isal.  Peace  and  prosperity !  Wlio  is  't  that  calls? 

Enter  Lucio. 

Lucio.  Hail,  virgin,  if  you  be  ;  as  tliose  cheek- 
roses 
Proclaim  you  are  no  less  !  Can  you  so  stead  me, 
As  bring  me  to  the  sight  of  Isabella, 
A  novice  of  this  place,  and  the  fair  sister 
To  her  mihappy  brother  Claudio  ? 

Isal.  AVhy  her  unhappy  brother  ?  let  me  ask ; 
The  rather,  for  I  now  must  make  you  know 
I  am  that  Isabella,  and  his  sister. 

Lucio.  Gentle   and   fair,    your   brother   kindly 
greetsyou  : 
Not  to  be  weary  with  you,  he  's  in  prison. 

Isah.  Woe  me !  For  what  ? 

Lucio.  For  that,  which  if  myself  might  be  his 

(le  should  receive  his  punishment  in  thanks : 

Lie  halh  got  his  Mend  with  child. 
Imb.  Sir,  make  me  not  your  story.^ 
Luc-io.  'T  is  true.     I  would  not — though  't  is 
my  familiar  sin 

With  maids  to  seem  the  lapwing,^'  and  to  jest, 

I'ongue  far  from  heart, — play  with  al'  virsins  so : 


I  hold  you  as  a  thing  enskicd,  and  sainted ; 
By  your  renouncement,  an  immortal  spirit ; 
And  to  be  taUc'd  with  in  sincerity. 
As  with  a  saint. 

Isah.  You  do  blaspheme  the  good,  in  mocking  niB 

Lucio.  Do  not  believe  it.     Fewness  and  trutli, 
't  is  thus : 
Your  brother  and  his  lover  have  embrac'd  : 
As  those  that  feed  grow  full ;  as  blossoming  time,* 
That  from  the  seedness  the  bare  fallow  brings 
To  teeming  foison  ;  even  so  her  plenteous  womb 
Expresseth  his  full  tilth  and  husbandry. 

Isah.  Some  one  with  child  by  him  r — Jly  cousin 
Juliet? 

Lucio.  Is  she  your  cousin  ? 

Isah.  Adoptedly;    as  schoolmaids  change  theii 
.  names. 
By  vain  though  apt  affection. 

Lucio.  She  it  is. 

Isah.  0,  let  him  marry  her  I 

Lucio.  This  is  the  point. 

The  duke  is  very  strangely  gone  from  hence; 
Bore  many  gentlemen,  myself  being  one, 
In  hand,^*  and  hope  of  action :  but  we  do  Icani 
By  those  that  know  the  very  nerves  of  state, 
His  gi\ing-out  was  of  an  infinite  distance 
From  his  true-meant  design.     Upon  his  place, 
And  with  full  line  of  his  authority, 
Governs  lord  Angelo  :  a  man  whose  blood 
Is  very  snow-broth ;  one  who  never  feels 
The  want  3n  stings  and  motions  of  the  sense ; 
But  doth  rebate  and  blunt  liis  natural  edge 
With  profits  of  the  mind,  studj-  and  fast. 
He  (to  give  fear  to  use  and  liberty, 
Which  have,  for  long,  run  by  the  hideous  law, 
As  mice  by  Hons)  hath  pick'd  out  an  act. 
Under  •whose  heavy  sense  yoiu-  brother's  life 
Falls  into  foi'feit :  he  arrests  him  on  it 
And  follows  close  the  rigour  of  the  statute, 
To  make  him  an  example :  all  hope  is  gone. 
Unless  you  have  the  grace  by  your  fair  prayer 
To  soften  Angelo ;  and  that's  my  pith  of  business 
'Twixt  you  and  your  poor  brother. 

Isah.  Doth  he  so 

Seek  his  Hfe  r 

Lucio.  H'  as  censur'd  him  already,'' 

And,  as  I  hear,  the  provost  hath  a  ■«  arrant 
For  's  execution. 

Isah.  Alas !  what  poor 

Ability  "s  in  me  to  do  him  good  ? 

Lucio.  Assay  the  pow'r  you  have. 

Isah.  My  power!  Alas!  I  doubt— 

147 


MEASUllE  FOR  iLEASUBE. 


SCEXE   I. 


Lufio.  Our  doubts  are  traitors, 
And  make  us  lose  the  good  we  oft  might  -n-in, 
B\-  fearing  to  attempt.     Go  to  lord  Angelo, 
Km\  let  hira  learn  to  know,  when  maidens  sue, 
Men  give  like  gods ;  but  when  they  weep  and  kneel, 
All  their  petitions  are  as  freely  theirs 
As  they  themselves  would  owe  them. 

Isal.  I  '11  see  what  I  can  do. 


Lucio.  But  speedily. 

Isab.  I  ^viU.  about  it  straight; 
No  longer  staj-ing  but  to  give  the  mother  " 
Notice  of  my  atfair.     I  humbly  thar_k  you  : 
Commend  me  to  my  brother ;  soon  at  night 
I  '11  send  him  certain  word  of  my  sucoes?. 

Lucio.  I  take  my  leave  of  you. 

Isah.  Good  sir,  adieu.  \Ilxeuni 


ACT   II. 


SCENE  1. — A  Eall  in  Angelo's  Ebme. 

Enter  Asgelo,  Escalus,  a  Justice,  Pkovost," 
Officeks,  and  other  Aitenbanis. 

Any.  We  must  not  make  a  scarecrow  of  the  law, 
Setting  it  up  to  fear"  the  birds  of  prey. 
And  let  it  keep  one  shape,  tiU  custom  make  it 
Their  perch,  and  not  their  terror. 

Meal  Ay,  but  yet 

Let  us  be  keen,  and  rather  cut  a  little. 
Than  fall,  and  bruise  to  death,     .ilas  I  this  gentle- 
man, 
Wliom  I  would  save,  had  a  most  noble  father : 
Let  but  your  honour  know, 
("WTiom  I  believe  to  be  most  straight  in  virtue,) 
That  in  the  working  of  your  own  affections, 
Had    time   coher'd  with   place,   or  place    with 

wishing. 
Or  that  the  resolute  acting  of  your  blood  " 
,  Could  have  attain'd  th'  effect  of  your  own  purpose, 
Whether  you  had  not  sometime  in  your  life 
Err'd  in  this  point  which  now  you  censure  him, 
And  puU'd  the  law  upon  you. 

Aitj.  'T  is  one  thing  to  be  tempted,  Escalus, — 
iVj.other  thing  to  fall.     I  not  deny, 
Tl.n  iurv  passing  on  the  prisoner's  life, 
K-jj,  in  the  sworn  twelve,  have  a  thief  or  two 
Gi.'ltier  than  him  they  tiy.     ^Yha.t  's  open  made 
To  justice,  that  justice  seizes;    what  know  the 

laws,'- 
IThat    thieves   do  pass   on    thieves?    'T   is   very 

pregnant, 
!l1ie  jewel  that  we  find,  we  stoop  and  take  't. 
Because  wc  see  it ;  but  wliat  we  do  not  see 
We  tread  upon,  and  never  think  of  it. 
You  may  not  so  extenuate  his  offence. 
For  I  have  had  such  faults ;  but  ratlier  tell  ine 

14« 


When  I,  that  ccusm-e  him,  do  so  offend, 

Let  mine  own  judgment  pattern  out  my  death. 

And  nothing  come  in  partial.     Sir,  he  must  die. 

Escal.  Be  it  as  your  wisdom  wUl. 

Ang.  '\\'Tiere  is  the  provost? 

Prov.  Here,  if  it  like  your  honour. 

Ang.  See  that  Claudio 

Be  executed  by  nine  to-morrow  morning: 
Bring  him  his  confessor,  let  him  be  prepar'd ; 
For  that 's  theutmost  of  his  pilgrimage. 

[Exit  Phov 

Escal.  Well,    heaven  forgive  him !  and  forgive 
us  all; 
"  Some  rise  by  sin,  and  some  by  "irtue  fall;"" 
Some  run  thro'  brakes  of  vice,"  and  answer  none; 
And  some  condemned  for  a  fault  alone. 

Enter  Elbow,  Froth,  Clo^vn,  Officebs,  ^-c. 

Elb.  Come,  bring  them  away :  if  these  be  good 
people  in  a  commonweal  that  do  nothing  but  use 
their  abuses  in  common  houses,  I  know  no  law ; 
bring  them  away. 

Ang.  How  now,  sir!  Wliat's  your  nanis?  and 
what's  the  matter? 

Eli.  If  it  please  your  honour,  I  am  the  poor 
duke's  constable,  and  my  name  is  Elbow ;  I  do  lean 
upon  justice,  sir,  and  do  bring  in  here  before  your 
good  honour  two  notorious  benefiictors. 

Ang.  Benefactors  ?  Well ;  what  benefactors  am 
they  ?  are  they  not  malefactors  ? 

Elb.  If  it  please  your  honour,  I  know  not  well 
what  they  are:  but  precise  villains  they  are,  that  I 
am  sure  of;  and  void  of  all  profanation  in  the 
world,  fliat  good  Christians  ouglit  to  have. 

Escal.  Tills  comes  off  weU;  here's  a  wse  officer. 

Ang.  Goto:  What  quality  are  they  of  ?  Elbow 
is  your  name  ?     WTiy  dost  thou  not  speak,  Elbow-' 


MEASUKE  FOR  MEASUim. 


Clo    lie  eaanot,  sir ;  he  's  out  at  elbow. 

Aug.  What  arc  3-ou,  sir? 

Elh.  lie,  sir?  a  tapster,  sir;  parcel-bawd;"  one 
I  hut  serves  a  bad  woman ;  wlioso  house,  sir,  was,  as 
I  hey  sa}',  pluck'd  down  in  the  suburbs;  ami  now 
ihe  professes  a  hot-house,'"'  which,  I  tiiiiik,  is  a  very 
ill  house  too. 

Escal.  How  know  you  tliat  ? 

E!b.  Jfy  wife,  sir,  M'hom  I  detest  before  heaven 
and  yom-  honour, — 

Eiml.  How !  thy  wife  ? 

.Elh.  Ay,  sir;  whom,  I  thank  heaven,  is  an  ho- 
nest woman,— 

Encal.  Dost  thou  detest  her  therefore 

Elb.  I  say,  sir,  I  will  detest  myself  also,  as  well 
as  she,  that  this  house,  if  it  be  not  a  bawd's  house, 
It  is  pity  of  her  life,  for  it  is  a  nauglity  house. 

Excal.  How  dost  thou  know  that,  constable  ? 

Elb.  Marry,  sir,  by  my  wife;  who,  if  she  had 
been  a  woman  cardinally  given,  might  have  been 
oceus'd  in  fornication,  adidter}',  and  all  uncleau- 
liness  there. 

Eical.  By  the  woman's  means  ? 

Elb.  Ay,  sir,  by  mistress  Overdone's  means:  but 
aa  she  spit  in  his  faos,  so  she  defi'd  him. 

Clo.  Sir,  if  it  please  your  honour,  this  is  not  so. 

£lb.  Prove  it  before  these  varlets  here,  thou 
iionourablo  man  ;  prove  it. 

Uscal.  Do  you  bear  how  he  misplaces  ? 

[To  Ang. 
Clo.  Sir,  she  came  in  groat  with  child;  and  long- 
ing (sa^ng  your  honour's  revcr9nce)  for  stow'd 
prunes ;  sir,  we  had  but  two  in  the  house,  which 
at  that  very  distant  time"  stood,  as  it  were,  in 
a.  fruit-dish,  a  dish  of  some  three-pence ;  j'our 
honours  have  seen  such  dishes;  they  are  not 
China  dishes,'*  but  very  good  dishes. 

Escal.  Go  to,  go  to ;  uo  matter  for  the  dish,  sir. 
Clo.  No,  indeed,  sir,  not  of  a  pin ;  you  are 
therein  in  the  right :  but,  to  the  point :  as  I  say, 
this  mistress  Elbow,  being,  as  I  say,  with  child, 
and  being  great  bellied,  and  longing,  as  I  said,  for 
primes ;  and  ha\nng  but  two  in  the  dish,  as  I  said, 
master  Froth  hero,  this  very  man,  having  eaten 
the  rest,  as  I  said,  and,  as  I  say,  paying  for  them 
very  honestly ; — for,  as  you  know,  master  Froth, 
1  could  not  give  you  three-pence  again. 
F>-oth.  No,  indeed. 

Clo.  Very  well :  3"ou  being  then,  if  you  be  re- 
mcmber'd,  cracking  the  stones  of  the  'foresaid 
prunes. 

Froth.  Ay,  so  1  did,  indeed. 


Clo.  ^V'■hy,  very  well:  I  tolling  you  then,  i'^  yoii 
be  roraember'd,  that  such  a  one,  and  such  a  one, 
were  past  cure  of  the  thing  you  wot  of,  unless 
they  kept  very  good  diet,  as  I  told  you. 

Frotlt.  Ail  this  is  true. 

Clo.  Why,  verj-  well  then. 

Escal.  Come,  you  are  a  tedious  fool :  to  the  pur- 
pose.— \Vliat  was  done  to  Elbow's  wife,  tliat  lie 
hath  cause  to  complain  of?  Come  me  to  what 
was  done  to  her. 

Clo.  Sir,  your  honoui'  cannot  come  to  that  yet. 

Escal.  No,  sir,  nor  I  mean  it  not. 

Clo.  Sir,  but  you  sliall  come  to  it,  by  youi 
honour's  leave:  And,  I  beseech  you,  look  intc 
master  Froth  nere,  sir ;  a  man  of  fourscore  pound 
a- year ;  \\'hose  father  died  at  Hallowmas : — Was  'l 
not  at  Hallowmas,  master  Froth  ? 

Froth.  All-haUond  eve. 

Clo.  "WTiy,  very  weU;  I  hope  here  be  truths. 
He,  sir,  sitting,  as  I  sa}',  in  a  lower  chair,  sir;  — 
't  was  in  the  Bunch  of  Grapes,"  where,  indeed,  you 
have  a  delight  to  sit :  Have  you  not  ? 

Froth.  I  have  so ;  because  it  is  an  open  room, 
and  good  for  winter. 

Clo.  Why,  vciy  well  then ; — I  h.cpe  here  be 
truths. 

Ant/.  This  will  last  out  a  night  in  EiLssia, 
Wlien  nights  are  longest  tliere  :  I  'U  take  my  leave. 
And  lea-\'c  you  to  the  hearing  of  the  cause ; 
Hoping  5'ou  '11  find  good  cause  to  whip  them  all. 

Escal.  I  tliink  no  less :  Good  morrow  to  yout 
lordship.  [E.vit  Axo. 

Now,  sir,  come  on :  'SMiat  was  done  to  Elbow"; 
wife,  once  more  ? 

Cli  Ouzf  su'?  there  was  nothing  done  to  her 
on;e. 

Elb.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  ask  him  what  this  man 
did  to  my  wife. 

Clo.  I  beseech  your  honour,  ask  me. 

Escal.  Well,  sir:  Whatdid  this  gentleman  to  her: 

Clo.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  look  in  this  gentleman's 
face  : — Good  master  Froth,  look  upon  his  honour ; 
't  is  for  a  good  piirpose :  Doth  j-our  honour  mark 
his  face  ? 

Escal.  Ay,  sir,  very  Mcll. 

Clo.  Na}-,  I  beseech  you,  mark  it  well. 

Escal.  WeU,  I  do  so. 

Clo.  Doth  your  honour  see  any  harm  in  his  face  ? 

Escal.  ^\niy.  no. 

Clo.  I  '11  be  suppos'd  upon  a  book,  Ids  face  is 
the  worst  thing  about  him.  Good  then;  if  his  face 
be  the  worst  thing  about  him,  how  could  mai'.tcr 

14fl 


ACT  n. 


MEASUEE  FOE  MEASUEE. 


Froth  do  the  constable's  wife  any  harm  ?    I  -would 
know  that  of  tout  honour. 

£scal.  Ho  's  in  the  right :  Constable,  what  say 
you  to  it  ? 

£lb.  First,  an'  it  like  you,  the  house  is  a  re- 
s])cctod  house;  next,  this  is  a  respected  fellow; 
and  his  mistress  is  a  respected  woman. 

Clo.  By  this  hand,  sir,  his  wife  is  a  more  re- 
spected person  than  any  of  us  aU. 

£lb.  Yarlet,  thou  liest;  thou  liest,  wicked  var- 
.et :  the  time  is  yet  to  come  that  she  was  ever 
respected  with  man,  woman,  or  cliild. 

Clo.  Sir,  she  was  respected  with  him  before  he 
married  with  her. 

£scal.  "Wliich  is  the  wiser  here  r  Justice,  or 
iniquity  :" — Is  this  true  ? 

nib.  0  thou  caitiff!  0  thou  rarlot!  0  thou 
wicked  Hannibal !  I  respected  with  her,  before  I 
was  manied  to  her  !  If  ever  I  was  respected  with 
her,  or  she  with  me,  let  not  your  worship  think 
1110  the  poor  duke's  officer: — Prove  this,  thou 
wicked  Hannibal,  or  I  'U  have  mine  action  of 
batt'ry  on  thee. 

Escal.  If  he  took  j-ou  a  box  o'  th'  ear,  j-ou 
might  have  j-our  action  of  slander  too. 

Elb.  ilany,  I  thank  your  good  worsliip  for  it : 
What  is  't  your  worship's  pleasure  I  shall  do  with 
this  wicked  caitiff  t 

Escal.  Tnily,  officer,  because  he  hath  some 
offences  in  him  that  thou  wouldst  discover  if  thou 
couldst,  let  him  continue  in  his  coiu'ses  tUI  thou 
Icnow'st  what  they  are. 

Elb.  Marry,  I  thank  your  worship  for  it : — Thou 
eeest,  thou  wicked  varlet  now,  what  's  come  upon 
thee ;  thou  art  to  continue  now,  thou  varlet ;  thou 
art  to  continue. 

Escal.  AAliero  were  you  bom,  friond  ?  [_ToYtmtu. 

Froth.  Here  iu  Vienna,  sir. 

Escal.  Are  you  of  fourscore  pounds  a-yoar  ? 

Froth.  Yes,  an  't  please  you,  sir. 

Escal.  So. — What  trade  are  you  of,  sir  ? 

\_To  Clo. 

Clo.  A  tapster ;  a  poor  widow's  tapster. 

Eical.  Your  mistress's  name  ? 

CUi.  Mistress  Overdone. 

Eaciil.  Hath  she  had  any  more  than  one  husband  ? 

Clo.  Nine,  sir ;  Overdone  by  the  last. 

Escal.  Ifinc ! — Come  hither  to  me,  master  Froth. 
^fn.ster  Froth,  I  would  not  have  you  acquainted 
with  tapsters ;  they  will  draw  you,  master  Froth, 
and  you  will  hang  them.  Get  you  gone,  and  let 
me  hear  no  more  of  you. 


Froth.  I  thank  your  worship :  For  mine  ow 
part,  I  never  come  into  any  room  in  a  taphouse 
but  I  am  drawn  in. 

Escal.  Well ;  no  more  of  it,  master  Froth :  fare 
well.  \_Exit  Feoth.] — Come  you  hither  to  me. 
master  tapster;  what 's  your  name,  master  tapstei ' 

Clo.  Pompey. 

Escal.  What  else  ? 

Clo.  Bum,  sir. 

Escal.  'Troth,  and  your  bam  is  the  greatest 
thing  about  you;^'  so  that,  in  the  beastliest  sense, 
you  are  Pompey  the  Great.  Pompey,  5'ou  are 
partly  a  bawd,  Pompey,  howsoever  you  colour  if 
in  being  a  tapster.  Are  you  not  ?  Come,  tell  me 
true ;  it  shall  be  the  better  for  you. 

Clo.  Tridy,  sir,  I  am  a  poor  fellow  that  would 
live. 

Escal.  How  would  you  live,  Pompey  ?  by  being 
a  bawd?  Wliat  do  you  think  of  the  trade,  Pom- 
pey: is  it  a  lawful  trade? 

Clo.  If  the  law  would  allow  it,  sir. 

Escal.  But  tiiC  law  will  not  allow  it,  Pompey : 
nor  it  shall  not  I30  allowed  in  Vienna. 

Clo.  Does  your  worship  moan  to  geld  and  spla\ 
all  the  youth  of  the  city? 

Escal.  No,  I'ompcy. 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  in  my  poor  opinion,  they  will 
to 't  then.  If  your  worship  will  take  order  for  the 
drabs  and  the  ioiaves,  you  need  not  to  fear  the 
bawds. 

Escal.  There  are  pretty  orders  beginning,  I  can 
teU  you.     It  is  but  heading  and  hanging. 

Clo.  If  you  head  and  hang  all  that  offend  that 
way  but  for  ten  year  together,  you  '11  be  glad  to 
give  out  a  commission  for  more  heads.  1£  this  law 
hold  in  Vienna  ten  year,  I  '11  rent  the  fairest  house 
in  it  after  three-pence  a  bay."  If  you  Hve  to  see 
this  come  to  pass,  say  Pompey  told  you  so. 

Escal.  Thank  you,  good  Pompey :  and,  in 
requital  of  your  prophecy,  hark  you, — I  advise 
you,  let  me  not  find  you  before  me  again  upon  any 
comphunt  whatsoever,  no,  not  for  dwelling  where 
you  do ;  if  I  do,  Pompey,  I  shall  beat  you  to  youi 
tent,  and  prove  a  shrewd  Ctesar  to  you;  in  plain 
dealing,  Pompey,  I  shall  have  you  whipp'd :  so  for 
this  time,  Pompey,  faro  you  well. 

Clo.  I  thank  your  worship  for  your  good  counsel, 
but  I  shall  foUow  it  as  the  tiesh  and  fortune  shall 
better  determine. 

\Vlii])  me  ?     No,  no ;  let  carman  whip  his  jade ; 
Tho  valiant  heart 's  not  whipped  out  of  his  trade. 

[Exit. 


AC'i  n. 


MEASURE  EOll  MEASITRE. 


SCENE  n. 


Escal.  Come  Mthor  to  ni  e,  master  Elbow ;  come 
bithur,  master  constublo.  How  long  have  you 
been  in  this  place  of  constable? 

F.lh.  Seven  year  and  a  half,  sir. 

Escal.  I  thought,,  by  your  I'eadiness  in  the  office, 
;  ou  had  continued  in  it  some  time :  You  say,  seven 
years  together  ? 

Elh.  And  a  half,  sir. 

Escal.  Alas !  it  hath  been  great  pains  to  you ! 
They  do  you  wrong  to  put  you  so  oft  upon  't :  Are 
there  not  men  in  j-our  ward  sufficient  to  serve  it? 

Elb.  Faith,  sir,  few  of  any  wit  in  such  matters: 
as  they  are  chosen,  they  are  glad  to  choose  me  for 
them;  I  do  it  for  some  piece  of  money,  and  go 
through  with  all. 

Escal.  Look  you  bring  me  in  the  names  of  some 
six  or  seven,  the  most  sufficient  of  your  parish. 

Elb.  To  your  worship's  house,  sir  ? 

Esccil.  To  my  house  :  Fare  you  wcU. 

\_Exit  Elbow. 
Wliat's  o'clock,  think  you? 

Just.  Eleven,  sir. 

Escal.  I  pray  you  home  to  dinner  with  me. 

Jmt.  I  humbly  thank  you. 

Escal.  It  grieves  me  for  the  death  of  Claudio  ; 
But  there 's  no  remedj'. 

Just.  Lord  Augelo  is  severe. 

Escal.  It  is  but  needful : 

Mercy  is  not  itself,  that  oft  looks  so ; 
Pardon  is  still  the  nurse  of  second  woe  : 
But  yet, — Poor  Claudio  ! — There  is  no  remedy. 
Come,  sir.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Anotlter  lioom  m  the  same. 
Enter  Peovost  and  a  Servajjt. 

Serv.  He 's  hearing  of  a  cause ;  ho  will  come 
straight. 
1  'U  tell  him  of  you. 

Prov.    Pray  you    do.     \_Exit   Seevani.]     I  'U 
know 
His  pleasm'e;  may  be,  he  will  relent.     Alas, 
He  hath  but  as  oftended  in  r,  dream ! 
AU  sects,  aU  ages,  smack  of  ;his  vice;  and  ho 
To  die  for  't — 

Enter  Angei.o. 

Anq.  Now,  what 's  the  matter,  provost? 

ProLK  Is  it  your  wiU  Claudio  shall  die  to-morrow? 
Any.  Did  not  I  teU  thei?,  yea  ?  hadst  thou  not 
order  ? 
Wl\y  dost  thou  ask  again  ? 


Prov.  Lest  I  might  be  too  rash : 

Under  your  good  correction,  I  have  seen, 
"When,  after  execution,  judgment  hath 
Repented  o'er  his  doom. 

Anr;.  Go  to ;  let  that  be  mine : " 

Do  you  your  office,  or  give  up  your  place, 
And  you  shall  well  be  spar'd. 

Prov.  I  crave  your  honour's  pardon. — 

What  sliaU  bo  done,  sir,  with  the  groaning  Juliet. 
She 's  very  near  her  hour. 

Anff.  Dispose  of  her 

To  some  more  fitter  place ;  and  that  with  speed. 

Re-enter  Seevant. 

Serv.  Here  is  the  sister  of  the  man  condemt'd, 
Desires  access  to  you. 

Ana.  Hath  he  a  sister  ? 

Prov.  Ay,  my  good  lord ;  a  very  virtuous  maid, 
And  to  be  shortly  of  a  sisterhood. 
If  not  ah'cady. 

Ang.  Well,  let  her  be  admitted.        \_Exit  SiaiT. 
See  you,  the  fornicatress  be  remov'd ; 
Let  her  have  needful,  but  not  lavish,  means ; 
There  shall  be  order  fur  't. 

Enter  Lucio  and  Isaiieixa. 

Prov.  Save  your  honour !        [  Offering  to  retire. 

Ang.  Stay  a  little  while. — \_To  Isas.]     T'  are 
welcome :  What  's  your  will  ? 

Isah.  T  am  a  woeful  suitor  to  your  honour, 
Please  but  your  honour  hear  me. 

Ang.  Well;  what's  your  suit ? 

Isab.  There  is  a  vice  that  most  I  do  abhor. 
And  most  desire  should  meet  the  blow  of  justice ; 
For  which  I  would  not  plead,  but  tliat  I  must ; 
For  which  I  must  not  plead,  but  that  I  am 
At  war  'twixt  wUl  and  will  not. 

Ang.  WeU ;  the  matter  ? 

Isab.  I  have  a  brother  is  eondemn'd  to  die : 
I  do  beseech  you,  let  it  be  his  fault, 
And  not  my  brother ! 

Prov.  Heaven  give  thee  moving  graces! 

Ang.  Condemn  the  fault  and  not  the  actor  of  it. 
"V^Tiy,  every  fault 's  eondemn'd,  ere  it  te  done : 
Mine  were  the  very  cipher  of  a  function. 
To  fine  the  faults,"  whose  fine  stands  in  record, 
And  let  go  by  the  actor. 

Isah.  0  just  but  severe  law ! 

I  had  a  brother  then. — Heaven  keep  your  honoiir! 

[Bctiring. 

Lucio.  \_To  Isab.]  Give't  not  o'er  so:  to  hiin 
again,  entreat  him ; 

151 


MEASTJllE  FOR  MEASCEE. 


KJneel  down  before  him,  hang  upon  his  gown ; 
You  are  too  cold :  if  you  should  need  a  pin, 
Ton  could  not  with  more  tame  a  tongue  desire  it : 
To  him,  I  say. 

Isah.  Must  he  needs  die  ? 

Jng.  Maiden,  no  remedy. 

Isah.  Yea ;  I  do  think  that  you  might  pardon  him. 
And  neither  heaven,  nor  man,  grieve  at  the  mercy. 

Ang.  I  will  not  do  't. 

Isab.  But  can  you,  if  you  would  ? 

A7ig.  Look,  what  I  wiU  not  that  I  cannot  do. 

Isah.  Bnt  might  you  do  't,  and  do  the  world  no 
WTong, 
If  so  your  heart  were  touehM  with  that  remorse '5 
A.S  mine  is  to  him.  ? 

Anj.  He  's  sentenc'd ;  't  is  too  late. 

Lncio.  You  are  too  cold.  [To  Is.\n. 

Isah.  Too  late?  why,  no ;  I,  that  do  speak  a  word. 
May  call  it  back  again.   AVell,  believe  this, 
No  ceremony  that  to  great  ones  'longs. 
Not  the  king's  crown,  nor  the  deputed  sword, 
The  marshal's  truncheon,  nor  the  judge's  robe 
Become  them  with  one  half  so  good  a  grace 
As  mercy  docs.     If  he  had  been  as  you 
And  you  as  he,  j"ou  would  have  slipp'd  like  him , 
But  he,  like  you,  would  not  have  been  so  stem. 

Ang.  Pray  you,  begone. 

Isah.  I  would  to  heaven  I  had  your  potency, 
And  you  were  Isabel !  sliould  it  then  be  thus  r 
No ;  I  would  tell  what  't  were  to  be  a  judge, 
And  what  a  prisoner. 

Lucio.  Ay,  touch  him ;  there  's  the  vein.   \_Asiile. 

Ang.  Your  brotlier  is  a  forfeit  of  the  law, 
And  you  but  waste  your  words. 

Isah.  Alas!  alas! 

Why,  all  the  souls  that  were,  were  forfeit  once ; 
And  he,  that  might  tlie  vantage  best  have  took, 
Foimd  out  the  rcmed}-.     How  would  j'ou  be. 
If  he,  which  is  the  top  of  judgment,  should 
But  judge  3-ou  as  you  are  ?     O,  think  on  that; 
And  mercy  then  will  breathe  within  your  lips, 
Like  man  new  made.'" 

Aug.  Be  you  content,  fair  maid  ; 

It  is  the  law,  not  I,  condemns  }"our  brother : 
Were  he  my  kinsman,  brother,  or  mj  son. 
It  Bhould  be  thus  Tiitli  him; — lie  must  die  to- 
morrow. 

Isah.    To  morrow  ?  0,   that  's  sudden  !      Spare 
him,  sp.irc  him : 
lie  's  not  ])rcpar'd  for  death !       Even   for  our 

kitchens 
We  kill  f  he  fnwl  of  Reason  ;"  shall  we  aeri-e  heaven 
1  *.i 


With  less  respect  than  we  do  minister 

To  our  gross  selves  ?  Good,  good  my  lord,  If;lliinl 

you : 
'Wlio  is  it  that  hath  di'd  for  this  offence  ? 
There  's  many  have  committed  it. 

Ziicio.  Ay,  ■well  said. 

Ang.  The  law  hath  not  been  dead,  (hough  i 
hath  slept: 
Those  many  had  not  dar'd  to  do  that  evil, 
If  the  first  that  did  th"  edict  infringe 
Had  answer'd  for  his  deed :  now  't  is  awake ; 
Takes  note  of  what  is  done ;  and,  like  a  prophet, 
Loolvs  in  a  glass,  that  shows  what  future  e\'ils 
(Either  now,  or  by  remissness  new  conceiv'd, 
And  so  in  progress  to  be  hatch'd  and  born") 
Are  now  to  have  no  successive  degrees. 
But  where  they  live,  to  end."' 

Isab.  Yet  show  some  pity. 

Ang.  1  show  it  most  of  all,  when  I  show  justice ; 
For  then  I  pity  those  I  do  not  know. 
Which  a  dismiss'd  offence  would  after  gall ; 
And  do  him  right,  that,  answering  one  foul  wrong, 
Lives  not  to  act  another.     Be  satisfied  ; 
Your  brother  dies  to-morrow ;  he  content. 

Isab.  So  j-ou  must  be  the  first  that  gives  this 
sentence. 
And  he  that  suffers.     0,  it  is  excellent 
To  have  a  giant's  strength ;  but  it  is  tyrannous 
To  use  it  like  a  giant.  ' 

Lucio.  That 's  -n-eU  said. 

Isah.  Coidd  great  men  thunder 
As  iTove  himself  does,  Jove  would  ne'er  be  quiet, 
For  every  pelting,  petty  officer" 
Would  use  his  heaven  for  thunder:   nothing  but 

thunder, 
llerciful  heaven ! 

Thou  rather,  with  thy  sharp  and  sulphm-ous  bolt, 
Splitt'st  the  unwedgeable  and  gnarled"  oak, 
Than  the  soft  m3Ttle :  But  man,  proud  man  ! 
Dress'd  in  a  little  brief  authority, — 
Most  ignorant  of  what  he  's  most  assur'd,"' 
His  glassy  essence, — like  an  angry  ape, 
Plays  such  fantastic  triclts  before  high  heaven, 
As  make  the  angels  weep  :  who,  with  our  spleens, 
Would  all  themselves  laugh  mortal. 

Lucio.  0,  to  him,  to  him,  wench ;  he  will  relent 
Ho  's  coming,  I  perceive  't. 

Prov.  Pray  heaven,  she  win  him  ! 

Isab.  We  cannot  weigh  our  brother  with  youi'- 
self: 
Great  men  may  jest  with  saints  :  't  is  \vit  in  tliem ; 
But  in  the  less  fold  profanation. 


i 


m§ 


liJ 


[li?  \iiuilrrj  a^  J'^abrlUu  .:. 


ACT  ir. 


MEASUItE  FOll  ilEASURE. 


dcssx  in. 


Liicio.  Thou  'it  i'  the  right,  g^rl;  more  o'  that. 
hah.  That  in  the  captain  's  but  a  choleric  word, 
Which  in  the  soldier  is  flat  blasjihcmy. 
Lucio.  Art  avis'd  o'  that  ?  more  on  't. 
Ang.  Why  do  yon  put  these  sayings  upon  me  ? 
Isah.  Because  authority,  though  it  err  like  others. 
Hath  yet  a  kind  of  medicine  in  itself, 
That  skins  the  vice  o'  the  top.    Go  to  your  bosom ; 
Knock  there ;  and  ask  your  heart,  what  it  doth  know 
That  's  like  my  brother's  fault :  if  it  confess 
A  natural  guiltiness,  sucli  as  is  his. 
Let  it  not  sound  a  thought  upon  your  tongue 
Against  my  brother's  life. 

Avg.  \_Asi(ler\     She  speaks,  and  't  is 
Such  sense,  tliat  my  sense  bi-eeds  with  it.'" — 
Fare  you  well. 

Isah.  Gentle  my  lord,  turn  back. 

Ang.    I   will    bethink   me : — Come   again    to- 

moiTow. 
rml.  Hark,  how  I  "11  bribe  you  :  Good  my  lord, 

turn  back. 
Ang.  How !  bribe  mo  ? 
Isch.  Ay,  with  such  gifts  that  heaven  shall  share 

with  you. 
Lucio.  You  had  man-'d  all  else. 
hah.  Not  with  fond  shekels  of  the  tested  gold," 
Or  stones,  whose  rates  are  either  rich  or  poor 
As  fcUicy  values  tliem ;  but  with  true  prayers 
That  shall  be  up  at  heaven,  and  enter  there, 
Ere  sunrise  :  prayers  from  preserved  souls. 
From  fasting  maids,  whose  minds  are  dedicate 
To  nothing  temporal. 

Atig.  Well :  come  to  me  to-morrow. 

Lucio.  Go  to :  't  is  well ;  away. 

\_Asid-e  to  Isabel. 
hab.  Heaven  keep  your  honour  safe  ! 
Ang.  Amen : 

For  I  am  that  way  going  to  temptation,      [Aside. 
Where  prayers  cross."' 

Isah.  At  what  hour  to-morrow 

Shall  I  attend  your  lordsliip  ? 

Ang.  At  any  time  'fore  noon. 

Isah.  Save  your  honom- ! 

[_Ej:eunt  Lucio,  Isab.,  and  Pkov. 

Ang.  From  thee ;  even  from  thy  virtue  ! — 

^Tiat  's  this  ?  what  's  this  }     Is  this  her  fault,  or 

mine: 
The  tempter  or  the  tempted,  who  sins  most .''  Ha  ! 
Not  slie;  nor  doth  she  tempt:  but  it  is  I, 
That,  lying  by  tlie  violet  in  the  sun, 
Do,  as  tlic  carrion  does,  not  as  the  flow'r, 
Col Mpt  ■nnth  virtuous  ssason.     Can  it  be. 

20 


That  modesty  may  more  betray  our  sense 

Than  woman's  lightness?     Having  waste  ground 

enough. 
Shall  we  desire  to  raze  the  sanctuary. 
And  pitch  our  evils  there  r"     0,  fie,  fie,  fie ! 
"Wliat  dost  thou,  or  what  art  thou,  Angolo  ? 
Dost  tliou  desire  her  foully,  for  those  tilings 
That  make  her  good  ?     0,  let  her  brother  live : 
Tliieves  for  their  robbery  have  authority, 
When  judges  steal  themselves.     What?  do  I  love 

her. 
That  I  desire  to  hear  her  speak  again, 
And  feast  upon  her  eyes  ?    What  is 't  I  dream  on? 

0  cunnuig  enemy,*"  that,  to  catch  a  saint, 

With  saints  dost  bait  thy  hook !     Most  dangerous 
Is  that  temptation,  that  doth  goad  us  on 
To  sin  in  loWng  virtue:  never  could  the  strumpet, 
With  her  all  double  vigour,  art,  and  naluro. 
Once  stir  my  temper ;  but  tliis  virtuous  maid 
Subdues  me  quite : — Ever  tiU  now, 
"WTien  men  were  fond,  I  smil'd  and  wonder'd  how 

[i:xit 

SCENE  III.— ^  lioom  in  a  Prison. 
Enter  Duse,  habited  like  a  Friar,  and  Pkovost. 

Duh.  Hail  to  you,  provost !  so  I  think  you  are 
Prov.  I    am   the   provost:    'ftTiat's  your  will, 

good  friar? 
Duke.  Botmd  by  my  charity,   and  my  bless'd 

order, 

1  come  to  visit  the  afflicted  spirits 

Here  in  the  prison :  do  me  the  common  right 
To  lot  me  see  them,  and  to  make  me  know 
The  nature  of  their  crimes,  that  I  may  minister 
To  them  accordingly. 

Prov.  I  would  do  more  than  that,  if  more  were 
needful. 

Unter  Juliet. 

Look,  here  comes  one ;  a  gentlewoman  of  miuo, 

Who,  falling  in  the  flames  of  her  o^-n  youth,'* 

Hath  blister'd  her  report :   She  is  with  child ; 

And  he  that  got  it,  scntenc'd  :  a  young  man 

More  fit  to  do  another  such  off'ence, 

Than  die  for  this. 

Duke.  ^^^len  must  he  dit  > 

Prov.  As  I  do  think,  to-morrow. — 

I  have  provided  for  you;  stay  a  while, 

And  you  shall  be  conducted.  [To  TrLizr. 

Duke.  Kepent  you,  fair  one,  of  the  sin  you  oany'. 

Juliet.  I  do;  and  bear  the  shame  most  patiently 

is.n 


MEASITRE  FOR  MEASUIIE. 


SCENE   IV. 


Diih.  I  '11  teach  you  iiow  you  shall  arraign  your 
couscience, 
\nd  try  yoiir  penitence,  if  it  be  sound, 
Or  hollowly  put  on. 
JaUd.  I  '11  gladly  learn. 

Dithc.  Love  you  the  man  that  wrong'd  you  ? 
Juliet.  Yes,  as  I  love  the  woman  that  wrong' d 

him. 
Duhe.  So  then,  it  seems,  your  most  offenccful  act 
Was  mutually  committed  ? 
Juliet.  Mutually. 

Duke.  Then  was  your  sin  of  heavier  kind  than 

his. 
Juliet.  I  do  confess  it,  and  repent  it,  father. 
I)uke.  'T  is  meet  so,  daughter :  but  lest  you  do 
repent. 
As  that  the  sin  hath  brought  you  to  this  shame, — 
Which   sorrow  is   always  toward  ourselves,  not 

heaven ; 
Showing,  we  woidd  not  spare  heaven,  as  we  love  it, 
But  as  we  stand  in  fear : 

Juliet.  I  do  repent  mo,  as  it  is  an  evil ; 
.•Vud  take  the  shame  with  joy. 

Buke.  There  rest, 

tour  partner,  as  I  hear,  must  die  to-morrow, 
And  I  am  going  with  instruction  to  him. — 
Grace  go  with  you  I     Benedicite !  \_Exit. 

Juliet.     Must  die  to-morrow !  0,  injurious  love. 
That  respites  me  a  life,  whose  very  comfort 
fs  stiU  a  dying  horror  1 
Prov.  'T  is  pity  of  liira.  [_Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — A  Room  in  Augelo's  House. 
Enter  Anoelo. 
Ang.  "When  I  would  pray  and  think,  I  think 
and  pray 
To  several  subjects.  Heaven  hath  my  empty  words; 
\Vhilst  my  invention,'"  hearing  not  my  tongue, 
Anchors  on  Isabel.     Heaven  in  my  moutli. 
As  Lf  I  did  but  only  chew  his  name  ; 
And  m  my  heart,  tlie  strong  and  swelling  evil 
Of  my  conception.     The  state  whereon  I  studied 
Is  like  a  good  thing,  being  often  read, 
Grown  sear'd  and  tedious;'"  yea,  my  gravitj-, 
Wherein  (let  no  man  hoar  me)  I  take  pride, 
Could  I,  with  boot,  change  for  an  idle  plume, 
Which  the  air  beats  for  vain.    O  place  !    0  form! 
How  often  dost  thou  with  thy  case,  thy  habit, 
Wrench  awe  from  fools,  and  tic  the  wiser  souls 
To  thy  false  seeming  !     Blood,  thou  art  blood : 
[,et  's  wi-itc  good  angel  on  the  devil's  horn, 
T  is  not  the  devil's  crest." 
I. '■,4 


Enter  Servant. 

How  now!  who  's  there? 

Ser.  One  Isabel,  a  sister, 

Desires  access  to  you. 

Ang.  Teach  her  the  way.     0  heavens  ! 

{_Exil  8orv 
"Wliy  does  my  blood  thus  muster  to  my  heart, 
Making  both  it  unable  for  itself, 
And  dispossessing  all  my  other  parts 
Of  necessary  fitness  ? 

So  play  the  foolish  throngs  with  one  that  s wounds; 
Come  all  to  help  him,  and  so  stop  the  air 
By  which  he  should  rev-ive  :  and  even  so 
The  general,  subject  to  a  well-wish'd  king 
Quit  their  own  part,  and  in  obsequious  fondness 
Crowd  to  his  presence,  where  their  untaught  love 
Must  needs  appear  offence. 

Enter  IsABEixi. 

How  now,  fair  maid  ? 

Isab.  I  am  come  to  know  your  pleasure 

Ang.  That  you  might   know   it   would   much 

better  please  me, 

Than  to  demand  what 't  is.     Your  brother  cannot 

live, 

Isab.  Even  so. — Heaven  keep  yo-ir   honour ! 

\_Retiring. 
Ang.  Yet  may  he  live  a  while  ;  and,  it  may  be, 
As  long  as  you,  or  I :  yet  he  must  die. 
Isal.  Under  your  sentence  ? 
Ang.  Yea. 

Isab.  When  r  I  beseech  you  that,  in  his  reprieve. 
Longer,  or  shorter,  he  may  be  so  fitted. 
That  his  soul  sicken  not. 

Ang.  Hal  Fie,  these  filthy  vices  !    It  were  as 
good 
To  pardon  him  that  hath  from  nature  stol'n 
A  man  already  made,  as  to  remit 
Their  saucy  sweetness,  that  do  coin  heaven's  image 
In  stamps  that  are  forbid  :  't  is  all  as  er.sy 
Falsely  to  take  away  a  life  true  made. 
As  to  put  mettle  in  restrained  means,"' 
To  make  a  false  one. 

Isab.  'Tis  set  down  so  in  heaven,  buf   not  in 

earth. 
Anq.  Say  you  so?  then  I  shall  jioze  you  quickly 
Which  had  you  rather,  that  the  most  jiiet  law 
Now  took  your  brother's  life ;  or,  to  redeem  him. 
Give  up  j'our  body  to  such  sweet  unclcanncsB, 
As  shn  that  ho  hath  stain'd  ? 

Isab.  Sir,  believe  this, 

I  had  rather  give  mj'  body  than  my  soul. 


MEASUEE  FOR  MEASURE 


scKNE  rv. 


Ang.  I  talk  not  of  your  sou! :   Our  compell'd 

Bins 
Stand  more  for  number  than  for  aocompt.''* 
/s-rti.  How  say  you  ? 

Aug.  Nay,  I  '11  not  warrant  that ;    for  I   can 
speak 
Against  the  thing  I  say.     Answer  to  this  ; — 
[,  now  the  voice  of  the  recorded  law, 
Pronounce  a  sentence  on  your  brother's  life : 
Might  til  ere  not  be  a  chaiitj''  in  sin. 
To  save  this  brother's  life  r 

Isal.  Please  you  to  do  't, 

I  "11  take  it  as  a  peril  to  my  soul ; 
It  is  no  sin  at  all,  but  charity. 

Ang.  Pleas' d  you  to  do  't,  at  peril  of  your  soul, 
Were  equal  poise  of  sin  and  charity. 

hah.  That  I  do  beg  his  life,  if  it  be  sin, 
Heaven  let  me  bear  it !  you  granting  of  my  suit. 
If  that  be  sin,  I  'U  make  it  my  mom  prayer 
To  liarc  it  added  to  the  faidts  of  mine, 
And  notliing  of  your  answer."' 

Ang.  Nay,  but  hear  me : 

Your  sense   pui  jucs   not   mine :    either   you   are 

ignorant, 
Or  seem  so  crafty;™  and  that 's  not  good. 

Lab.  Let  me  be  ignorant,  and  in  nothing  good. 
But  graciously  to  know  I  am  no  better. 
Ang.    Thus    wisdom   wishes    to   appear  most 
bright. 
When  it  does  tax  itself:  as  these  black  masks 
Proclaim  an  enshield  beauty"  ten  times  louder 
Tlian  beauty  could,  displayed. — But  mark  me; 
To  be  received  plain,  I  'U  speak  more  gross : 
Your  brother  is  to  die. 
Isab.   So. 

Ang.  And  his  offence  is  so,  as  it  appears 
Accountant  to  the  law  upon  that  pain.'* 
Imh.  True. 

Ang.  Admit  no  other  way  to  save  his  life, 
(As  I  subscribe  not  that,  nor  any  other. 
But  in  the  case  of  question,)  that  you,  his  sister, 
Finding  yourself  desir'd  of  such  a  person, 
Whose  credit  with  the  judge,  or  o-\^ti  groat  place, 
Ci:xdd  fetch  your  brother  from  the  manacles 
Of  the  ;dl-binding  law ;  and  tliat  there  were 
No  earthly  mean  to  save  him,  but  that  either 
I'ou  must  lay  down  the  treasures  of  your  body 
To  this  supposed,  or  else  to  lot  him  suffer; 
What  would  yen  do  ? 

Isah.  As  much  for  my  poor  brother  as  myself: 
That  is^  were  I  under  the  terms  of  death, 
1  h'  miprossion  of  keen  whips  1  'd  wear  as  rubies, 


And  strip  myself  to  death,  as  to  a  bed 

That  long  I  have  been  sick  for, "  ere  I  'd  yield 

My  body  up  to  shame. 

Ang.  Then  must  your  brother  die. 

Isah.  And  't  were  the  cheaper  way : 
Better  it  were  a  brotlier  died  at  once, 
Than  that  a  sister,  by  redeeming  liim. 
Should  die  for  ever. 

Ang.  Were  not  you,  tlien,  as  cruel  as  the  sentence 
That  you  have  slander'd  so  ? 

Isab.  Ignomy  in  ransom,  *>  and  free  pardon. 
Are  of  two  houses :  lawful  mercy 
Is  nothing  kin  to  foul  redemjition. 

Ang.  You  seem'd  of  late  to  make   tlie  law  a 
tyrant ; 
And  rather  prov'd  the  sliding  of  your  brother 
A  meiTiment,  than  a  vice. 

Isab.  0,  pardon  me,  my  lord  ;  it  oft  falls  out 
To  have  what  we  would  have,  we  speak  not  what 

we  mean : 
I  something  do  excuse  the  thing  I  hate, 
For  his  advantage  that  I  dearly  love. 
Ang.  We  are  all  frail. 
Isah.  Else  let  my  brother  die; 

If  not  a  feodary,*'  but  on.y  he 
Owe,  and  succeed  thy  weakness. 

Ang.  Nay,  women  are  frail  too. 

Isab.  Ay,  as  the  glasses  wliere  they  view  them- 
selves; 
WTiich  are  as  easy  broke  as  they  make  forms. 
Women  1 — Help  heaven !  men  their  creation  mar 
In  profiting  by  them.*-   Nay,  call  us  ten  times  frail 
For  we  are  soft  as  our  complexions  are. 
And  credidous  to  false  prints. 

Ang.  I  think  it  well : 

And  from  this  testimony  of  your  own  ses, 
(Since,  I  suppose,  we  are  made  to  be  no  stronger 
Than  faults  may  shake  our  frames, )  let  me  be  bold ; — 
I  do  arrest  your  words.    Be  that  you  are, 
That  is,  a  woman;  if  you  be  more,  you  're  none; 
If  you  bo  one,  (as  you  are  well  express'd 
By  aU  external  warrants,)  show  it  now, 
By  putting  on  the  destin'd  livery. 

Isab.  I  have  no  tongue  but  one:  gentle  my  lord, 
Lot  me  entreat  you  spealc  the  former  language. 
Ang.  Plainly,  conceive  I  love  you. 
Isab.  My  brother  did    love    Juliet;    and  you 
teU  me 
That  he  shall  die  for 't. 

Ang.    He   sh;dl  not,    Isabel,   if  you  give  mc 

love. 
Isab.  I  know,  your  virtue  hath  a  license  in  't, 

ir.5 


acr  m. 


MEASUEE  POK  AIEASUEE. 


BCl'NB    I 


Which  seems  a  little  fo  Jer  than  it  is, 
To  pluck  on  others.^ 

An(j.  Believe  mo,  on  mine  honour. 

Sly  words  express  my  purpose. 

Isal.  Ha!  little  honour  tip  Le  much  believ'd. 
And  most  pernicious   purpose !  —  Seeming,  seem- 
ing !— 
[  will  proclaim  thee,  Angolo;  look  for  'tl 
Sign  me  a  present  pardon  for  my  brother. 
Or,  ■n'ith  an  outstrctch'd  throat,  I  '11  tell  the  world 

aloud, 
What  man  thou  art. 

Anfi.  ^Mio  will  believe  thee,  Isabel  ? 

My  unsoird  name,  th'  austereness  of  my  life. 
My  vouch  against  )'ou,'"  and  my  place  i'  the  state, 
WiU  so  your  accusation  overweigh, 
Tliat  you  shall  stifle  in  your  own  report. 
And  smell  of  calumny.     I  have  begun ; 
And  now  I  give  my  sensual  race  the  rein : 
Fit  thy  consent  to  my  sharp  appetite ; 
Lay  by  all  nicety,  and  prolixious  blushes. 
That  banish  what  they  sue  for ;  redeem  thy  brother 
By  yielding  up  thy  body  to  my  ■naU; 
Or  elss  he  must  not  only  die  the  death, 


But  thy  unkindneas  shall  his  death  draw  out 
To  lingering  sufferance :  answer  me  to-raoriow 
Or,  by  the  affection  that  now  guides  me  most, 
I'll  prove  a  tyrant  to  him.    As  for  you, 
Say  what  you  can,  my  false  o'erweighs  your  tru, 

[Fxh 
Isah.  To  whom  should  I  complain?   Did  I  til 
this, 
Who  would  believe  me  ?     O  periloua  mouths, 
That  bear  iu  them  one  and  the  self-same  tongue, 
Either  of  condemnation  or  approof ! — 
Bidding  the  law  make  court' sy  to  their  will; 
Hookmg  both  right  and  ^VTong  to  th'  appetite. 
To  follow  as  it  draws  !    I'U  to  my  brother : 
Though  he  hath  fiJl'n  by  prompture  of  the  blood, 
Yet  hath  he  in  him  such  a  mind  of  honour. 
That,  had  he  twenty  heads  to  tender  do^vn 
On  t\^•euty  bloody  blocks,  he  d  )-ield  them  ui>, 
Before  his  sister  should  her  body  stoop 
To  such  abhorr'd  pollution. 
Then,  Isabel,  Uve  chaste,  and,  brother,  die  : 
More  than  our  brother  is  our  chastity ! 
I'll  tell  him  yet  of  Angelo's  request. 
And  fit  his  miad  to  death,  for  his  soul's  rest.  [Exit 


ACT  III. 


SCEJTE  I.— ^  Room  in  ihe  Prison. 

Enter  Duke,  Claudio,  and  Pkovost. 

Diilce.  So,  then  you  hope  of  pardon  from  lord 

Angclo  ? 
Chud.  The  miserable  have  no  other  medicine, 
LSut  only  hope : 

I  liave  liope  to  live,  and  am  i)rei)ar'd  to  die. 
Buke.  Be  absolute  for  deatli  f^  either  death,  or 

life, 
ShaU  thereby  be  the  sweeter.  Ileapon  thus  with  life : 
If  1  do  lose  thee,  I  do  lose  a  thing 
That  none  but  fools  would  keep  :  a  breath  tho'.i  art, 
(Servile  to  all  the  skiey  influences,) 
That  dost  this  habitation,  whc^re  thou  koep'st, 
Hourly  afllict :   merely,  thou  art  Death's  fool  f 
For  him  fliou  labour' st  by  thy  fliglit  to  shun, 
And  j-etnmu'st  toward  lii  instill.   Thou  art  not  noble. 
For  all  til'  accommodations  that  thou  bear'st" 
\r<>  iiurs'd   by  baseness.     Thou  'rl  by  no   meaus 

viUiant, 

lAfl 


For  thou  dost  fear  the  soft  and  tender  fork 
Of  a  poor  wonu.    Thy  best  of  rest  is  sleep, 
And  that  thou  oft  provok'st ;  yet  grossly  fear'st 
Thy  death,  which  is  no  more.  Tliou  art  not  thyself 
For  thou  exist" St  on  many  a  thousand  grains 
That  issue  out  of  dust.    Happy  thou  art  not ; 
For  what  thou  hast  not  still  thou  striv'st  to  get, 
And  what  thou  hast,  forgett'st.     Thou  art  not  eti 

tain  ; 
For  thy  coMiplexion  shifts  to  strange  effects,"* 
After  the  moon.    If  thou  art  rich,  thou  'rt  poor; 
For,  like  an  ass  whoso  back  with  ingots  bows, 
Thou  bear'st  th)'  lieavj-  riihes  but  a  journey. 
And  Death  imloads  thee.    Friend  hast  thou  noue 
For  thine  own  bowel-;,  which  do  i:all  t\ec  sire, 
The  mere  effusion  of  thy  proper  loins. 
Do  curse  tlie  gout,  serpigo,  and  the  rheum, 
For  ending  tliec  no  sooner.    Thou  hast  nor  youth, 

nor  age  : 
But,  as  it  were,  un  after-dinncT's  sleep, 
Dreaming  on  both  :  for  all  thy  blessed  youth 


MEASURE  FOE  MEASURE. 


flCEHB    I. 


Bi«omo8  as  aged,  and  doth  beg  the  alms 
(it'piilsied  cM  f^  and  when  thou  art  old  and  rich, 
riiou  hast  neither  lieat,  ailbction,  limb,  nor  beauty. 
To  iiuike  thy  riches  pleasant.  What's  yet  in  this, 
Muit  bears  tho  narao  of  life?  Yet  in  this  life 
I  ie  hid  more  thousand  deaths  :"  yet  death  wc  fear, 
J'hat  makes  these  odds  all  even. 

Claud.  I  humbly  thank  you. 

To  sue  to  live,  I  find  I  seek  to  die ; 
'\ml.  seeking  death,  find  life:  Let  it  come  on. 

Fjiitcr  Isabella. 

hah.  What,  ho !  Peace  here ;    grace   and  good 
company ! 

Prov    'Wlio  's  there  ?  come  in :  the  wish  deserves 
a  welcome. 

Dulce.  Dear  sir,  ere  long  I  '11  Aasit  you  again. 

Claud.  Most  holy  sir,  I  thank  you. 

hah.  Jly  business  is  a  word  or  two  with  Claudio. 

Prov.  And  very  welcome.  Look,  signior,  liere  's 
your  sister. 

Bulie.  Provost,  a  word  with  you. 

Proe.  As  man}-  as  you  please. 

Dulce.  Bring  me  to  hear  them  speak,  where  I 
may  be  conceal'd. 

\_Excunt  Duke  and  Peot. 

C'/ajid.  Now,  sister,  what 's  the  comfort  r 

Isab.  A\Ti3^,    as   all  comforts  are ;    most    good, 
most  good  indeed  : 
[.ord  Angclo,  having  affairs  to  heaven. 
Intends  you  for  his  swift  ambassador. 
Where  you  shall  be  an  everlasting  leigcr : " 
Therefore  your  best  appointment  make  with  speed; 
To-mon'ow  you  set  on. 

Claud.  Is  there  no  remedy  ? 

Isab.  None,  but  such  remedy  as,  to  save  a  head, 
To  cleave  a  heart  in  twain. 

Claud.  But  is  there  any  ? 

Isab.  Yes,  brother,  you  may  live  ; 
There  is  a  devilish  mercy  in  the  judge. 
If  you  '11  implore  it,  that  will  free  your  life. 
But  fetter  you  till  death. 

Claud.  Perpetual  durance  ? 

Iiab.  Ay,  just,  pei-petual  durance  ;  a  restraint. 
Though  aU  the  world's  vastidity  you  had. 
To  a  determin'd  scope.  ^ 

Claud.  But  in  what  nature  ? 

Isab.  In  such  a  one  as  (you  consenting  to  't) 
Would  bark  your  honour  fi'om  that  trunk  you  bear, 
And  leave  you  naked. 

Claud.  Let  me  know  the  point. 

Isab.  0,  I  do  fear  thee,  Claudio ;  and  I  quake, 


Lest  thou  a  feverous  life  shouldst  entertain. 
And  six  or  seven  winters  more  respect 
Than  a  peq)etual  honour.     Dar'st  thou  die  ? 
The  sense  of  death  is  most  in  apprehension  ; 
And  the  poor  beetle,  that  we  tread  upon," 
In  corporal  siLfl'erancc  finds  a  pang  as  great 
As  when  a  giant  dies. 

Claud.  Why  give  you  me  this  shomo  f 

Think  you,  I  can  a  resolution  fetch 
From  flow'ry  tenderness  ?"    If  I  must  die, 
I  will  encounter  darkness  as  a  bride. 
And  hug  it  in  mine  anns; 

Isab.  There  spake  my  brother ;  there  my  father's 
grave 
Did  utter  forth  a  voice!     Yes,  thou  must  die  ; 
Thou  art  too  noble  to  conserve  a  life 
In  base  appliances.      This    outward-sainted    de- 
puty,— 
Whose  settled  visage  and  deKberate  word 
Nips  youth  i'  the  head,  and  follies  doth  emmeTV, 
As  falcon  doth  the  fowl, — is  yet  a  devil ; 
His  filth  within  being  cast,  he  would  appear 
A  pond  as  deep  as  hell. 

Claud.  The  princely  Angelo  ?" 

Isab.  0,  'tis  the  cunning  livery  of  hell. 
The  damned' st  body  to  invest  and  cover 
In  princely  guards  !     Dost  thou  think,  Claudio, 
If  I  would  yield  him  my  virginity, 
Thou  might' st  be  freed  ? 

Claud.  0,  heavens  !  it  cannot  be. 

Isab.  Yes,  he  would  give  't  thee,  from  this  lani 
offence,*' 
So  to  offend  him  stUl.    This  night 's  the  time 
That  I  should  do  what  I  abhor  to  name, 
Or  else  thou  diest  to-morrow. 

Claud.  Thou  shalt  not  do  't. 

Isab.  0,  were  it  but  my  Ufe, 
I  'd  tlirow  it  down  for  your  deliverance 
As  frankly  as  a  pin. 

Claud.  Thanks,  dear  Isabel. 

Isab.  Be  ready,    Claudio,   for    your  death    to- 
morrow. 

Claud.  Yes. — Has  he  affections  in  him," 
Tiiat  thus  can  make  him  bite  the  law  by  th'  nose, 
When  he  would  force  it  ?     Sure  it  is  no  sin ; 
Or  of  the  deadly  seven  it  is  the  least. 

Isab.  "\\niich  is  the  least  ? 

Claud.  If  it  were  damnable,  he,  being  so  wiso, 
Why  woidd  he  for  the  momentary  trick 
Be  perdurably"  fin'd  ? — 0  Isabel  ! 

Isab.  V«liat  says  my  lu-other  ? 

Claud.  Death  is  a  fearful  thing. 

IS? 


MEASUHE  FOP  AlEASUEE. 


semis  1. 


Tsah.  And  shamed  life  a  hateful. 

Claud.  Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go  we  kaow   not 
■where ; 
To  lie  in  cold  obstruction,"  and  to  rot  ; 
This  sensible  -n-arm  motion  to  become 
A  kneaded  clod ;  and  the  delighted  spirit 
To  bathn  in  fiery  floods,  or  to  reside 
In  thrilling  region'*  of  thick-ribbed  ice ; 
To  be  imprison'd  in  the  viewless  winds, 
And  blown  with  restless  violence  round  about 
The  pendent  world ;  or  to  be  worse  than  worst 
Of  those,  that  lawless  and  incertain  thoughts 
Imagine  howling  ! — "t  is  too  honible  ! 
The  weariest  and  most  loathed  worldly  life. 
That  age,  oyih.,  penuiy,  and  imprisonment 
Can  lay  on  nature,  is  a  paradise 
To  wliat  we  fear  of  death. 

Isab.  Alas !  alas ! 

Claud.  Sweet  sister,  let  me  live : 

WTiat  sin  j-nu  do  to  save  a  brother's  life, 
Nature  dispenses  with  the  deed  so  far, 
That  it  becomes  a  virtue. 

Isah.  0,  you  beast ! 

0,  faithless  coward  I     0,  dishonest  wretch ! 
Wil*-.  thou  be  made  a  man  out  of  my  vice  ? 
Is  *t  i:ot  a  kind  of  incest,  to  take  life 
From  tliine  own  sister's  shame  ?     "VYhat  should  I 

think  ? 
Heaven  shield  my  mcdier  play'd  my  father  fair ! 
For  such  a  wai-ped  sUji  of  wilderness'"' 
Ne'er  issued  from  his  blood.     Take  my  defiance; 
Die  !  perish  !  might  but  my  bending  down 
Reprieve  thee  fi-om  thy  fate,  it  should  proceed : 
I  'U  pray  a  thousand  prayers  for  thy  death, — 
No  word  to  save  thee. 

Claud.  Nay,  hear  me,  Isabel. 

Isah.  0  fie,  fie,  fie ! 

Thy  sin  't  not  accidental,  but  a  trade  : 
Mercy  to  thee  would  prove  itself  a  bawd ' 
'T  is  best  that  thou  diest  quickly.  \  Ooing. 

Claud.  0  hear  me,  Isabella. 

Re-enter  Duke. 

Duke.  Vouchsafe  a  word,  young  sister,  but  one 

word. 
hah.  What  is  your  will  ? 
Dulce.  Might  you  dispense  with  your  leisure,  I 
would  by  and  by  have  some  speech  with  you :  the 
Batisfaction  I  woidd   re(juire  is  likewise  j-our  own 
Tcneflt. 
hab.  I  havn  no  superfiuous  leisure ;    my  stay 
ins 


must  be  stolen  out  of  other   affairs;    lut  1  M'il 
attend  you  a  whUe. 

Bake.  [_To  Claudio,  aside.]  Son,  I  have  ctcj- 
heard  what  hath  pass'd  between  you  and  you 
sister.  Angclo  had  never  the  purpose  to  con-ap 
her;  only  he  hath  made  an  assay  of  her  virtue,  Ic 
practise  his  judgment  with  the  disposition  oi 
natures ;  slie,  liaving  the  truth  of  honour  iu  lier, 
hath  made  him  tliat  gracious  deni;il  which  he  is 
most  glad  to  receive  :  I  am  confessor  to  Augelo, 
and  I  know  this  to  be  true ;  therefore  prepare 
yourself  to  death.  Do  not  satisfy  your  resolution 
■with  hopes  that  arc  fidlible:  to-mon-ow  you  must 
die ;  go  to  youi-  knees,  and  make  ready. 

Claud.  Let  me  ask  my  sister  pardon.  I  am  so 
out  of  love  with  life,  that  I  will  sue  to  be  rid  of  it. 

I)uke.  Hold  you  there  :  farewell. 

\_Exit  Claud. 

Ee-enter  Provost. 

Provost,  a  word  'with  you. 

Prov.  TVTiat  's  your  ■ndU,  father? 

Bahe.  That  now  j-ou  are  come,  you  will  be  gone 
Leave  me  a  while  with  the  maid  ;  my  mind  pro- 
mises ■n'ith  my  habit  no  loss  shall  touch  her  by  mj 
company. 

Prov.  In  good  time.'°^  \_Exit  Pkot. 

Duke.  The  hand  that  hath  made  you  fiiir  liatb 
made  you  good  :  the  goodness  tliat  is  cheap  in 
beauty  makes  beauty  brief  in  goodness  ;  but  grace, 
being  the  soul  of  your  complexion,  shall  keep  the 
body  of  it  ever  fair.  The  assault  that  Angela 
hath  made  to  you,  fortune  hath  convey'd  to  my 
understanding ;  and,  but  that  frailty  hath  example: 
for  liis  falling,  I  should  wonder  at  Angelo.  How 
■will  you  do  to  content  this  substitute,  and  to  save 
your  brother  ? 

Isal).  I  am  now  going  to  resolve  him  I  liad 
rather  my  brother  die  by  the  law,  than  my  son 
should  be  imlawfuUy  born.  But  0,  l\ow  much  is 
the  good  duke  dccciv'd  in  Angelo  I  If  ever  he 
return,  and  I  can  speak  to  him,  I  will  open  my 
lips  in  vain,  or  discover  his  government. 

Bulce.  That  shall  not  be  much  amiss  :  yet,  a? 
the  matter  now  stands,  lie  will  avoid  j-onr  accusu- 
tion  ;  ho  made  trial  of  you  only. — Therefore,  fasten 
your  ear  on  my  ad^^-isings ;  to  the  love  I  have  in 
doing  good.  A  remedy  presents  itself.  [  do 
make  myself  believe  that  you  may  most  up- 
rightcously  do  a  poor  wronged  lady  a  merited 
benefit ;  redeem  your  brother  fiom  the  angry  law  ; 
do  no  stain  to  your  o^vm  g:i'aciou8  pcrsoi'      ami 


iCT  Ul. 


MEASUEE  FOU  MEASUEE. 


SCENE   n. 


much  ploase  the  ahaent  duke,  if,  peradvcnturc,  he 
sliiill  ever  retiim  to  have  hearing  of  this  business. 

Isiib.  Let  nic  hear  you  speak  furtlier.  I  have 
spirit  to  do  anything  that  appears  not  foul  in  the 
tnith  of  my  spirit. 

DicJce.  Virtue  is  bold,  and  goodness  never  fearful. 
Have  you  not  heard  speak  of  Mariana,  the  sister 
of  Frederick,  the  great  soldier,  who  miscarried  at 
sea? 

Isal.  I  have  heard  of  the  lady,  and  good  words 
went  with  her  niune. 

Duke.  She  should  this  Angelo  have  man-ied  ; 
was  affianced  to  her  by  oath,  and  the  nuptiid  ap- 
pointed :  between  which  time  of  the  contract  and 
limit  of  the  solemnity,  her  brother  Frederick  was 
wreck'd  at  sea,  having  in  that  perished  vessel  the 
dowry  of  his  sister.  But  mark,  how  heavily  this 
befel  to  the  poor  gentlewoman :  there  she  lost  a 
noble  and  renowned  brother,  in  his  love  toward 
her  ever  most  kind  and  natm-al ;  with  him  the 
portion  and  sinew  of  her  fortune,  her  mai'riage- 
dowry;  with  both,  her  combinate  husband,  tliis 
weU-seeming  Angelo. 

Isab.  Can  this  be  so?  Did  iVngelo  so  leave 
ter  ? 

Duke.  Left  her  in  her  tears,  and  dried  not  one 
J  them  with  liis  comfort ;  swallowed  his  vows 
whole,  prrtend'.ng  in  her  discoveries  of  dishonour; 
in  few,  bestow'd  litr  on  her  o-ma  lamentation,  which  i 
she  yet  wears  for  his  sake ;  and  he,  a  marble  to  i 
her  tears,  is  washed  with  them,  but  relents  not. 

Isah.  "Wliat  a  merit  were  it  in  death,  to  take 
this  poor  maid  from  the  world  !  What  corruption 
in  this  life,  that  it  will  let  this  man  live  ! — But 
how  out  of  this  can  she  avail  ? 

Duke.  It  is  a  rupture  tliat  you  may  easily  heal ; 
and  the  cure  of  it  not  onl}'  saves  your  brother,  but 
keeps  you  from  dishonour  in  doing  it. 
Isab.  Show  me  how,  good  father. 
Duke.  Tliis  fore-named  maid  liath  yet  in  her 
the  continuance  of  her  fii'st  affection ;  his  unjust 
unkindness,  that  in  all  reason  should  have  quenched 
her  love,  hath,  like  an  impediment  in  the  current, 
made  it  more  violent  and  unruly.  Go  you  to 
Angelo ;  answer  his  requiring  with  a  plausible 
obedience  ;  agree  with  his  demands  to  the  point : 
only  refer  yourself  to  this  advantage,"" — first,  that 
your  stay  with  liim  may  not  be  long ;  that  the 
time  n^.ay  have  all  shadow  and  sdence  in  it ;  and 
the  ].lace  answei  to  convenience.  This  being 
granted  in  course,  and  now  follows  aU :  we  shall 
advise  this  wronged  maid  to  stead  up  your  ap- 


pointment, go  in  your  place ;  if  the  cncountci 
acknowledge  itself  hereafter,  it  ma)' compel  him  to 
her  recompense  :  and  here,  by  thi.s,  is  your  brot).i.r 
saved,  your  honour  untainted,  the  poor  Mariana 
advantaged,  and  tlie  corrujit  deputy  scaled.  T)ie 
maid  wLU  I  frame,  and  make  fit  for  his  attempt. 
If  you  think  well  to  carry  this,  as  you  may,  tlie 
doubleness  of  the  benefit  defends  the  deceit  from 
reproof.     What  think  you  of  it  ? 

Isab.  The  image  of  it  gives  me  content  already ; 
and,  I  trust,  it  will  grow  to  a  most  prosperous 
perfection. 

Duke.  It  lies  much  in  j-our  holding  up.  Haste 
you  speedily  to  Angelo ;  if  for  this  night  he  en- 
treat you  to  his  bed,  give  him  promise  of  satisfac- 
tion. I  will  presently  to  St.  Luke's ;  there,  at  the 
moated  grange,'"'  resides  this  dejected  Jlariana. 
At  that  place  call  upon  me ;  and  despatch  ^lith 
Angelo,  that  it  may  be  quickly. 

Isuh.  1  thank  you  for  this  comfort:  Fare  you 
well,  good  father.  \_Exetcni 

SCENE  II.— 77w  Street  before  the  Prison. 

Enter  Duke,  as  a  Friar  ;  to  him  Elbow,  Clowh, 
and  Officeks. 

Elb.  Nay,  if  there  be  no  remedy  for  it,  but  tlial 
you  wiU  needs  buy  and  sell  men  and  women  like 
beasts,  we  shall  have  all  the  world  drink  brown 
and  wliite  bastard.'"^ 

Duke.  0,  heavens !  what  stuff"  is  here  .'' 

do.  'T  was  never  meriy  world,  since,  of  two 
usuries,  the  merriest  was  put  down,  and  the  worser 
allow'd  by  order  of  law  a  fiu'rd  gown  to  keep 
him  waiTn ;  and  furr'd  with  fox  and  lambskins  too 
to  signify  that  craft,  being  riolier  than  iunoceney, 
stands  for  the  facing. 

Elb.  Come  your  way,  sir: — Bless  you,  good 
father  friar. 

Duke.  And  you,  good  brother  fattier,  ^^^ia^■ 
offence  hath  this  man  made  you,  sir  ? 

Elh.  Marry,  sir,  he  hath  offended  the  law  ;  and, 
sir,  we  take  him  to  be  a  thief  too,  sir ;  for  we 
have  found  upon  him,  sir,  a  strange  pick-loik 
which  we  have  sent  to  the  deputy. 

Duke.  Fie,  sirrah  ;  a  bawd,  a  wicked  bawd ! 
The  e\'il  that  thou  causest  to  be  done. 
That  is  thy  means  to  live.     Do  thou  but  thuik 
"WTiat  't  is  to  cram  a  maw,  or  clothe  a  back, 
From  such  a  filthy  ^ce  :  say  to  thyself, — 
From  their  abominable  and  beastly  touclies 
I  drink,  I  eat,  array  myself,  and  live. 

M\9 


MEASTJKE  rOK  MEASCIRE. 


SCiiSV.    li. 


Canst  thou  belieye  thy  Imng  is  a  life, 

So  stinkicgly  depending  ?     Go,  mend  ;  go,  mend. 

Clo.  Indeed,  it  does  stink  in  some  sort,  sir ;  but 
yet,  sir,  I  would  prove — 

Duke.  I^ay,  if  the  devil  have  given  thee  proofs 
for  sin, 
rhou  wilt  jjrove  his.      Take  him  to  prison,  officer. 
Correction  and  instruction  must  both  work. 
Ere  this  rude  beast  will  profit. 

Elb.  He  must  before  the  deputy,  sir;  he  has 
given  him  -warning :  the  deputy  cannot  abide  a 
whorcmaster  :  if  he  be  a  whoremonger,  and  comes 
before  him,  he  were  as  good  go  a  mile  on  liis  errand. 

Duke.  That  we  were  all,  as  some  would  seem  to 
be, 
From  our  foults,  as  faults  from  seeming,  free  !'°' 

Enter  Ltrcio. 

Elb.  His  neck  wiU  come  to  your  waist ;  a  cord, 
Bir. 

Clo.  I  spy  comfort ;  I  cry,  bail :  Here  's  a  gen- 
tleman, and  a  friend  of  mine. 

Lueio.  How  now,  noble  Pompey  ?  '^Tiat,  at  the 
wheels  of  Cassar  ?  Art  thou  led  in  triumph  ? 
What,  is  there  none  of  Pygmalion's  images,  newly 
made  woman,""  to  be  bad  now,  for  putting  the 
,hand  in  tlie  pocket  and  extracting  it  clutch'd? 
\Vhat  reply  ?  Ha  ?  T^Ti.at  say'st  thou  to  this  tune, 
matter,  and  method  ?  Is  't  not  dro-mi'd  i'  the  last 
rain?"®  Ha?  TMiat  say'st  thou,  ti-ot?  Is  the 
world  as  it  was,  man?  AVhich  is  the  way?  Is  it 
sad,  and  few  words  ?  Or  how  ?  The  trick  of  it  ? 

Duke.  StiU  thus  and  thus !  stiU  worse  ! 

Litcio.  How  doth  my  dear  morsel,  thy  mistress  ? 
Procures  she  still  ?    Ha  ? 

Clo.  Troth,  sir,  she  hath  eaten  up  all  her  beef, 
and  she  is  herself  in  the  tub. 

Lucio.  'WTiy,  't  is  good;  it  is  the  right  of  it :  it 
must  he  so :  Ever  your  fresh  whore,  and  your 
powder'd  bawd  ;  an  un.shunn'd  consequence  ;  it 
must  be  30.    Art  going  to  prison,  Pompey  ? 

Clo.  Yes,  faith,  sir. 

Lttsio.  ^^^ly,  't  is  not  amiss,  Pompey :  Fare- 
well; go;  sa}-,  I  sent  thte  thither.  Eor  debt, 
Pompey,  or  how  ? 

Elb.  For  being  a  bawd,  for  being  a  bawd. 

Lucio.  WeU,  then  imprison  him:  If  imprison- 
ment be  the  due  of  a  bawd,  wliy,  't  is  his  right : 
Rawd  is  he,  doubtless,  and  of  antiquity  too;  bawd- 
born.  Furcwcll,  good  Pom;>ey  :  Commend  me  to 
the  pri.?on,  Pompey.  Yo;i  will  turn  good  husband 
How,  Pon-.i).:j  ;  you  will  lucp  the  liousu. 
ifin 


Clo.  I  hope,  sir,  your  good  worship  vdYi.  be  mj 
bail. 

Lucio.  No,  indeed,  will  I  not,  Pompey ;  it  is  not 
the  wear.'°^  I  wLU  pray,  Pompey,  to  incrtaa 
yoiir  bondage  :  if  you  take  it  not  patiently,  whr, 
your  mettle  is  the  more.  Adieu,  trusty  Pompey.— 
Bless  you,  friar. 

Duke.  And  you. 

Lucio.  Does  Bridget  paint  stm,  Pompey  ?    Haf 

Elb.  Come  your  ways,  sir ;  come. 

Clo.  You  will  not  bail  me,  tlien,  sir  ? 

Lucio.  Then,  Pompey,  nor  now. — ^^Tiat  ncwa 
abroad,  friar  ?     "Wliat  news  ? 

Elb.  Come  your  ways,  sir ;  come. 

Lucio.  Go, — to  kennel,  Pompey,  go  : 

\_Excunt  Elbow,  Clo'^'n,  and  OfEcers. 
What  news,  fiiar,  of  the  dulce  ? 

Duke.  I  know  none  :   Can  you  tell  me  of  any  ? 

Lucio.  Some  say  he  is  with  the  eirperor  oi 
Eussia ;  othersome,  he  is  in  Home  :  But  where  is 
lie,  think  you  ^ 

Duke.  ^  know  not  where  :  but  wheresoever,  I 
wish  him  well. 

Lucio.  It  was  a  mad  fantastical  trick  of  him,  to 
steal  from  the  state,  and  usurp  the  beggary  he  was 
never  bom  to.  Lord  Angelo  dukes  it  '\rcU  ia  his 
absence;  he  puts  transgression  to  't. 

Duke.  He  does  weU  in  't. 

Lucio.  A  little  more  lenity  to  Iccheiy  would  do 
no  harm  in  liim  :  soraetliing  too  crabbed  that  way, 
friar. 

Duke.  It  is  too  general  a  -"ice,  and  severity  must 
cure  it. 

Lucio.  Yes,  in  good  sooth,  tlie  ^dce  is  of  a  great 
kindred  ;  it  is  well  allied  :  but  it  is  impossible  to 
extirp  it  quite,  friar,  till  eating  and  di-inking  be 
put  down.  They  say,  this  Augelo  was  not  made 
by  man  and  woman,  after  thi  downright  way  of 
creation  :  Is  it  true,  think  you  ? 

Duke.  How  should  he  be  made,  then  ? 

Lucio.  Some  report  a  sea-maid  spawn'd  him  :— 
Some,  tliat  he  was  begot  between  two  stock-fishes: 
— lint  it  is  certain,  that  when  he  makes  water  his 
urine  is  congeal'd  ice ;    that  I  know  to  be  trie 
and  ho  is  a  motion  generative  ;  that's  infallible. 

Duke.  You  arc  pleasant,  sii"  and  speak  apace. 

Lucio.  AVliy,  what  a  ruthless  tiling  is  this  in 
liim,  for  the  rebellion  of  a  codpiece  to  take  away 
the  life  of  a  man  I  "Would  the  duke,  that  is  absent. 
have  done  this  ?  Ere  he  woidd  have  hang'd  a  man 
for  the  getting  a  :.undrtd  bastards,  he  woidd  bavc 
paid  for  the  nursing  a  thousand :  He  had  some 


ACT   HL 


MEASUllE  FOE  MEASUllE. 


feeling  of  the  sport ;    he  knew  the  service,  and 
that  instructed  him  to  mercy. 

Duhe.  I  never  heard  tiie  absent  duke  much  de- 
tected for  women  ;""  he  was  not  inolin'd  that  way. 

Lmio.  0,  sir,  j'ou  are  dccciv'd. 

Duke.  'T  is  not  possible. 

Lucio.  "VVTio  ?  not  the  duke  ?  yes,  yom  beggar 
of  fifty; — and  bis  use  was  to  put  a  ducat  in  her 
flack-dish  :'"  the  duke  had  crotchets  in  him  :  He 
would  be  drunk  too ;  that  let  me  infonn  you. 

Duke.  You  do  him  wrong,  surely. 

Lucio.  Sir,  I  was  an  inward  of  his.  A  shy  fel- 
low was  the  duke:  and,  1  believe,  I  luiow  the 
cause  of  his  withdrawing. 

Dulce.  "What,  I  prithee,  might  be  the  cause  ? 

Lucio.  No  — pardon ; — 't  is  a  secret  must  be 
lock"d  within  the  teeth  and  tlie  lips :  but  this  I  can 
lot  you  miderstand, — The  greater  file  of  the  sub- 
ject held  the  duke  to  be  wise. 

T>uke.  Wise?  why,  no  question  but  he  was. 

Lucio.  A  very  superficial,  ignorant,  unweigh- 
ing  fellow. 

Duke.  Either  this  is  envy  in  you,  folly,  or  mis- 
taking; the  very  stream  of  his  life,  and  the  busi- 
ness he  hath  helmed,  must,  upon  a  warranted 
Deed,  give  him  a  better  proclamation.  Let  him 
be  but  testimonied  in  his  own  bringings  forth, 
and  he  shall  appear  to  the  envious  a  scholar,  a 
statesman,  and  a  soldier.  Therefore,  you  speak 
unsldlfully;  or,  if  your  knowledge  be  more,  it  is 
much  darken'd  in  yoiu-  malice. 

Lucio.  Sir,  I  know  him,  and  I  love  him. 

Duke.  Love  talks  with  better  knowledge,  and 
knowledge  with  dearer  love. 

Lucio.  Come,  sir,  I  know  what  I  know. 

Duke.  I  can  hardly  believe  that,  since  you  know 
not  what  you  speak.  But,  if  ever  the  duke  re- 
turn (as  our  prayers  are  he  may, )  lot  me  desire 
you  to  make  your  answer  before  him :  If  it  be 
honest  you  have  spoke,  you  have  courage  to  main- 
tain it :  I  am  bound  to  call  upon  you  :  and,  I 
pray  you,  your  name. 

Lucio.  Sir,  my  name  is  Lucio  ;  well  known  to 
the  duke. 

Duke.  He  shall  know  you  better,  sir,  if  I  may 
live  to  report  you. 

I.ucio    I  fear  you  not. 

TJukc.  0,  you  hope  the  duke  wiU  return  no 
Tiore;  or  you  imagine  me  too  unhurtful  an  oppo- 
site.'" But,  indeed,  I  can  do  you  little  harm: 
you  '11  forswear  this  again. 

Lucio.  I'  11  be  hang'd  first :    thou  art  deceiv'd 


in  me,  friar.     But  no  more  of  this.     Canst  thou 
tell  if  Claudio  die  to-morrow,  or  no  ? 

Buke.  Why  should  he  die,  sir  ? 

Lucio.  Why  ?  for  filling  a  bottle  with  a  tun- 
dish.  I  would  tlie  duke  we  talk  of  were  retum'd 
again  :  this  ungenitur'd  agent  will  unpeople  the 
province  with  continenoy ;  sparrows  must  not 
build  in  his  house-eaves,  because  tlioy  are  le- 
cherous. The  duke  yet  would  have  dark  deeds 
darkly  answered ;  he  would  never  bring  them  to 
light :  would  ho  were  retum'd !  Marry,  this 
Claudio  is  condemned  for  untrussing.  Farewell, 
good  fi-iar ;  I  prithee,  pray  for  me.  The  duke,  I 
say  to  thee  again,  would  eat  mutton  on  Fridays. 
He 's  now  past  it ;  yet  and  I  say  to  thee,  he 
would  mouth  with  a  beggar,  though  she  smelt 
brown  bread  and  garlic :'"  say,  that  I  said  so. 
Farewell.  \_Exit. 

Duke.  No  might  nor  greatness  in  mortality 
Can  censure  'scape ;  back-woimding  calumny 
The  whitest  virtue  strilies.     ^Tiat  king  so  strong, 
Can  tie  the  gall  up  in  the  slanderous  tongue ! 
But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Escaxus,  Peovost,  Misieess  Oveedone, 
and  Officers. 

Escal.  Go,  away  with  her  to  prison. 

Over.  Good  my  lord,  be  good  to  me;  vou' 
honour  is  accounted  a  merciful  man :  good  my  lord. 

Escal.  Double  and  treble  admonition,  and  still 
forfeit  in  the  same  kind?'"  This  would  mak« 
Merc)-  swear,  and  play  the  tyrant. 

Prov.  A  bawd  of  eleven  years'  continuance,  may 
it  please  your  honour. 

Over.  My  lord,  this  is  one  Lucio's  information 
against  me :  mistress  Kate  Keepdo\vn  was  with 
child  by  him  in  the  duke's  time;  he  promis'd  her 
marriage;  his  child  is  a  year  and  a  quarter  old, 
come  Philip  and  Jacob :  I  have  kept  it  myself; 
and  see  how  he  goes  about  to  abuse  me. 

Escal.  That  fellow  is  a  fellow  of  much  Kcenco: 
let  him  be  caU'd  before  us. — ^Away  with  her  to 
prison:  Go  to;  no  more  words.  \_Exeunt  Bawd 
and  Officers,  ]  Provost,  my  brother  Angelo  will 
not  be  alter'd;  Claudio  must  die  to-moiTow :  let 
him  be  fumish'd  with  divines,  and  have  all  cha- 
ritable preparation:  if  my  brother  wrought  by 
my  pity,  it  should  not  be  so  with  him. 

Prov.  So  please  you,  this  friar  hath  been  with 
him,  and  advis'd  him  for  th'  entertainment  of 
death. 

Escal.  Good  even,  good  father. 

ifll 


Aoi  HI. 


MEASTJEE  rOR  MEASURE. 


SCtUlK    U. 


Duh.  Bliss  and  goodness  on  you ! 

Escal.  Of  whence  are  you  ? 

Luke.  Not  of  this  country,  though  my  chance  is 
now 
To  use  it  for  my  time :  I  an>  a  brother 
Of  gracious  order,  late  come  from  the  see. 
In  special  business  from  his  hoUness. 

Escal.  AMiat  news  abroad  i'  the  world  ? 

Buhe.  None,  but  that  there  is  so  great  a  fever 
on  goodness,  that  the  dissolution  of  it  must  cure  it : 
novelty  is  only  in  request;  and  as  it  is  as  d;mger- 
ous"*  to  be  aged  iu  any  kind  of  course,  as  it  is 
virtuous  to  be  constant  in  any  undertaking  ;  there 
is  scarce  truth  enough  alive  to  make  societies 
secure ;  but  security  enough  to  make  fellowships 
accurs"d  :  much  upon  this  riddle  runs  the  wisdom 
of  the  world.  This  news  is  old  enough,  yet  it  is 
every  day's  news.  I  pray  you,  sir,  of  what  dispo- 
sition was  the  duke  ? 

Escal.  One,  that,  above  all  other  strifes,  con- 
tended especially  to  know  himself. 

Bulie.  What  pleasure  was  he  given  to  ? 

Escal.  Eathcr  rejoicing  to  see  another  merry, 
than  merry  at  anj-thing  which  profuss'd  to  make 
him  rejoice :  a  gentleman  of  all  temperance.  But 
cave  we  him  to  his  events,  with  a  prayer  they 
may  prove  prosperous;  and  let  me  desire  to  know 
how  you  find  Ciaudio  prepar'd.  I  am  made  to 
imderstand  that  you  have  lent  him  visitation. 

Ihihe.  He  professes  to  have  received  no  sinister 
mcasiu-e  from  his  judge,  but  most  willingly  hum- 
bles himself  to  the  determination  of  justice  :  yet 
had  he  framed  to  himself,  by  the  insti-uction  of  his 
frailly,  many  deceiving  promises  of  life;  which  I, 
by  my  good  leisure,  have  discredited  to  him,  and 
Duw  is  he  rcsolv'd  to  die. 
162 


Escal.  You  have  paid  the  heavens  youi  fono- 

tion,  and  the  prisoner  the  very  debt  of  your  call- 
ing. I  have  labour'd  for  the  poor  geLtlemun,  tfl 
the  extremest  shore  of  my  modesty ;  but  my  bro- 
ther justice  have  I  found  so  severe,  that  he  hath 
forc'd  me  to  tell  him,  he  is  indeed — justice. 

Duke.  If  his  own  life  answer  the  straitnes?  ol 
his  proceeding,  it  shall  become  him  well ;  wherein 
if  he  chance  to  faU,  he  hath  sentenc'd  himself. 

Escal.  I  am  going  to  visit  the  prisoner !  Fare 
you  well. 

Duke.  Peace  be  with  you ! 

\_Exit  Escal.  and  Pbov 
He  who  the  sword  of  heaven  will  bear 
Should  be  as  holy  as  severe  ; 
Pattern  in  himself  to  know, 
Grace  to  stand,  and  virtue  go ;  "* 
More  nor  less  to  others  paying. 
Than  by  self-offences  weighing. 
Shame  to  him,  whose  cruel  striking 
Kills  for  faults  of  his  own  liking  ! 
Twice  treble  shame  on  Angelo, 
To  weed  my  vice,  and  let  his  grow  ! 
0,  what  may  man  within  him  hide, 
Though  angel  on  the  outward  side  ! 
How  may  likeness  wade  in  crimes,"' 
Maliing  practice  on  the  times. 
To  draw  ■with  idle  spiders'  strings 
Most  ponderous  and  substantial  things  : 
Craft  against  vice  I  must  apply  : 
With  Angelo  to-night  shall  lie 
His  old  betrothed,  but  despised  ; 
So  disguise  shall,  by  the  disguised, 
Pay  with  falsehood  false  exacting, 
And  perform  aii  old  contraotirg. 


MKAsiUHh  iuii  Jii^AsUKir; 


SCLNK   1. 


ACT   IV. 


SL'ENH  I. — A  Room  in  Mariana's  Home. 

Maeiana.  discovered  silting  ;  a  Boy  singing. 

SONG. 
Take,  oh  take  those  lips  away,  '■'' 

That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn  ; 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 

Lii^hta  that  do  mislead  the  mom  ; 
But  my  kisses  bring  again, 

Bring  again. 
Seals  of  love,  but  seal'd  in  vain, 

Scal'd  in  vain. 

Mari.  Break  off  thy  song,  and  haste  thee  quick 
away ; 
lljre  comes  a  man  of  comfort,  whose  advice 
Ifath  often  still"d  my  brawling  discontent. — 

\_Exit  Boy. 
Enter  Ddke. 

CT)-  you  mercy,  sir ;  and  well  could  wish 
You  had  not  found  me  here  so  musical : 
Let  me  excuse  me,  and  believe  me  so, — 
My  mirth  it  much  displeas'd,"'  but  pleas'd  my 
woe. 

Duke.  'Tis  good  :  though  music  oft  hath  such  a 
charm, 
To  make  bad  good,  and  good  provoke  to  liarm. 

I  pray  you,  t«U  me,  hath  anybody  inquird  for  mo 
nere  to-day  ?  much  upon  this  time  have  I  pro- 
rais'd  here  to  meet. 

Mari.  I'ou  have  not  been  inquir'd  after  :  I  have 
sat  here  all  day. 

Enter  Isabella. 

Buhe.  I  do  consttmtly  believe  you  • — The  time 
is  come,  even  now.  I  shall  crave  your  forbear- 
ance a  little ;  may  be,  I  will  call  upon  you  anon, 
or  some  advantage  to  yourself. 

Mari.  I  am  always  bound  to  you.  \_Exit. 

Duke.  Very  well  met,  and  welcome  : 
^liat  is  the  news  from  tliis  good  deputj'  r 

Isab.    He    hath    a   garden    circummur'd    with 
brick, 
\^Tiose  western  side  is  with  a  vineyard  back'd ; 
And  to  that  vineyard  is  a  planched  gate, 


Tliat  makes  his  opening  with  this  bigger  key : 
This  other  doth  command  a  little  door, 
Which  from  the  vineyard  to  the  garden  leads ; 
There  have  I  made  my  promise  ujjon  the 
Heavy  middle  of  the  night  to  call  upon  him. 

Duke.  But  shall  you  on  )-our  knowledge   fiQil 
this  way  ? 

Isah.  I  have  ta'cn  a  due  and  wary  note  upon  i ; 
With  whispering  and  most  guilty  diligence, 
In  action  all  of  precept,'-"  lie  did  show  me 
The  wa}-  twice  o'er. 

Duke.  Are  there  no  other  tokens 

Between  you  'greed,  concerning  her  observance  r 

Isab.  Jf 0,  none,  but  only  a  rejiair  i'  the  dark ; 
And  that  I  have  possessed  him,  my  most  stay 
Can  be  but  brief:   for  I  have  made  him  know 
I  have  a  servant  ct)mes  with  me  along, 
Tliat  stays  upon  me ;  ■whose  persuasion  is, 
I  come  about  m}'  brother. 

Duke.  'T  is  well  borne  up. 

I  Iiave  not  yet  made  known  to  Mariana 
A  v.'ord  of  tliis  ; — What,  ho  !  within  1  come  forth 

Re-enter  Maeiaxa. 

I  pray  you  be  acquainted  with  this  maid ; 
Slie  comes  to  do  you  good. 

hah.  I  do  desire  the  like. 

Duke.  Do  you  persuade  yourself  that  1  i-esi)Cff 

you  r 
Mari.  Good  friar,  I  know  j-ou  do;    and  Lavr 

found  it. 
Duke.  Take  then   this  your  companion  by  thf 
liaiid, 
WHio  liath  a  story  ready  for  j"our  ear : 
r  shall  attend  your  leisure ;  but  make  naste  , 
The  vaporous  night  approaches. 

Mari.  WiU  't  please  you  w;Jk  aside  ? 

\_Exeunt  Mai'.i.  aiuL  Isab. 
Duke.  0  place  and  greatness,  millions  jf  lidsc' 
eyes 
Are  stuck  upon  thee  !  volumes  of  report 
Itun  with  these  false  and  most  conti'arious  qu  rsts  ^ 
Upon  thy  doings !  thousand  escapes  of  wit 

163 


MEASURE  rUK  MEASUEE. 


SCEJTK    U. 


Make  thee  the  father  of  their  idle  dream, 
And  rack  thee  ia  their  fancies! — Welcome  !  How! 
agreed  ? 

Re-enter  Mabiaxa  and  Isabella. 

I^ah.    She    "11   take  the   enterprise   upon   her, 
father. 
If  you  advise  it. 

Buke.  It  is  not  my  consent, 

But  my  entreaty  too. 

Isab.  Little  have  you  to  say, 

Whau  you  depart  from  him,  but,  soft  and  low, 
"  Eemember  now  my  brother." 

Mari.  Fear  me  not. 

Duke.  Kor,  gentle  dauglitcr,  fear  you  not  at  all : 
Ke  is  your  husband  on  a  pre-conti'act : 
To  biing  you  thus  together,  't  is  no  sin; 
Sith  that  the  justice  of  your  title  to  him 
Doth  flourish  the  deceit.     Come,  let  us  go ; 
Our  com  's  to  reap,  for  yet  our  tithe  's  to  sow."^ 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  11.— A  Room  in  the  Prison. 
Enter  Peovost  and  Chovrs. 

Frov.  Come  hither,  sirrah :  Can  you  cut  off  a 
man's  head  ? 

Clo.  If  the  man  be  a  bachelor,  sir,  I  can  :  but 
if  he  be  a  mamed  man,  he  's  his  wife's  head,  and 
I  c<an  never  cut  off  a  woman's  head. 

Prov.  Come,  sir,  leave  me  your  snatches,'^  and 
p'eld  me  a  direct  answer.  To-morrow  morning 
are  to  die  Claudio  and  Barnardine.  Here  is  in  our 
prison  a  common  executioner,  who  in  his  office 
lacks  a  helper:  if  you  will  take  it  on  you  to  assist 
him,  it  shall  redeem  you  from  your  gyves  ;  if  not, 
you  shall  have  your  fiiU  time  of  imprisonment, 
and  your  deliverance  with  an  unpitied  whipping ;  '■" 
for  you  have  been  a  notorious  bawd. 

Clo.  Sir,  I  have  been  an  unlawful  bawd,  time 
out  of  mind;  but  yet  I  will  be  content  to  be  a 
lawful  hangman.  I  would  be  glad  to  receive  some 
instniction  from  my  fellow  pai'tner. 

Prov.  What  ho,  Abhorson !  Where  's  Abhorson, 
th  tre  ? 

Enter  Adhobson. 

Abhor.  Do  you  call,  sir  ? 

Prov.  Sirrah,  here  's  a  fellow  wUl  help  you  to- 
morrow in  your  execution.  If  you  think  it  meet, 
tompoiind  with  liim  by  the  year,  and  let  him 
ibidu  here  with  you  ;  if  not,  use  him  for  tlie 
164 


present,  and  dismiss  him.     He  cannot  plead  hiE 
estimation  with  you ;  he  hath  been  a  bawd. 

Abhor.  A  bawd,  sir  ?  Fie  upon  him,  he  will  dis- 
credit our  mystery. 

Prov.  Go  to,  sir ;  you  weigh  equally ;  a  feather 
will  turn  the  scale.  \_Exit. 

Clo.  Pray,  sir,  by  your  good  favour,  (for,  surely, 
sir,  a  good  favour'"  you  have,  but  that  you  have 
a  hanging  look,)  do  you  call,  sir,  your  oncupation 
a  mystery  ? 

Abhor.  Ay,  sir ;  a  mystery. 

Clo.  Paintuig,  sir,  I  have  heard  say,  is  a 
mystery ;  and  your  whores,  sir,  being  members  of 
my  occupation,  using  painting,  do  prove  my  occu- 
pation a  mystery :  but  what  mystery  there  should 
be  in  hanging,  if  I  should  be  hang'd  I  car::! 
imagine. 

Abhor.  Sir,  it  is  a  mystery. 

Clo.  Proof: 

Abhor.  E\'eiy  true  man's  apparel'-'  fits  joiu 
thief— 

Clo.  If  it  be  too  little  for  your  thief,  your  true 
man  tliinks  it  big  enough  ;  if  it  be  too  big  for  youi 
thief,  your  thief  thinks  it  little  enough  :  so  e\cT} 
true  man's  apparel  fits  yoiu'  thief. 

Re-enter  Peotost. 

Prov.  Are  you  agreed  ? 

Clo.  Sii;  I  wUl  serve  him ;  for  I  do  find  your 
hangman  is  a  more  penitent  trade  than  your  bawd; 
he  doth  ofl'ner  ask  forgiveness. 

Prov.  You,  siiTah,  provide  your  block  and  youi 
axe  to-morrow  four  o'clock. 

Abhor.  Come  on,  bawd  ;  I  wiU  instruct  thee  in 
my  trade ;  follow. 

Clo.  I  do  desu'c  to  learn,  sir;  and,  I  hope,  i. 
5-ou  have  occasion  to  use  me  for  your  own  tui-n, 
you  shall  find  me  yare  :  for,  truly,  sir,  for  yoiu 
kindness  I  owe  you  a  good  turn. 

Prov.  Call  hither  Barnardine  and  Claudio  : 

l_Ejre:int  Clown  and  Ajbhor, 
Til'  one  has  my  pity ;  not  a  jot  the  other. 
Being  a  murtherer,  though  he  were  my  brother. 

Enter  Claudio. 
Look,  here  's  the  warrant,  Claudio,  for  thy  death : 
'T  is  now  dead  midnight,  and  by  eight  to-moiTOW 
Thou  must  be  made  immortal.     Where  's  Barnar- 
dine  ? 
Claud.  As  fast  lock'd  up  in  sleep,  as  guiltloas 
labour 
■\Micn  it  lies  starkly  ""  in  the  traveller's  bones : 
He  will  not  wake. 


Acrr  IT 


MEASUEE  FOR  MEAStJEE. 


Prov.  Who  can  do  good  on  him  ? 

Well,    go,    prepare    yourself.      But    hark,  what 
noise  ?  \_Knocking  within. 

Heaven  give  your  spirits  comfort !      \_Exit  Claub. 

By  and  bv  :— 
I  hope  it  is  some  pardon,  or  reprieve, 
For  the  most  gentle  Claudio. — Welcome,  father. 

Enter  Duke. 

Buke.  The  best  and  wholsom'st  spirits  of  the 
night 
Envelop  you,  good  provost !     Who  call'd  here  of 
late? 

Prov.  None,  since  the  curfew  rung. 

Duke.  Not  Isabel ! 

Prov.  No. 

Duke.  They  will  then,  ere  't  be  long. 

Prov.  Wliat  comfort  is  for  Claudio  ? 

Dnke.  There  's  some  in  hope. 

Prov.  It  is  a  bitter  deputy. 

Duke.  Not  so,  not  so  ;  his  life  is  parallel'd 
Even  with  the  stroke  and  line  of  his  great  justice ; 
He  doth  ■n'ith  holy  abstinence  subdue 
That  in  himself,  which  he  spurs  on  his  pow'r 
To  qualify  in  others  :  '^°  were  he  moal'd'-'  with  that 
Which  he  corrects,  then  were  he  tyrannous  ; 
But  this  being  so,   he  's  just. — Now   are  they 
come. — 

\_Knocking  wiiliin. — Peovost  goei  out. 
This  is  a  gentle  provost :   Seldom,  when 
The  steeled  gaoler  is  the  friend  of  men. 
How  now?   What  noise?   That  sjarit 's  posscss'd 

with  haste, 
That  wounds   th'    resisting  postern  '™  with  these 
strokes. 
[Provost  returns,  speaking  to  one  at  the  door. 

Prov.  There  he  must  stay,  until  the  officer 
Arise  to  let  him  in;   he  is  caU'd  up. 

Duke.  Have  you  no  countermand  for  Claudio  yet. 
But  he  must  die  to-morrow  ? 

Prov.  None,  sir,  none. 

Duke.  As  near  the  dawning,  provost,  as  it  is, 
You  shall  hear  more  ere  morning. 

Prov.  Happily 

You  something  know;   yet,  I  believe,  there  comes 
No  countermand;    no  such  example  have  we: 
Besides,  upon  the  very  siege  of  justice. 
Lord  Angelo  hath  to  the  pubUe  ear 
Profess'd  the  oontrary. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
Duke.  This  is  his  lord's  man."' 

Prov.  And  here  comes  Claudio's  pardon. 


Mess.  My  lord  hath  sent  you  this  note ;  and  bj 
me  this  further  charge,  that  you  bw  trve  not  from 
the  smallest  article  of  it,  neither  in  time,  matter, 
nor  other  circumstance.  Good  morrow ;  for.  as  I 
take  it,  it  is  almost  day. 

Prov.  I  shall  obey  him.  [Exit  Moss. 

Duke.  This  is  his  pardon  purchas'd  by  such  in, 

\_Aside. 
For  which  the  pardoner  himself  is  in : 
Hence  hath  offence  his  quick  celerity, 
Wlicn  it  is  borne  in  high  authority : 
When  vice  makes  mercy,  mercy 's  so  extended, 
That  for  the  fault's  love  is  th'  offender  friended. — 
Now,  sir,  what  news? 

Prov.  I  told  you :  Lord  Angelo,  belike,  think- 
ing me  remiss  in  mine  office,  awakens  me  with 
this  unwonted  putting  on:  methinks,  strangely; 
for  he  hath  not  us'd  it  before. 

Duke.  Pray  you,  let 's  hear. 

Prov.  [_Peads.'\  "AVhatsoever  you  may  hear  to  the 
contrary,  let  Claudio  be  executed  by  four  of  the  clods; 
and,  in  the  afternoon,  Bamardine  :  for  my  better  satisfac- 
tion, let  me  have  Claudio's  head  sent  me  by  fire.  Let  this 
be  duly  performed ;  with  a  thought,  that  more  depends  on 
it  than  we  must  yet  deUver.  Thus  fail  not  to  do  youi 
office,  as  you  wUl  answer  it  at  your  perii" 
What  say  you  to  this,  sir  ? 

Duke.  What  is  that  Bamardine,  who  is  to  be 
executed  in  th'  afternoon  ? 

Prov.  A  Bohemian  bom;  but  here  nurs'd  up 
and  bred:  one  that  is  a  prisoner  nine  years  old. 

Duke.  How  came  it,  that  the  absent  duke  had 
not  cither  deliver'd  him  to  liis  liberty,  or  executed 
him?    I  have  heard  it  was  ever  his  manner  to  do  so. 

Prov.  His  friends  still  wrought  reprieves  foj 
him :  and,  indeed,  his  fact,  till  now  in  the  govern- 
ment of  lord  Angelo,  came  not  to  an  undoubtful 
proof. 

Duke.  It  is  now  apparent?"^ 

Prov.  Most  manifest,  and  not  denied  by  him- 
self. 

Duke.  Hath   he  borne  himself   penitently  in 
prison? 
How  seems  he  to  be  touch'd? 

Prov.  A  man  that  apprehends  death  no  mora 
dreadfully  but  as  a  drunken  sleep ;  careless,  reck- 
less, and  fearless  of  what 's  past,  present,  or  to 
come;  insensible  of  mortfJity,  and  desperately 
mortal."^ 

Duke.  He  waits  advice. 

Prov.  He  will  hear  none;  he  hath  evermore  had 
the  liberty  of  the  prison ;  give  him  leave  to  escape 
hence,  he  would  not:  drunk  many  times  a  day,  if 

165 


ACS  rv. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


not  many  days  entirely  drunk.  'We  have  very  oft 
awak'd  him,  as  if  to  carrj-  hiin  to  execution,  and 
show'd  him  a  seeming  warrant  for  it :  it  hath  not 
moved  him  at  all. 

Duke.  More  of  him  anon.  There  is  -written  in 
jour  hrow,  provost,  honesty  and  constancy:  if  I 
read  it  not  truly,  my  ancient  skiU  beguiles  me ; 
but  in  the  boldness  of  my  cunning,  I  wiU  lay  my- 
r.elf  iu  hazard.  Claudio,  whom  here  you  have 
warrant  to  execute,  is  no  greater  forfeit  to  the  law 
than  Angelo  who  hath  senteno'd  him.  To  make 
you  understand  this  in  a  manifested  effect,  I  crave 
but  four  days'  respite;  for  the  which  you  are  to 
do  me  both  a  present  and  a  dangerous  courtesy. 

Frov.  Pray,  sir,  in  what  ? 

Duke.  In  the  delaying  death. 

Prov.  Alack!  how  may  I  do  it?  having  the 
hour  limited,  and  an  express  command,  under 
penalty,  to  deliver  his  head  in  the  view  of  Angelo? 
I  may  make  my  case  as  Claudio's,  to  cross  this  in 
tlie  smallest. 

Duke.  By  the  vow  of  mine  order  I  wan-ant  you, 
if  my  instmotions  may  be  your  guide.  Let  this 
Barnardine  be  this  morning  executed,  and  his  head 
borne  to  Angelo. 

Prov.  Angelo  hath  seen  them  both,  and  wiU 
discover  the  favour. 

Duke.  0,  death's  a  great  disguiscr:  and  you 
may  add  to  it.  Shave  the  head,  and  tie  the  beard; 
and  say,  it  was  the  desire  of  the  penitent  to  be  so 
bar'd  before  his  death.  You  know  the  course  is 
common.  If  anything  fiiU  to  you  upon  this  more 
than  thanks  and  good  fortime,  by  the  saint  wliom 
I  profess,  I  win  plead  against  it  with  my  life. 

Prov.  Pardon  me,  good  fatlier,  it  is  against  my 
oath. 

Duke.  Were  you  sworn  to  the  duke,  or  to  the 
deputy? 

Prov.  To  him,  and  to  liis  substitutes. 

Duke.  You  will  flunk  you  have  made  no  offence, 
if  the  duke  avouch  the  justice  of  your  dealing? 

Prov.  But  what  likelihood  is  in  that? 

Duke.  Not  a  resemblance,  but  a  certainty.  Yet 
since  I  see  you  fearful,  that  neither  my  coat,  in- 
tegrily,  nor  persuasion,  can  with  case  attempt  you, 
I  will  go  further  tlian  1  meant,  to  pluck  all  fears 
out  of  you.  Look  you,  sir,  here  is  the  hand  and 
sea,  erf  the  duke.  You  know  the  cliaracter,  I 
doubt  not ;  and  the  signet  is  not  strange  to  you. 

I'niv.  I  know  them  both. 

Duke.  The  contents  of  this  is  the  return  of  the 
iuke;  you  shall  anon  over-read  it  at  your  pleasure : 
160 


where  you  shall  find,  -within  these  two  days  he 
-will  be  here.  This  is  a  thing  that  Angelo  knows 
not:  for  he  this  very  day  receives  letters  of  strange 
tenor:  perchance,  of  the  duke's  death;  perchance 
entering  into  some  monastery;  but,  by  chance 
nothing  of  what  is  writ.  Look,  th'  unfolding  star 
calls  up  the  shepherd.  Put  not  yourself  into 
amazement  how  these  things  should  be  :  all  diffi- 
culties are  but  easy  when  they  are  known.  Call 
j'our  executioner,  and  off  with  Barnardine's  head : 
I  -wUl  give  him  a  present  shrift,  and  advise  him 
for  a  better  place.  Yet  you  are  amaz'd :  but  this 
shall  absolutely  resolve  you.'"  Come  away ;  it  is 
almost  clear  dawn.  \_£xeunt. 

SCEIfE  III. — Another  Boom  in  the  same. 

Enter  Clown. 

Ch.  I  am  as  well  acquahited  here,  as  I  was  in 
our  house  of  profession  :  one  would  think  it  were 
mistress  Overdone's  o-wn  house,  for  here  be  many 
of  her  old  customers.  First,  here  's  yoimg  master 
Rash ;  he  's  in  for  a  commodity  of  brown  paper''' 
and  old  ginger,  ninescore  and  seventeen  poimds ; 
of  which  he  made  five  marks,  ready  money 
marry,  then,  ginger  was  not  much  in  request,  for  the 
old  women  were  all  dead.  Then  is  there  here  one 
master  Caper,  at  the  suit  of  master  Three-pile  the 
mercer,  for  some  four  suits  of  peach-colour'd  satin, 
which  now  peaches  him  a  beggar.  Then  have  we 
here  young  Dizy,  and  young  master  Deep-vow, 
and  master  Copper-spur,  and  master  Starve-lackey, 
the  rapier  and  dagger  man,  and  young  Drop-heir 
that  killed  lusty  Pudding,  and  master  Forthright, 
the  filter,  and  brave  master  Shoe-tie,  the  great  tra- 
veller, and  -wild  Half-can  that  stabb'd  Pots,  and,  I 
think,  forty  more;  all  great  doers  in  our  trade, 
and  are  now  for  the  Lord's  sake.'^ 

Enter  Abhokson. 

Abhor.  Sirrah,  bring  Barnai'dine  hither. 

Clo.  Master  Barnardine !  you  must  rise  and  bo 
hang'd,  master  Barnardine ! 

Abhor.  What  ho,  Barnardine  ! 

Barnar.  \_Within.'\  A  pox  o'  your  throats!  Who 
makes  tliat  noise  there  ?     A^liat  are  you  ? 

Clo.  Your  friends,  sir,  the  hangmen.  You 
must  be  so  good,  sir,  to  rise  and  be  put  to  deatli. 

Barnar.  [  Within.']  Away,  you  rogue,  away !  I 
aui  sleepy 

Abhor.  TcUhim  he  must  aw.ake,  and  that  qmekly 
too. 


ACT   IV. 


MEASUKE  I'Olt  MEASmiE. 


SC3IIE  m. 


Clo.  Pray,  master  Bamardino,  awake  till  you 
are  executed,  ar.d  sleep  afterwards. 

Ab}u)r.  Go  in  to  liim,  and  fetch  him  out. 

Clo.  He  is  coming,  sir,  ho  is  coming ;  I  hear  his 
Btraw  rustle. 

Enter  Barnaedine. 

Ahhor.  Is  the  axe  iipon  the  block,  sirrah  ? 

Clo.  Very  ready,  sir. 

Barnar.  How  now,  Abhorson  ?  what  's  tlie 
news  with  you  ? 

Ahhor.  Truly,  sir,  I  would  desire  you  to  clap 
into  your  prayers ; '"  for,  look  you,  the  warrant  's 
come. 

Barnar.  You  rogue,  I  have  been  diioking  all 
night ;  I  am  not  fitted  for  't. 

Clo.  0,  tho  bettor,  sir ;  for  ho  that  drinks  aU 
night,  and  is  hanged  betimes  in  the  morning,  may 
sleep  tho  sounder  all  the  next  day. 

Entir  Duke. 

Abhor.  Look  you,  sir,  here  comes  yoiu-  ghostly 
father.     Do  we  jest  now,  think  you  ? 

Dide.  Sir,  induced  by  my  charit}',  and  hearing 
how  hastily  you  are  to  depart,  I  am  come  to  ad- 
vise you,  comfort  you,  and  pray  with  you. 

Barnar.  Eriar,  not  I;  I  have  been  drinking 
hard  all  night,  and  I  will  have  more  time  to  pre- 
pare me,  or  they  shall  beat  out  my  brains  Math 
biUets  :  I  will  not  consent  to  die  this  day,  that  's 
certain 

Buke.  0,  sir,  you  must ;  and  therefore,  I  be- 
seech you,  look  forward  on  the  jom-ney  you  shall 

go 

Barnar.  I  swear,  I  will  not  die  to-day  for  any 
man's  persuasion. 

Duhe.  But  hear  you, — 

Barnar.  Not  a  word ;  if  you  have  anything  to 
Bay  to  me,  come  to  my  ward;  for  thence  will  not 
I  to-day.  \_Exit. 

Enter  Peovost. 

Ihike.  Unfit  to  live,  or  die :  0,  gravel  heart ! — 
After  him,  fellows ;  bring  him  to  the  block. 

\_Exeunt  Abhorson  and  Clown. 

Frm).  Kow,  sir,  how  do  you  find  the  prisoner  ? 

Duka.  A  creature  unprepar'd,  unmeet  for  death ; 
And  to  transport  him  in  the  mind  he  is 
Were  damnable. 

Frov.  Here  in  the  prison,  father. 

There  died  this  morning  of  a  cruel  fever 
One  ICigozinc,  i  most  notorious  pirate, 


A  man  of  Claudio's  years ;  his  beard,  and  head, 
Just  of  his  colour  :  ^\liat  if  we  do  omit 
This  reprobate,  tiU  he  were  well  inclin'd  ; 
And  satisfy  the  deputy  with  the  visage 
Of  Piagozine,  more  like  to  Claudio  ? 

Duke.  0,  't  is  an  accident  that  heaven  provides 
Despatch  it  presently;  the  hour  draws  on 
Prefix'd  by  Ange.o  :  Sec  this  be  done. 
And  sent  according  to  command  •  whiles  I 
Persuade  this  rude  wretch  willingly  to  die. 

Frov.  This  shall  be  done,  good  father,  presently. 
But  Barnardine  must  die  this  afternoon ; 
And  how  shall  we  continue  Claudio, 
To  save  me  from  the  danger  that  might  come, 
If  he  were  known  alive  ? 

Buhe.  Let  this  be  done  : — 

Put  them  in  secret  holds,   both  Barnardine  and 

Claudio  : 
Ere  twice  the  sim  hath  made  his  journal  greeting 
To  yond  generation,"'  you  shall  find 
Your  safety  manifested. 

Frov.  I  am  j-our  free  dependant. 

BuJcc.  Quick,  despatch. 

And  send  the  head  to  Angelo.  \_Exit  Provost. 

Now  will  I  write  letters  to  Angelo, — 
The  provost,  he  shall  bear  them, — whose  contents 
Shall  witness  to  him  I  am  near  at  home  ; 
And  that  by  great  injunctions  I  am  boimd 
To  enter  publicly  :  him  I  '11  desire 
To  meet  me  at  the  consecrated  fount, 
A  league  below  the  city ;  and  from  thence. 
By  cold  gradation  and  well-balanc'd  form, 
AYe  shall  proceed  with  Angelo. 

Re-enter  Provost. 

Frov.  Here  is  the  head ;  I 'U  carry  it  myself. 

Diikc.  Convenient  is  it :  Make  a  s-\vift  return ; 
For  I  would  commune  with  you  of  such  things 
That  want  no  ear  but  yom-s. 

Frov.  I  '11  make  all  speed.  \Eiit. 

Isal.  [Within.'\  Peace,  ho,  be  here  ! 

Duke.  The  tongue  of  Isabel : — She  's  come  to 
know, 
If  yet  her  brother's  pardon  be  come  hither : 
But  I  ■\\ill  keep  her  ignorant  of  her  good. 
To  make  her  heavenly  comforts  of  despaii' 
When  it  is  least  expected. 

Enter  Isajieixa. 

Isal.  Ho,  by  your  leave. 

Duke.  Good  morning  tc  you,  fair  and  gracious 
daughter. 

167 


r" 


MEASUEE  FOK  MEASUliE. 


SCENE    n 


Isab.  The  better,  given  me  by  so  holy  a  man. 
Hath  yet  the  deputy  sent  my  brother's  pardon  ? 

Duke.  He  hath  releas'd  him,  Isabel,  from  the 
world ; 
Eis  head  is  off,  and  sent  to  Angelo. 

Isah.  Nay,  but  it  is  not  so  ! 

Duke.  It  is  no  other  : 

Show    your  wisdom,   daughter,    in    yo\ir    close 
patience. 

Isah.  0,  I  will  to  him,  and  pluck  out  his  eyes  ! 

Duke.  You  shall  not  be  admitted  to  his  sight. 

Isah    Unhappy  Claudio  !     Wretched  Isabel ! 
Injurious  world !     Most  damned  Angelo  I 

Duke.  This  nor  hurts  him,  nor  profits  you  a  jot ; 
Forbear  it  therefore ;  give  your  cause  to  heaven. 
Mark  what  I  say,  which  you  shall  find, 
By  every  syllable,  a  faithful  verity : 
The  duke  comes  home  to-moiTow ; — nay,  dry  your 

eyes; 
One  of  our  convent,  and  his  confessor, 
Gives  me  tliis  instance.    Already  he  hath  can'ied 
Notice  to  Escalus  and  Angelo, 
Who  do  prepare  to  meet  hiir  at  the  gates, 
There  to  give  m  'iheir  powe^'.     If  you  can,  pace 

yoiu-  wisdom 
In  that  good  path  that  I  would  wish  it  go; 
And  you  shall  have  your  bosom"'  on  this  -nTetch, 
3race  of  the  duke,  revenges  to  your  heart, 
And  general  honour. 

Isah.  I  am  directed  by  you. 

Duke.  This  letter  then  to  friar  Peter  give; 
'T  is  that  he  sent  me  of  the  duke's  return  : 
Say,  by  this  token,  I  desire  his  company 
At  ilariana's  house  to-night.  Her  cause,  and  yours, 
I  '11  perfect  him  withal:  and  he  shall  bring  you 
Before  tlie  duke ;  and  to  the  head  of  Angelo 
Accuse  him  home,  and  home.     For  my  poor  self, 
I  am  combined  ""  by  a  sacred  vow, 
And  shall  be  absent.     Wend  you  with  this  letter : 
Command  these  fretting  waters  from  your  eyes 
With  a  light  heart;  trust  not  my  holy  order, 
If  I  perveit  yoir  course. — Who  's  hero? 

Enter  Lucio. 

Lneio.  Good  even,  friar :  where  's  the  provost  ? 

Ihth.  Not  -natliin,  sir. 

Ludo.  0,  pretty  Isabella,  I  am  pale  at  mine 
heart,  to  see  thine  eyes  so  red:  thou  must  bo 
patient.  I  am  fain  to  dine  and  sup  with  water 
ond  bran  ;  I  dare  not  for  my  head  fill  my  belly ; 
one  fruitful  meal  wo  aid  set  mo  to  't:  But  they  say 
tho  duke  will  be  hero  to-moiTow.  By  my  troth, 
168 


Isabel,  I  lov'd  thy  brother  :  if  the  old  fantastical 
duke  of  dark  comers  had  been  at  home,  he  had 
lived.  \_Exit  Isab 

Duke.  Sir,  the  duke  is  marvellous  little  be- 
holden to  your  reports ;  t  ut  the  best  is,  he  lives  not 
in  them."' 

Lucio.  Friar,  thou  knowest  not  the  duke  so 
wcU  as  I  do  :  he 's  a  better  woodman'"  than  thou 
(ak'st  him  for. 

Duke.  Well,  you  '11  answer  this  one  day.  Fare 
ye  well. 

Lucio.  Nay,  tarrj-;  I  '11  go  along  with  thee ;  I 
can  tell  thee  pretty  tales  of  the  duke. 

Duke.  You  have  told  me  too  many  of  him 
already,  sir,  if  they  be  trae:  if  not  true,  none 
were  enough. 

Lucio.  I  was  once  before  him  for  getting  a 
wench  with  child. 

Duke.  Did  you  such  a  thing? 

Lucio.  Yes,  marry,  did  I :  but  I  was  fain  to  for- 
swear it ;  they  would  else  have  married  me  to  the 
rotten  medlar. 

Duke.  Sir,  your  company  is  fairer  than  honest : 
Eest  you  well. 

Lucio.  By  my  troth,  I  'U  go  with  thee  to  the 
lane's  end.  If  bawdy  talk  ofl'cnd  you,  we  "11  hav( 
very  little  of  it.  Nay,  friar,  I  am  a  kind  of  burr 
I  shall  stick.  [Excwit 

SCENE  IV. — A  lioom  in  Angelo's  House. 

Enter  Akgelo  and  Escaits. 

Escal.  Every  letter  he  hath  writ  hath  disvouoh'il 
other. 

Any.  In  most  uneven  and  distracted  manner. 
His  actions  show  much  like  to  madness  :  pray 
heaven,  his  wisdom  bo  not  tainted!  And  why 
meet  him  at  the  gates,  and  deKver  our  authori- 
ties there  ? 

Escal.  I  guess  not. 

Anff.  And  why  should  we  proclaim  it  in  an 
hoiu-  before  liis  ent'ring,  that,  if  any  crave  redress 
of  injustice,  they  should  exhibit  their  petitions  in 
the  street? 

Escal.  He  shows  his  reason  for  that :  to  liavp 
a  despatch  of  complaints  ;  and  to  deliver  us  from 
devices  hereafter,  which  shall  then  have  no  puwei 
to  stand  against  us. 

Atiff.  Well,  I  beseech  you,  let  it  be  proclaim'd: 
Betimes  i'  tho  mom  I  '11  call  you  at  your  house: 
Give  notice  to  such  men  of  sort  and  suit. 
As  arc  to  meet  him. 


ACT   IV. 


MEASUEE  rOE  MEASUIIE. 


SCENE    V. VI. 


EbciiI.  I  shall,  sir:  fare  yon  well. 

Ang.  Good  night. —  [J&-8<EscAi. 

This  deed  unshapes  me  quite,  makes  meunpregnant, 
And  dull  to  all  proceedings.     A  deflowered  maid! 
And  by  an  eminent  body,  that  enforo'd 
Tlie  law  against  it ! — But  that  her  tender  shamo 
Will  not  proclaim  against  her  maiden  loss, 
How  might  she  tongue  me !    Yet  reason  dares  her 

no;'« 
For  my  authority  bears  of  a  credent  bulk, '" 
That  no  particular  scandal  once  can  touch, 
But  it  confounds  the  breather.     He  should  have 

liv'd. 
Save  that  his  riotous  youth,  with  dangerous  sense. 
Might,  in  the  times  to  come,  have  ta'en  revenge. 
By  so  receiving  a  dishonour' d  life 
With  ransom  of  such  shame.      Would  yet  he  had 

Hv'd! 
Alack  !  when  once  our  grace  we  have  forgot. 
Nothing  goes  right ;  we  would,  and  we  would  not. 

lExit. 

SCENE  Y.— Fields  without  the  Town. 

Enter  Duke  in  his  own  hahit,  and  Priar  Petee. 

DhJcc.  These  letters  at  fit  time  deliver  me. 

[^Giving  letters. 
The  provost  knows  ova  purpose,  and  our  plot. 
The  matter  being  afoot,  keep  your  instruction. 
And  hold  you  ever  to  your  special  drift ; 
Though  sometimes  you   do  blench  fi'om  this  to 

that,  "= 
As  cause  doth  minister.     Go,  call  at  Flavins'  Louse, 
And  tell  liim  where  I  stay :  give  the  Kke  notice 
To  Valentinus,  Rowland,  and  to  Crassus, 
And  bid  them  bring  the  trumpets  to  the  gate ; 
B  it  fsend  me  Flavius  first. 


F.  Fetor.  It  shaU  be  speeded  well. 

\Exit  Fbuh 

Enter  Vakkips. 

Dvke.  I  thank  thee,  Varrius;    thou  hast  made 
good  haste  : 
Come,  we  will  walk.    There  's  other  of  our  friendb 
"Will  greet  us  here  anon,  my  gentle  Varrius. 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  Ti..— Street  near  the  City  Gate. 

Enter  Isabella  and  Mablana. 

Tsah.  To  speak  bo  indirectly  I  am  loth ; 
I  would  say  the  truth ;  but  to  accuse  him  so, 
That  is  your  part :  yet  I  am  advis'd  to  do  it; 
He  says,  to  veil  fuU  purpose. 

Mari.  Be  nil'd  by  him. 

Isab.  Besides,  he  tells  me,  that,  if  peradventurc 
He  speak  against  me  on  the  adverse  side, 
I  shc'uld  not  think  it  sti'ange ;  for  't  is  a  physic 
That 's  bitter  to  sweet  end. 

Mari.  I  would  friar  Peter — 

Isab.  0,  peace !  the  friar  is  come. 

Enter  Friar  Peteb. 

F.  Peter.  Come,  I  have  found  you  out  a  stand 

most  fit, 
WTiere  you  may  have  such  vantage  on  the  duke, 
He  shall  not  pass  you.    Twice  have  the  trumptis 

sounded ; 
The  generous  and  gravest  citizens 
Have  hent  the  gates, '"  and  very  near  upon 
The  Duke  is  eut'ring ;  therefore,  hence,  away. 

[ExfdKt 
169 


ACT  T. 


MEASUKE  FOR  MEASUKE. 


SCENE  1 


ACT   V. 


SUEJf E  I.  —A  ptiMte  Place  near  th  City  Gale. 
Mahiana  (veiled),  Isabella,  and  Petes,  at  a  dis- 
tance.    Enter  ai  opposite  sides^^^  Duke,  Varkius, 
Lords ;    Anqelo,    Escalus,     Lccio,     Peovost, 
Officers,  and  Citizens. 

Duke.  My  very  worthy  cousin,  fairly  met : — 
Our  old  and  faithful  friend,  we  are  glad  to  see  you. 
Ang.  and  Escal.  Happy  return  be  to  your  royal 

grace ! 
Duhc.  Many  and  hearty  thankings  to  you  both. 
We  have  made  inquiiy  of  you  ;  and  we  hear 
Such  goodness  of  your  justice,  that  our  soul 
Cannot  but  yield  you  forth  to  public  thanks. 
Forerunning  more  requital. 

Ang.  Tou  make  my  bonds  stiU  greater. 

Duke.  O,  your  desert  speaks  loud ;  and  I  should 
wrong  it. 
To  lock  it  in  the  wards  of  covert  bosom, 
Wlieu  it  deserves  with  characters  of  brass 
A.  fortcd  residence,  'gainst  the  tooth  of  time, 
And  razure  of  oblivion.     Give  me  your  hand, 
And  let  the  subject  see,  to  make  them  know 
That  outward  courtesies  would  fain  proclaim 
Favours  that  keep  within. — Come,  Escalus, 
Vou  must  walk  by  us  on  our  other  hand ; 
knA  good  supporters  are  you. 

Friar  Peteu  and  Isabella  come  forward. 

F.  Peter.  Now  is  your  time;    speiJi  loud,  and 
kneel  before  him. 

Inah.  Justice,  0  royal  duke !  Vail"'  your  regard 
Upon  a  -WTong'd,  I  would  fain  have  said,  a  maid ! 
0  worthy  prince,  dishonour  not  your  eye 
By  throwing  it  on  any  otlier  oliject. 
Till  you  have  heard  me  in  my  true  complaint, 
\nd  given  me  justice,  justice,  justice,  justice ' 

Duke,  llolate    your    wrongs:     In   what?     By 
whom  r     Lo  brief; 
Here  is  Lord  Angelo  shall  give  you  justice ! 
Reveal  yourself  to  him. 

Ml.  0,  worthy  duke, 

i'ou  bid  mo  seek  rcdcmptiDn  of  tlie  devil : 
Hour  me  yourself;  lor  tliat  whicli  I  must  speak 


Must  either  punish  me,  not  being  belicv'd, 
Or  wring  redress  from  you  :  hoar  me,  0,  hear  me 
here. 

Ang.  My  lord,  her  wits,  I  fear  me,  are  not  firm  : 
She  hath  been  a  suitor  to  me  for  her  brother 
Cut  off  by  course  of  justice ! 

Isab.  liy  course  of  justice  ! 

Ang.  And  she  will  speak  most  bitterly   and 
strange. 

Imh.  Most  sh-ango,  but  yet  most  truly,  wll  I 
speak : 
That  Angelo  's  forsworn ;    is  it  not  strange  ? 
That  Angelo  's  a  miu'tliorer ;  is  't  not  str.ango 
That  Angelo  is  an  adulterous  thief, 
An  hypocrite,  a  ^•irgin  violator ; 
Is  it  not  strange,  and  strange  ? 

Duke.  Xay,  it  is  ten  times  strange. 

Isah.  It  is  not  truer  he  is  Angelo, 
Than  this  is  all  as  true  as  it  is  strange ; 
Nay,  it  is  ten  times  true ;  for  truth  is  truth 
To  th'  eud  of  reck'ning.  '*' 

Duke.  Away  witli  her  ; — Poor  sold, 

She  speaks  this  in  th'  infirmity  of  sense. 

Isab.  0,  prince,  I  conjure  thee,  as  thoubeliov'st 
There  is  another  comfort  than  this  world. 
That  thou  neglect  me  not  with  that  opinion 
That  I  am  toueh'd  ■\\-ith  madness ;   make  not  im- 
possible 
That  which  but  seems  unlike  :  't  is  not  impossible 
But  one,  the  wicked" st  caitiff  on  the  ground. 
May  seem  as  shy,  as  grave,  as  just,  as  absolute, 
As  Angelo ;  even  so  may  Angelo, 
In  all  his  dressings,  characts,'"  titles,  forms, 
Be  an  arch- villain  ;  believe  it,  royal  prince; 
If  he  bo  less,  he  's  nothing  ;  but  be  's  more, 
Had  I  more  name  for  badness. 

Duke.  ]}y  mine  honesty, 

If  .*he  1)0  mad,  as  I  believe  no  other. 
Her  madness  hath  the  oddest  frame  of  sense, 
Such  a  ilopcndiT.cy  of  thing  on  thing, 
As  c"er  I  heard  in  madness. 

huh.  0,  gracious  duke, 

Haq)  not  ou  tliat :  nor  do  not  banish  reason 


XCT    V. 


MEASUllE  FOK  MEASURE 


SCMTB   I. 


For  inequality;   but  let  your  reason  serve 
To  make  the  truth  appear  where  it  seems  hid, 
Aud  hide  the  false  seems  true."' 

Bukt.  Many  that  ai'e  not  mad, 

Have,  sure,  more  lack  of  reason. — What  -would  ye 
say? 

Isab    I  am  the  sister  of  one  Claudio, 
Condemn'dupon  the  act  of  fornication 
To  lose  his  head ;  condemn'd  by  Angelo : 
[,  in  probation  of  a  sisterhood, 
Was  sent  to  by  my  brother  :   One  Lucio, 
As  then  the  messenger; — 

Lucio.  That 's  I,  an 't  like  your  grace  : 

I  came  to  her  from  Claudio,  and  desir'd  her 
To  try  her  gracious  fortune  with  lord  Angelo, 
For  her  poor  brother's  pardon. 

Isah.  That 's  he  indeed. 

Duke.  You  were  nut  bid  to  speak. 

Lucio.  No,  my  good  lord  ; 

Nor  wish'd  to  hold  my  peace. 

Duke.  I  wish  you  now  then ; 

Pray  you,  take  note  of  it :   and  when  you  have 
A  business  for  yourself,  pray  heaven  you  then 
lie  perfect. 

Lucio.  I  warrant  your  honour. 

Duke.  The  warrant  "s  for  yourself ;  take  heed  to 't. 

Isol.  This  gentleman  told  somewhat  of  my  tale. 

Lucio.  Eight. 

Duke.  It  may  be  right ;  but  you  are  i'  the  wrong 
Td  speak  before  your  time. — Proceed. 

Imh.  I  went 

To  this  pernicious  caitiff  deputy. 

Duke.  That 's  somewhat  madly  spoken. 

Isab.  Pardon  it ; 

The  phrase  is  to  the  matter. 

Duke.  Mended  again  :  the  matter: — Proceed. 

Imh.  In  brief, — to  set  the  needless  process  by 
llow  I  persuaded,  how  I  pray'd,  and  kneel'd. 
How  he  refeU'd  me,  and  how  I  repUed, 
(For  tliis  was  of  much  length);  the  vild  conclusion 
I  now  begin  with  grief  and  shame  to  utter : 
He  would  not,  but  by  gift  of  my  chaste  body 
To  his  concupiscible  intemperate  lust, 
Eclcase  my  brother ;  and,  after  much  d«batemcnt, 
My  sisterly  remorse  confutes  mine  honour, 
.ind  I  did  yield  to  him.  Bat  the  next  mom  betimes. 
His  purpose  surfeiting,  he  sends  a  warrant 
For  my  poor  brother's  head. 

Ikikc.  This  is  most  likely  ! 

Isah.  0,  that  it  were  as  like  as  it  is  true  ! 

Duke.  By  heaven!    fond  wretch,  thou  know'st 
not  what  thou  spcak'st, 


Or  else  thou  art  subom'd  against  his  honour, 

In  liateful  practice.    First,  his  integrity 

Stands  \rithout  blemish  : — next,    it   imports    no 

reason. 
That  with  such  vehemency  ho  should  pursue 
Faults  proper  to  himself:  if  ho  had  so  offendett, 
He  would  have  weigh'd  thy  brother  by  himself. 
And   not  have  cut  him  off.    Some  one  hath  8c( 

you  on ; 
Confess  the  truth,  and  say  by  whose  advice 
Thou  eam'st  here  to  complain. 

Lah.  And  is  this  aU  ? 

Then,  oh,  you  blessed  ministers  above, 
Keep  me  in  patience ;  and,  with  ripened  time, 
Unfold  the  evil  which  is  hero  wrapp'd  up 
In  countenance  ! — Heaven  shield  your  grace  from 

woe, 
As  I,  thus  wrong' d,  hence  unbelieved  go  ! 

Duke.  I  know  you  'd  fun  be  gone : — An  officer 
To  prison  with  her  !  Shall  we  thus  permit 
A  blasting  and  a  scandalous  breath  to  fall 
On  him   so   near  us  ?      This  needs  must  be  a 

practice. '" 
"\^^lo  Ivnew  of  your  intent,  and  coming  hither  ? 
Isal.  One    that    I    woidd    were     here,    frial 

Lodowick. 
Duke.  A    ghostly   father,   belike :    who  knows 

that  Lodowick  ? 
Liicio.  My  lord,  I  know  him  ;  't  is  a  meddling 
friar. 
I  do  not  like  the  man  :  had  he  been  lay,  my  lord, 
For  certain  words  he  spake  against  your  grace 
In  youi'  retirement,  I  had  swing'd  him  soundly. 
Duke.  Words  against  me  ?     This  's  a  good  fi-iar, 
belike ! 
And  to  set  on  this  wretched  woman  here 
Against  our  substitute  ! — Let  this  friar  be  found. 
Lucio.  But  yesternight,  my  lord,  she  and  that 
fi-iar 
I  saw  them  at  the  prison  :  a  saucy  friar, 
A  very  scurvy  fellow. 

F.  Peter.  Blessed  be  your  royal  grace .' 

I  have  stood  by,  my  lord,  and  I  have  heard 
Your  royal  cai-  abus'd.     Fii'st,  hath  this  woman 
Most  wrongfully  accus'd  your  substitute, 
"Wlio  is  as  free  from  touch  or  soil  with  her, 
As  she  from  one  ungot. 

Duke.  We  did  oelicve  no  less. 

Know  you  that  friar  Lodowick  that  she  sjicaks  of? 
F.  Deter.  I  know  him  for  a  mim  divine  and 
holy; 
Not  scurvy,  nor  a  temporary  meddler, "" 

171 


acT  V. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


SCK.Nt    1 


As  he  's  reported  by  this  gentleman ; 
And,  on  my  trust,  a  man  that  never  yet 
Did,  as  he  vouches,  misreport  your  grace. 
Lucio.  My  lord,  most  villamously  ;  believe  it. 
F.  Peter.  Well,  he  in  time  may  come  to  clear 
himself; 
But  at  this  instant  he  is  sick,  my  lord. 
Of  a  strange  fever.    Upon  his  mere  request, 
(Being  come  to  knowledge  that  there  was  complaint 
Intended  'gainst  lord  Angelo),  came  I  hither. 
To  speak,  as  from  his  mouth,  what  he  doth  know 
Is  true,  and  false  ;  and  what  he  with  his  oath, 
And  all  probation,  will  make  up  full  clear, 
Whensoever    he  's  convented.       First,   for  this 

woman ; 
(To  justify  this  worthy  nobleman. 
So  vulgarly  and  personally  accused). 
Her  shall  you  hear  disproved  to  her  eyes. 
Till  she  herself  confess  it. 
I>uke.  Good  friar,  let  's  hear  it. 

[Isabella  ««  carried  off,  guarded  ;  and 
Makiana  comes  fonvard. 
Do  you  not  smUe  at  this,  lord  Angelo  ? 

0  heaven !  the  vanity  of  wretched  fools ! 
Give  us  some  scats. — Come,  cousin  Angelo ; 
In  this  I  'U  be  impartial ;  be  you  judge 

Of  your  own  cause. — Is  this  the  ^vitness,  friar  ? 
First,  let  her  show  her  face ;  and,  after,  speak. 

Mari.  Pardon,   my  lord  ;  I  will  not  show  my 
face, 
Until  my  husband  bid  me. 

Duke.  What,  ai'e  you  married  ? 

Mari.  "So,  my  lord. 

Biile.  Are  you  a  maid  ? 

Mari.  No,  my  lord. 

Dnke.  A  widow  then  ? 

Mori.  Neither,  my  lord. 

Duke.  ^^Tiy,  you 

Arenothingthen: — Neither  maid,  widow,  nor  wife? 

Lucio.  My  lord,  she  may  be  a  punk ;   for  many 
of  thera  are  neither  maid,  widow,  nor  wife. 

Duke.  SUence  that  feUow :  I  would  he  had  some 
cause 
To  prattle  for  himself. 

iMcio.  Well,  my  lord. 

Mari.  My  lord,  I  do  confess  I  ne'er  was  mamed ; 
And,  I  confess,  besides,  I  am  no  maid : 

1  liave  known  my  husband ;    yet  my  husband 

knows  not 
That  ever  he  knew  me. 
'      Lucio.  lie  was  dnmk  then,  my  lord ;  it  can  be 
00  better 

172 


Duke.  For  the  benefit  of  silence,  would  thou  wert 
so  too ! 

Lucio.  Well,  my  lord. 

Duke.  This  is  no  witness  for  lord  Angelo. 

Mari.  Now  I  come  to  't,  my  lord  : 
She,  that  accuses  him  of  fornication. 
In  self-same  manner  doth  accuse  my  husband  ; 
And  charges  liim,  my  lord,  with  suiih  a  time, 
Allien  I  'U  depose  I  had  him  in  mine  arms, 
With  all  th'  effect  of  love 

Ang.  Charges  she  more  than  me  i 

Mari.  Not  that  I  know. 

Duke.  Nor  you  say,  your  husband. 

Mari.  Why,  just  my  lord,  and  that  is  Angelo, 
Who  thinks  he  knows  that  he  ne'er  knew  my  body 
But  knows  he  thinks  that  he  knows  Isabel's. 

Ang.  This  is  a  strange  abuse  ;  '** — Let 's  see  thj 
face. 

Mari.  My  husband  bids  me :  now  I  will  unmask, 

\_UnveiUHg. 
This  is  that  face,  thou  cruel  Angelo, 
TVTiich  once  thou  swor'st  was  worth  the  looking  on : 
This  is  the  hand  which,  with  a  vow'd  contract. 
Was  fast  bclock'd  in  thine  :  this  is  the  body 
That  took  away  the  match  from  Isabel, 
And  did  supply  thee  at  thy  garden-house, '" 
In  her  imagin'd  person. 

Duke.  Know  you  this  woman 

Lucio.  Carnally,  she  says. 

Duke.  Sirrah,  no  more! 

Lucio.  Enough,  my  lord. 

Ang.  My   lord,   I    must   confess  I  know  this 
woman  : 
And,  five  years  since,  there  was  some  speech  c( 

marriage 
Betwixt  myself  and  her ;  which  was  broke  off, 
Partly,  for  that  her  promis'd  proportions 
Came  short  of  composition;'^  but,  in  chief 
For  that  her  reputation  was  disvalued 
In  levity :  since  which  time  of  five  years, 
I  never  spake  with  her,  saw  her,  nor  heard  fi-om 

her. 
Upon  my  faith  and  honour. 

Mari.  Noble  prince. 

As  there  comes  light  from  heaven,  and  words  iron- 

breath. 
As  there  is  sense  in  truth,  and  truth  in  virtue, 
I  am  affianced  this  man's  wife,  as  sti'ongly 
As  words  covild  m.ike  up  vows  :  and,  my  gooil  lor.l 
But  Tuesday  night  last  gone,  in  's  garden-liouse. 
He  knew  me  as  a  wife.    As  this  is  true, 
Let  mo  in  safety  raise  me  from  my  luiees ; 


MEASFEE  Foil  MEASUllE. 


Or  else  for  ever  be  coniLsed  here, 
A  marble  monument ! 

Anj.  I  did  but  smile  till  now ; 

Now,  good  ray  lord,  give  me  the  scope  of  justice  ; 
ily  patience  here  is  touch'd  :  I  do  perceive 
These  poor  informal'"  women  are  no  more 
Jiut  instruments  of  some  more  mightier  member, 
Til  at  sets  them  on  :  Let  me  have  way,  my  lord, 
To  tind  this  practice  out. 

Biike    Ay,  with  my  heart ; 
And  punish  them  to  your  height  of  pleasure. '" — 
Thou  foolish  friar ;  and  thou  pernicious  woman, 
Coiuj)act  with  her  that 's  gone !   think' st  thou  thy 

oaths. 
Though  they  would  swear  down  each  particular 

saint, 
Were  testimonies  against  his  worth  and  credit. 
That 's  seal'd  in  approbation  ? — You,  lord  Escalus, 
Sit  with  my  cousin ;  lend  him  your  kind  pains 
To  find  out  tliis  abuse,  whence  't  is  deriv'd  : 
There  is  another  fiiar  that  set  them  on ; 
IjcI  him  bo  sent  for. 

F.  Peter.  Woidd  he  were  here,  my  lord  ;   for 
he,  indeed. 
Hath  sot  the  women  on  to  this  complaint : 
Your  provost  knows  the  place  where  he  abides, 
And  he  may  fetch  him. 

Duke.  Go,  do  it  instantly. —         \_Exit  Peov. 
And  you,  my  noble  and  well- warranted  cousin, 
Whom  it  concerns  to  hear  this  matter  forth, 
Do  with  your  injmics,  as  seems  you  best. 
In  any  chastisement.     I  for  a  while 
Will  leave  you  ;  but  stir  not  you,  till  you  have 
Well  determin'd  upon  these  slanderers. 

Escal.  My  lord,  we  '11  do  it  throughly.''" — 
\_Ej:it  Duke.]  Signior  Lucio,  did  not  you  say  you 
knew  that  fiiar  Lodowick  to  be  a  dishonest 
person  ? 

Litcio.  Cucidlus  lion  facit  monachtim :  honest  in 
nothing,  but  in  his  clothes;  and  one  that  hath 
spoke  most  villainous  speeches  of  the  duke. 

Escal.  We  shall'  entreat  you  to  abide  here  till 
he  come,  and  enforce  them  against  him :  we  shall 
find  tliis  friar  a  notable  fellow 

Lucio.  As  any  in  Vienna,  on  my  word. 
Escal.  Call   that  same    Isabel  here  once  again 
to  an  Attendant] ;  I  would  speak  with  her.    Pray 
you,   my  lord,   give   me  leave  to  question ;  you 
bhall  see  how  I  '11  handle  her. 

Lucio.  Not  better  than  he,  by  her  own  report. 

Escal.  Say  you  ? 

Lucio.  ilarry,  sir,  I  think  if  you  handled  her 


privately,  she  would  sooner  confess :    perchance, 
publicly  she  '11  be  asham'd. 

Re-enter  Officers,  with  Is.iDELiA ;     the  Duke  in  tht 
TRixu'shabit,  and  Pnovosi. 

Escal.  I  -will  go  darkly  to  work  with  her. 

Lucio.  That  's  the  way ;  for  women  are  light  at 
midniglit. 

Escal.  Come  on,  mistress  [to  1s.U)Eli.a]  :  here  'fl 
a  gentlewoman  denies  all  that  you  have  said. 

Lucio.  My  lord,  here  comes  the  rascal  I  spoke 
of;  here  witli  the  provost. 

Escal.  In  very  good  time  : — speak  not  you  to 
him,  tUl  we  call  upon  you. 

Lucio.  Mum. 

Escal.  Come,  sir :  Did  you  set  these  women  on  tt 
slander  lord  Angelo  ?  They  have  oonfess'd  you  did. 

Buhe.  'Tis  false. 

Escal.  How  !  know  you  where  you  are  ? 

I)v.he.  Eespect  to  your  great  place  !  and  let  the 
devil 
Be  sometime  honour'd  for  Ms  burning  throne  ! 
"Where  is  the  duke  ?  't  is  he  should  hear  me  speak. 

Escal.  The  duke 's  in  us ;  and  we  wHl  hear  you 
speak : 
Look  you  speak  justly. 

Biike.  Boldly,   at  least.   But,   0,  poor 

souls,  \ 

Come  you  to  seek  the  lamb  here  of  the  fox 
Good  night  to  your  redress.     Is  the  duke  gone  ? 
Then  is  your  cause  gone  too.      The  duke  's  unjusS 
Thus  to  retort  j'our  manifest  appeal, '"" 
And  put  your  trial  in  the  villain's  mouth. 
Which  here  you  come  to  accuse. 

Lucio.  This  is  the  rascal ;  this  is  he  I  spoke  of. 

Escal.  Wliy,  thou  unreverend  and  unhallowed 
friar ! 
Is  't  not  enough  thou  hast  subom'd  these  women 
To  accuse  this  worthy  man  ?  but,  in  foul  mouth. 
And  in  the  witness  of  his  proper  ear. 
To  call  him  \dllain  ?  and  then  to  glance  from  him 
To  th'  duke  himself,  to  tax  him  with  injustice  } 
Take  him  hence ;  to  th'  rack  with  him : — We  '11 

touze  you 
Joint  by  joint,  but  we  will  know  his  purpose  : 
WTiat !  unjust  ? 

Diihe.  Be  not  so  hot ;  the  duke 
Dare  no  more  stretch  this  finger  of  mine,  than  he 
Dare  rack  his  own;  his  subject  am  I  not. 
Nor  here  provincial : '°'  My  business  in  this  state 
Made  me  a  looker-on  here  in  Vienna, 
Where  I  have  seen  corrujition  boil  and  bubble, 

173 


MEASUllE  FOE  MEASUKE 


rill  it  o'errun  the  stew  :  laws  for  all  faults, 
But  faults  so  countenanc'd,  that  the  strong  statutes 
Stand  like  the  forfeits  in  a  barber's  shop, '" 
As  much  in  mock  as  mai'k. 

Meal.  Slander  to  th'  state !  Away  with  him  to 
prison. 

Any.  "Wl'.at  can  you  vouch  against  him,  signior 
Lucio  ? 
Is  this  the  man  that  you  did  tell  us  of? 

Licct'o.  'T  is  he,  my  lord.  Come  hither,  good- 
man  baldpate  :  Do  you  know  me  r 

Duie.  1  remember  you,  sir,  by  the  sound  of 
your  voice :  I  met  you  at  the  prison,  in  the 
absence  of  the  duke. 

Liicio.  0,  did  you  so  r  And  do  you  remember 
what  you  said  of  the  duke 

Duke.  Host  notedly,  sir. 

L'.'xio.  Do  you  so,  sir  ?  And  was  the  duke  a 
desh  monger,  a  fool,  and  a  coward,  as  you  then 
reported  him  to  be  ? 

Dulce.  You  must,  sir,  change  persons  with  mo, 
ere  3  on  make  that  my  report :  you,  indeed,  spoke 
so  of  him ;  and  much  more,  much  worse. 

Ltieio.  0  thou  damnable  fellow !  Did  not  I 
pluck  thee  hy  the  nose  for  thy  speeches  ? 

Duke.  I  protest  I  love  the  duke,  as  I  love  myself. 

Aug.  Hark  !  how  the  villain  would  close  now,  '^ 
after  his  treasonable  abuses. 

E'ical.  Such  a  fellow  is  not  to  be  talk'd  withal: — 
Away  with  hitn  to  prison : — "Where  is  the 
provost? — Away  with  him  to  prison;  lay  bolts 
enough  upon  him  :  let  him  speak  no  more : — 
Away  with  those  giglots""  too,  and  with  the  other 
confederate  companion. 

[j?7(«  Pkovost  lays  hands  on  the  Dcke. 

Buhe.  Stay,  sir ;  stay  awhile. 

Ang.  What !  resists  he  ?    Help  liira,  Lucio. 

Lucio.  Come,  sir;  come,  sir;  come,  sir;  foh,  sir  : 
\Miy,  you  baldpatcd,  lying  rascal !  you  must  be 
hooded,  must  you  ?  Show  your  knave's  visage,  with 
a  pox  to  you  !  show  your  shcepbiting  face,  mid  be 
hang'd  an  hour ! ""     Will  't  not  off? 

[Pulls  off  the  Feiae's  /lood,  and 
discovers  the  Dcke. 

Duke.  Thou  art  the  first  knave  that  e'er  mad'st 
a  duke. — 
First,  provost,  let  me  bail  these  gentle  three  : — 
Sueak  not  away,  sir  [to  Locio] ;  for  the  friar  and  you 
Must  have  a  word  anon — lay  hold  on  him. 

Luviv.  This  may  jjrovo  worse  than  hanging. 

Duke.  Wliat   you   have    spoke,    I    pardon ;    sit 
you  dovn  —  [To  Escalcs 

1T4 


We  'U  borrow  place  of  him — Sir,  by  your  leave  ; 

[To  Ano, 
Hast  thou  or  word,  or  wit,  or  impudence, 
That  yet  can  do  thee  offico  ?  If  thou  hast, 
Sely  upon  it  till  my  tale  be  heard, 
And  hold  no  longer  out. 

Ang.  0  my  dread  lord, 

I  should  be  guiltier  than  my  guiltiness, 
To  think  I  can  be  undiscernable, 
T\Tien  I  perceive  your  grace,  like  pow'r  divine 
Hath  look'd  upon  my  passes.'"    Then,  good  prince 
No  longer  session  hold  upon  my  shame. 
But  let  my  trial  be  mine  own  confession : 
Immediate  sentence  then,  and  sequent  death. 
Is  all  the  grace  I  beg. 

Duke.  Come  hither,  !X[ariana :  — 

Say,  wast  thou  e'er  contracted  to  this  woman 

Ang.  I  was,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Go  take  her  hence,  and  many  her  in 
stantl}'. — 
Do  you  the  office,  fi-iar;  which,  consummate, 
Eeturn  him  here  again  : — Go  with  him,  provost. 
[Exeunt  Ang.,  Maju.,  Peter,  and  Puov 

Escal.  My  lord,  I  am  more  amaz'd  at  his  dis 
honour. 
Than  at  the  strangeness  of  it. 

Duke.  Come  hitlier,  Isabel : 

Your  friar  is  now  your  prince :  As  I  was  then 
Advertising  and  holy  to  your  busincse, 
Not  changing  heart  with  habit,  I  am  stiU 
Attorncy'd  at  your  service. 

Isnh.  0  give  mo  pardoD, 

That  I,  your  vassal,  have  employ'd  and  pain'd 
Your  unknown  sovereignty. 

Duke.  You  are  paruou'd,  Isabel : 

And  now,  dear  maid,  be  you  as  free  to  us. 
Y'our  brother's  death,  I  know,  sits  at  your  heart; 
And  you  may  marvel  why  I  obscur'd  myself, 
Labouring  to  save  Ids  life ;  and  would  not  rather 
Make  rash  remonstrance  of  my  hidden  pow'r, 
Than  let  him  so  to  lost :  0  most  kind  maid, 
It  was  the  swift  celerity  of  his  death, 
Which  I  did  think  -Ki\\\  slower  foot  came  on, 
That  bnun'd  my  puqjose  :  liut  peace  be  with  hiui 
That  life  is  better  life,  past  f<aring  death. 
Than  that  which  lives  to  fear :  make  it  your  comfort 
So  happy  is  j'our  brother. 

Re-enter  Axoei.o,  Mabiana,  PiiTKii,  and  Provost. 

Isab.  I  do,  my  lord. 

Duke.  For  this  new-married  man  approachina 
here. 


nOI    V. 


MEASUliE  FOli  MEASURE. 


BCENE  I. 


Whose  salt  imagination  yet  hath  wrong'd 
Your  ^^■cll  defended  honour,  you  must  pardon 
For  Mariana's   sake :    but  as    he    adjudg'd  your 

brotlier, 
(Being  criminal,  in  double  violation 
Of  sacred  chastity,  and  of  promise-breach, 
Thereon  dependent,  for  your  brother's  life,) 
The  very  mercy  of  the  law  cries  out 
Most  audible,  even  from  his  proper  tongue, — 
An  Angelo  for  Claudio,  death  for  death  ! 
Haste  still  pays  haste,  and  leisure  answers  leisure ; 
Like  doth  quit  like,  and  Measure  still /or  Measure. 
Then,  Angelo,  thy  fault  's  thus  manifested: 
WTiich,  though  thou  wouldst  deny,  denies  thee 

vantage : 
We  do  condemn  tlice  to  the  very  block 
Where  Claudio  stoop'd  to  death,  and  with  like 

haste ; 
Away  -nith  him! 

Mari.  0,  my  most  gracious  lord, 

I  hope  you  wUl  not  mock  me  with  a  husband  ! 

Bhke.  It  is  your  husband  mock'd  you  with  a 
husband : 
Consenting  to  the  safeguard  of  your  honour, 
r  thought  your  man-iage  fit;  else  imputation, 
For  tliat  he  knew  you,  might  reproach  your  life. 
And  choke  your  good  to  come  :  for  his  possessions, 
Although  by  confiscation  they  are  ours, 
We  do  instate  and  widow  you  withal. 
To  buy  you  a  better  husband. 

Mari.  0,  my  dear  lord, 

1  crave  no  other,  nor  no  better  man. 

Dii,ke.  Never  crave  him  ;  we  are  definitive. 

Mari.  Gentle  my  Uege, —  \_Kneeling. 

Duke.  You  do  but  lose  your  labour  ; 

Away  with  him  to  death. — Now,  sir,   [to  Lucio] 
to  you. 

Mari.  0,  my  good  lord ! — Sweet  Isabel,  take 
my  part ; 
Lend  mo  ycur  knees,  and  aU  my  life  to  come 
I  'II  lend  yon  all  my  life  to  do  you  service. 

Duke.  Against  all  sense  you  do  importune  her : 
Should  she  laieel  down,  in  mercy  of  this  fact, 
Her  brother's  ghost  his  paved  bed  would  break. 
And  take  her  hence  in  horror. 

Mari.  Isabel, 

Sweet  Isabel !  do  yet  but  kneel  by  me ; 
Hold  up  your  hands,  say  nothing,  I  '11  speak  all. 
They  say  best  men  are  moulded  out  of  faults ; 
And,  for  the  most,  become  much  more  the  better 
For  being  u  little  bad  :   so  may  my  husband. 
0,  Isabel !  will  you  not  lend  a  knee  ? 


Duke.  He  dies  for  Claudio's  death. 

Isah.  Most  bounteous  sir,       [  Knculing 

Look,  if  it  please  j-ou,  on  this  man  condenm'd, 
As  if  ray  brother  liv'd  :  I  partly  think 
A  due  sincerity  governed  his  deeds. 
Till  he  did  look  on  me ;  since  it  is  so. 
Let  liim  not  die.    My  brotlicr  had  but  jiistiw) 
In  tliat  he  did  the  thing  for  wliich  he  died : 
For  Angelo, 

His  act  did  not  o'crtake  his  bad  intent. 
And  must  be  buried  but  as  an  intent 
That    perish'd    by  the   way:    thoughts    are    no 

subjects, — 
Intents  but  merely  thoughts. 

Mari.  Merely,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Your  suit's  unprofitable;  stand  up,  Isay.- 
I  have  bethought  me  of  another  fault : — 
Provost,  how  came  it  Claudio  was  beheaded 
At  an  unusual  hour  ? 

Drov.  It  was  commanded  so. 

Duke-  Had  you  a  special  warrant  for  the  deed  ? 

Prov.  No,  my  good   lord;  it  was    by  private 
message. 

Duke.  For  which  I  do  discharge  you    of  your 
office  : 
Give  up  your  kej's. 

Drov.  Pardon  me,  noble  lord : 

I  thought  it  was  a  fault,  but  knew  it  not; 
Yet  did  repent  me,  after  more  ad\-ice : 
For  testimony  whereof,  one  in  the  prison, 
That  should  by  private  order  else  have  died, 
I  have  reserv'd  alive. 

Duke.  "What 's  he  ? 

Frov.  His  name  is  Bamardmo. 

Duke.  I  would  thou  hadst  done  so  by  Claudio.— 
Go,  fetch  him  hither ;  let  me  look  upon  him. 

\JExit  PnovosT 

Escal.  I  am  soiry,  one  so  learned  and  so  wise 
As  you,  lord  Angelo,  have  stiU  appeared, 
Sliould  slip  so  grossly,  both  in  the  heat  of  blood, 
And  lack  of  temper'd  judgment  afterward. 

Anrj.  I  am  sorry  that  such  sorrow  I  procure: 
And  so  deep  sticks  it  in  my  penitent  heart, 
That  I  crave  death  more  willingly  than  mercy ; 
'T  is  my  deserving,  and  I  do  entreat  it. 

.fie-m<«r  Peovost,  BAENAEDHfE,  ClaubiOj  and  J  ctllet 

Duke.  Which  is  that  Bamardine  ? 

Prm.  This,  my  lord. 

Duke.  There  was  a  friar  told  me  of  this  man  :- 
Sirrah,  thou  art  said  to  have  a  stubborn  soul, 
That  apprehends  no  further  than  this  world, 

175 


MEASUllE  FOE  MEASUEE. 


Ajid    squar's;    thy    life    aooording.      Thou    'rt 

coniemn'd 
But,  for  those  earthly  foults,  I  quit  them  all ; 
Ajid  pray  thee,  take  this  mercy  to  provide 
lor  better  times  to  come: — Friar,  advise  him; 
I  leave  him  to  your  hand. — What  muffled  feUow  's 
that? 
Prov.  This  is  another  prisoner  that  I  sav'd, 
That  should  have  di'd  when  Claudio  lost  liis  head, 
A3  like  almost  to  Claudio  as  himself. 

[  Unmuffles  Claudio. 
3ulce.  If  he  be  like  your  brother,  [to  Tsabkt.t.a.] 
for  his  sake 
Is  he  pardon'd  :  and,  for  your  lovely  sake, 
(iive  me  your  hand,  and  say  j'ou  -naU.  be  mine  ; 
He  is  my  brother  too :  But  fitter  time  for  that. 
By  this,  lord  Angelo  perceives  he  's  safe ; 
Jlethinks,  I  see  a  quick'ning  in  his  eye  : — 
Well,  Anp-elc.  your  evil  qmts  you  well : 
Look  that  you  love  your  wife  ;  her  worth,  worth 

yours. — 
I  find  an  apt  remission  in  myself, 
.^nd  yet  here  's  one  in  place  I  cannot  pardon : — 
You.  sirrah  [to  Lucio],  that  knew  me  for  a  fool,  a 

coward, 
One  all  of  luxuiy,  an  ass,  a  madman ; 
Wherein  have  I  so  deserv'd  of  vou. 
That  you  extol  me  thus  ? 

Lucio.  'Faith,  my  lord,  I  spoke  it  but  according 
to  the  trick :  If  you  wiU  hang  me  for  it,  you  may, 
but  I  had  rather  it  would  please  you  I  might  be 
whipp'd. 

Diilcs.  Wliipp'd  first,  sir,  and  hang'd  after. 
Procleim  it.  provost,  round  about  the  city; 
116 


If  any  woman's  vrrong'd  i'v  thia  lewd  fellow, 
(As  I  have  heard  him  swear  himself  tliere  's  one 
WTiom  he  begot  with  child),  let  her  appear. 
And  he  shall  marry  her :  the  nuptial  finish'd, 
Let  him  be  whipp'd  and  hang'd. 

Lucio.  I  beseech  your  highness,  do  not  marrj 
me  to  a  whore !  Yoiir  highness  said  even  now,  I 
made  you  a  duke ;  good  my  lord,  do  not  recompense 
me  in  making  me  a  cuckold. 

Buke.  Upon  mine  honour,  thou  shalt  marry  her. 
Thy  slanders  I  forgive ;  and  therewithal 
Eemit  thy  other  forfeits : '" — Take  him  to  prisoD : 
And  see  our  pleasure  hereia  executed. 

Lucio.  Marrying  a  punk,  my  lord,  is  pressing  tc 
death,  whipping,  and  hanging. 

Buke.  Slandering  a  prince  deserves  it. — 
She,  Claudio,  that  you  wrong'd,  look  you  restora 
Joy  to  you,  Mmiana ! — love  her,  Angelo ; 
I  have  confess'd  her,  and  I  know  her  virtue. 
Thanks,  good  friend  Escalus,  for  thy  much  goijd 

ness: 
There  's  more  behind  that  is  more  gratulate. 
Thanks,  provost,  for  thy  care  and  secrecy ; 
We  shall  employ  thee  in  a  worthier  place : — 
Forgive  him,  Angelo,  that  brought  you  home 
The  head  of  Eagozine  for  C'laudio's ; 
Th'  offence  pardons  itself. — Dear  Isabel, 
I  have  a  motion  much  imports  your  good  ; 
Wliereto  if  you  '11  a  wHLing  car  incline. 
What   'b  mine   is    yours  and  what  is  youis  '.s 

mine: 
So,  bring  us  to  our  palace,  where  we  'U  show 
What 's  yet  behind,  that 's  meet  you  all  should 
know.  [Eie^ml 


\ 


NOTES  TO  MEASURE  FOK  MEASURE. 


I  Si/tce  lam  put  to  know. 

Til  at  is,  since  I  am  informed.  It  ia  exactly  equivalent  to 
Iho  similar  phrase,  I  am  given  to  understand.  "To  put 
gently  into  one's  mind,  institlare  attqnid  alicid,^'  Baret,  15S0. 
Li^!-!  limits. 

'  /V<  that  to  your  sufficiency. 

Thrt  original  reads  "  But  that  to  your  sufficiency." 

The  Hue.  however,  is  there  evidently  cormiited,  and  the 

passage  is  confessed  to  be  oue  of  the  most  obscure  in 

Shakespeare's  -works.    The  best  conjectural  emendation 

yet  (ift'ereJ  seems  to  be  that  of  Rowe,  -which  is  here 

idopted.     An  old  manuscript  correction  on  a  copy  of 

■  L'   play  belouging  to  Mr.  Tunno,  gives,  "  But  task  to 

iur  suffioiencf  ''  « 

'  TTie  terns. 

Terms  of  the  law  are  explained  by  Jacob  to  be,  "  aiiifi- 
cial  or  technical  words,  and  terms  of  art  particidarly  used 
ir.  and  adapted  to  the  profession  of  the  law."  Preijnant, 
ready,  -veil  informed. 

*  WitJi  special  sou!, 

Tliat  u,  Tnth  special  mind,  or  thought.  Ho  wa3  the 
ohcico  of  his  heart. 

^  Tliy  bdonghtgs  are  not  thine  own  so  proper. 

Thv  belongings  or  natiu-al  endo^vments  are  not  thine  own 
property. 

^  But  to  fine  issues. 
That  ia,  for  gioat  entls  or  p\u-pose3. 

^  Both  thanks  and  vsc. 

The  passage  ending  with  these  words  is  one  of  the  finest 
ui  the  play,  expressing  man's  responsibility  in  rmcquallcd 
.jnguage.  Use  is,  interest  of  money.  "  Use  or  commoditie 
•f  a  thuig  in  the  moane  time,  or  usurie  that  riseth  in  the 
mcane  tijie,"  Barefs  Alvearie,  1580.  The  double  nega- 
d-ve  ia  common  in  Shirkeapeare. 

*•  That  can  my  part  in  mm  advertise. 

Tinv.  !'-•.  tt.3t  is  onivcrsant  -with  my  dut}',  which  I  now 
icpnte  to  kirn. 


'  JIolil,  therefore,  Angela. 

Hold  is  here,  as  elsewhere,  equivalent  to,  tahc  it,  Vih. 
this,  &c.  The  duke  is  offering  the  commission  to  An^elo. 
FalstafF  says,  "  Hold,  sirrah, "  when  he  gives  the  letlere 
to  Eoliin.  This  trite  word  is  altogether  misunderstood  by 
Jlr.  Knight- 

'"  Mortality  and  mercy. 

That  is,  the  power  of  sentencing  to  death  and  the  powoi 
of  exercising  mercy. 

'^  First  in  question. 
That  is,  says  Dr.  Johnson,  first  called  for ;  first  appointed. 

*-  With  a  leaven  a  and  prepared  choice, 

"Leavened  bread,  panis  fcrmentatus,"  Baret's  Alvcoxie, 
1.580.  Here,  fermented,  a  choice  that  has  been  left  to  fer- 
ment, not  hastily  formed.  Bring  you  something  on  the  vxiy, 
accompanying  you  part  of  the  way;  a  phraso  we  ha-ve 
aU'cady  had  in  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  i.  1 . 

•■^  To  stage  me  to  their  eyes. 

To  show  myself,  as  if  1  were  on  a  stage  or  ocafTold. 
Though  it  do  well,  even  though  it  may  bo  politically  useful. 

"  In  the  tluinhsgiving  before  meat. 

Is  this  an  en-or  for  after  meat?  The  following  ia  one  old 
grace  before  meat,  but  perhaps  not  the  one  here  alluded 
to  : — "  Good  Lord,  blesse  us,  blcsse  all  thy  creatures,  send 
down  thy  Holy  Spirit  into  our  hearts,  so  to  direct  us,  that 
we  may  looke  for  the  spirituall  food  of  our  soulos,  and 
fijially  everlasting  peace,  tlu-oug'a  thy  sonne,  Jesua  Christ 
Amen." 

'^  Grace  is  grace. 

The  discussion  is  whether  the  second  gentleman  has  ever 
heard  grace.  He  replies,  a  dozen  times  at  least.  The  first 
then  asks,  if  he  heard  it  in  metre.  Lucio  gives  !iim  a 
^xdder  scope,  and  says,  in  any  proportion  (measure),  or  in 
any  language ;  and  the  first  gentleman,  still  more  liberal, 
adds,  "in  any  reUgion. "  Lucio  approves  of  this,  and  says, 
Grace  is  grace  in  all  religions,  notwithstanding  reli^ioiw 
controversy.  There  went  but  a  pair  of  sheers  i>etwecn  ii.% 
tliere  was  UttlG  difference  between  us.  This  pl-jnae  is  ven' 
common. 

177 


2C0TES  TO  MEASUEE  FOE  MEASUEE 


18  Tliou  art  a  Oiree-piT d  piece. 

Three-piled  velvet  was  the  finest  kind  of  velvet.      The 
quil'ble  here  is  oa  the  word  pilled,  bald.     The  passage  will 
ot  bear  furtlier  explanation ;  and  the  allusions  afterwards 
efer  to  the  disease  here  hinlcd  at. 

-'  To  Uiree  thousand  dollars  a-year. 

There  is  a  quibble  here  upon  dollars  and  dolours,  simuar 
to  one  in  the  Tempest,  ii.  1.  The  first  folio  reads  dollours. 
The  juking  about  the  Freach  crown  and  hoUow-bones  is 
OOt  fit  tc  he  explained. 

'*  W/.at  with  the  sweat. 

Alluding,  periiaps,  to  the  sweating  sickness,  a  species 
of  plague ;  or,  possibly,  to  the  disease  before  mentioned. 
The  old  sense  of  peculiar  is  private.  Malone's  explanation 
is  certainly  erroneous.  Houses,  used  in  a  peculiar  sense, 
applied  to  those  of  b.id  character,  the  same  with  "houses  of 
resort."  Thomas  Tapster  is  merely  a  generic  name,  applied 
to  a  tapster;  as  we  now  term  a  footman,  'John  Plush.' 
All  houses  in  the  suburbs,  alluding  only  to  the  bad  houses. 

"  Pat/  down  for  our  offence  by  weight. 

That  is,  pay  the  full  penalty,  a  met.iphor  taken  from 
bartering  by  weight,  wliieh  is  or  ought  to  be  exact.  In  the 
next  line,  I  have  ventured  to  change  the  plural  words  to 
the  singular,  thus  clearing  up  a  most  obscure  passage. 
Compare  Romans,  ix.  l.i,  18. 

2'  Like  rets  that  ravin  down  their  proper  bane. 

Eavin,  i.e.  devour.  "  A  r.avener,  a  reveller,  a  glutton, 
or  devourer,"  Baret.    We  still  use  ravenous. 

2'  Only  for  propayation  of  a  aow'r. 

That  is,  the  obtaining  of  a  dower;  a  peculiar  sense,  if 
the  reading  be  correct.    Sir  W.  Davenant  alters  the  line  to, — 
Only  for  the  assui-ance  of  a  dowTy. 

"-  The  fault  and  glimpse  of  newness. 

The  fault  and  glimpse,  as  Malone  has  correctly  observed. 
Is  equivalent  to  the  faulty  glimpse.  We  have  several 
uistanccB  of  this  mode  of  construction  in  Shakespeare. 

23  Ticklf,  i.e.  ticklish.  Approbation,  probation  or 
no\iciato. 

■^  Tlterc  is  a  prone  and  speechless  dialect 

Prime,  quick,  "-eady.  "  Prone,  prone,  readie,  nimble, 
quicke,  wheeme,  easily  moving, "  Cotgrave.  "  For  use  of 
war  BO  prone  and  fit,"  Gorges'  Lucan,  \i.  "Prone  or  apt," 
Uowcll's  Lex.  Tet.  1G30.  "  A  prone  and  speechless  dia- 
lect," is  equivalent  to,  a  ready  dunib-moving  stylo  or 
manner.  Mr.  Knight  tliinks /jroHc  means  humble;  but  this 
interpretation  ia  inconsistent  with  tbe  future  conduct  of 
loabellii. 

"  Lost  at  a  game  cf  tick-tack. 

Tick-tack  was  a  complicated  sort  of  backgammon,  played 
both  with  men  and  pegs.    Tbe  term  is  here  used  in  anotlier 
lenec,  which  need  not  bo  explained. 
178 


"^  Tlie  dribbling  dart  of  love. 
Dribbling,  small;  weak.    Complete  bosom,  a  br-aom  com- 
pletely armed,  impervious  to  shafts.     Remov'd,  retired, 

"  And  witless  bravery  keep. 
Bravery,  fine  dress.  Former  editors  real  keeps,  bit  the 
use  of  the  plural  substantive  with  the  singtdar  verb  is  so 
common  in  the  early  editions  of  Shakespeare,  it  could  not 
be  retained  without  offending  the  taste  of  modem  readers. 
Keep,  i.e.  reside.  We  again  have,  "  this  habitation  wheru 
thou  hcep'st."  It  is  still  in  provincial  use,  and  in  America. 
Where  do  you  keep  now  ?  i.e.  where  is  your  place  ol 
business?    Bartlett's  Dictionary  of  Americanisms,  p.  193. 

-'  A  man  of  strictwe,  and  firm  abstinence. 
Stricture,  i.e.  strictness. 

"'  We  have  let  sleep. 
The  folio  reads  slip,  and  Davenant  made  the  corrocuon, 
whicli  is  confirmed  by  another  lijie  where  Angelo  says, — 
The  law  hath  not  been  dead,  tho'  it  hath  slept. 

3'*  To  do  in  slander. 
That  is,  to  work  in  slander,  or  to  work  surrounded  by 
slander.     Malone  justly  observes  the  old  reading  fwht  it 
confirmed  by  the  words  ambush  and  strike. 

3'  Stands  at  a  guard  with  emy. 
That  is,  stands  on  his  defence  against  the  assaults  of  ezwy 

2-  Make  me  not  your  story. 

That  is,  make  not  yoiir  stoi-y.  Few  constructions  ori 
more  common  than  placing  the  objective  pronoun  after  the 
verb  redundantly.  So  Esealus  says,  "Como  me  to  what 
was  done  to  her."  Mr.  Collier's  explanation  is  altogethei 
erroneous. 

33  With  maids  to  seem  the  la f  wing. 

Alluding  to  the  practice  of  this  bird,  "  who  crielh  most 
where  her  nest  is  not,"  Lingua,  1G07.  This  is  what  13 
meant  by  "tongue  far  from  heart."  Compare  Lilly's 
'Alexander  and  Campaspe, '  15S4, — "Not  with  Timocleo 
you  mean,  wherein  you  resemble  the  lapmnp,  who  crie'Ji 
most  where  her  nest  is  not,  and  so  to  lead  me  from  espying 
your  love  for  Campaspe,  you  cry  Timoclea." 

31  Fewness  and  truth. 

That  is,  in  .i  few  true  words.  Lover  was  formerly  ap- 
plied to  either  sex. 

3'  As  blossoming  time. 
As  blossoming  time,  tliat  from  the  bare  fallow  bringe  the 
seed  to  teeming  plenty,  so  &c.   "The  fallowe  field,  or  tliiit 
is  tilled  redy  to  be  sowen,"  Baret'a  Alvearic,  158'.      'J'iltl 
is  titlaije. 

"  Sore  many  gentlemen  in  hand. 

Sore  in  hand,  persuaded.  The  phrase  is  very  oommou  in 
early  writers.     Full  lair,  fidl  extent. 

"  Hoi  ccnuur'd  him. 

That  is,  lie  has  passed  sentence  on  hini.  Tbe  Buppreoaion 
of  tho  personal  pronoun  io  common. 


NOTES  TO  MEASURE  EOli  MEASUllE. 


^  Tit  yire  the  mother. 
That  id,  ihe  abbess  of  the  nunnery. 

3'  Pruvust,  Officers,  Sfc. 
Tilt  provost  in  this  play  appears  to  bo  the  governor  of  the 
rison.     The  keeper  ■<(  the  Savoy  was  ealied  the  Provost. 

*"  To  fear  the  birds  of  prey. 
"Cnfear,  i.e.  to  make  afraid.     A  few  lines  lower,  to  fall, 
*hfi  active  sense,  to  make  to  fall,  to  full.     So,  iu  '  Jane 

ShnrO;  — 

,  Our  iiew-faiijlfd  gcnti-y 

Havc/iZ/'M  their  haughty  crests. 

^'  Tlte  resolute  iicting  of  yonr  blood. 
Mr.  Knight  reads  our  bloorl,  a  slavish  adhcren .«  to  the 
Did  copies.     Censure  him,  i.e.  judge  him  for. 


«  What  kn 


'  the  lau 


The  whole  passage  may  thus  be  paraphrased.  Justice 
seizes  that  which  is  made  open  or  accessible  to  justice. 
How  do  the  laws  know  that  thieves  pass  judgment  on 
thieves  i'  Preanant,  plain.  For  I  have  had,  because  I 
have  had. 

^  Some  rise  by  sin  and  some  by  virtue  fall. 
There  is  a  peculiarity  in  this  line  in   the  fii'st  foHo,  it 
being  printed  entirely  in  Italics,  as  if  it  were  a  quotation, 
E.r.d  I  have  so  marked  it.     The  line  may,  perhaps,  be  found 
in  some  contemporary  poem. 

■"  Some  run  thro'  brakes  of  vice. 
The  original  reads  "from  brakes  of  ice,"  which  is  inex- 
plicable. Braises  are  thickets,  and  the  meaning  of  the 
speech  is, — Some  rise  by  sin,  and  some  fall  by  wtue : 
some  go  through  thickets  of  ™e,  and  are  not  called  to 
account  for  it ;  and  some  are  condemned  for  a  fault  alone, 
i.e.  a  single  fault.  The  explanations  given  by  Knight  and 
Collier  do  not  maintain  the  antithes-is. 

'Tis  but  the  fate  of  place,  and  the  rough  brake 
That  \-utue  must  go  tlirouijh. 

Henry  VIII.,  act  i.  sc.  2. 
I  am,  however,  doubtful  whether  we  should  not  read, 
''from  brakes  of  \'ice,"  taking  brakes  in  the  sense  of 
instruments  of  torture  so  called.  The  sense  wi'Q.  then  be  ; 
"Some  run  from  instrimients  of  torture,  and  answer  no 
questions." 

*'  Parcel  bawd. 
Partly  a  tapster,  partly  a  bawd. 

*''  She  profe.<ises  a  hot-ho'u^e. 

A  hot-house  was  a  bagnio,  a  house  where  people  had 
vipour-baths  and  their  skin  rubbed.  Bad  houses  were  kept 
tmdei  the  specious  name  of  hot-houses.  See  a  notice  of 
thea  in  Ben  Jonson'o  '  Every  Man  out  of  his  Ilumour. ' 

*^  At  that  very  distant  time. 

The  second  foho  reads  instant  time,  which  destroys  the 
liumour  of  the  clown's  blunder. 

^^  China  dishes. 

China  ihahcs  are  frequently  mentioned  in  inventories  of 
the  latter  part  of  the  sixteenth  century,      Minsheu,  in  his 


'Dialogues  in  Spanish',  1599,  explams  China  vuittaU  to  bi: 
"the  fine  dishes  of  earth  painted,  such  as  are  broughi  fioai 
Venice."  He  adds,  "that  which  is  broken  thereof  costj 
more  iu  a  yeere  then  the  fashion  of  the  pbtc."  The  ti-rui 
may  possibly  be  deiived  from  tlie  Italian  china,  tramslaterf 
by  Florio,  "  Venus  bason." 

*'  In  the  Bunch  of  Grapes. 

It  was  usual  in  Shakespeare's  time  to  distingiush  roomi 
by  separate  names.  Thus  Uenry  Harte  of  Andover,  whoso 
will,  proved  in  1 JSG,  is  in  the  Prerogative  Office,  gives  "  to 
William  Harte  one  bedd  with  all  the  furniture  in  tlie 
chamber  called  the  Hallffe  Moone."  An  open  room  merely 
means  a  light,  airy  room,  "good  for  winter."  So  Baret 
loSO,  "a  lightsome  and  open  place,  illu^^ris  et  explicatu.^ 
locus." 

^  Justice  or  iniijuity. 

That  is.  the  prosecutor  or  the  criminal.  There  ia  no 
need  of  referring  to  tlie  old  moralities  for  the  characters  ol 
Justice  and  Iniquity,  .as  the  commentators  do.  Hannibal, 
the  constable's  error  for  cannibal  or  animal }  BatCry,  a 
law  term  for  what  is  now  termed  an  assaiJt.  Klbow,  oi 
course,  should  have  said  slander. 

5'  The  greatest  thinij  about  you. 

.Uludlng  to  the  "  monstrous  hose"  or  breeches,  formed} 
worn. 

^-  After  three-pence  a  bay. 

A  bay  was  a  principal  division  in  the  aicMtccturaJ 
an-angement  of  a  building.  It  seems  out  of  ita  place  Ucvo, 
and  I  half  suspect  the  poet  wrote  day. 

^■^  Let  that  he  mine. 
That  is.  let  that  be  my  affair. 

^*  To  fine  the  faults. 

That  is,  says  Malone,  to  pronounce  the  fine  or  sentence 
of  the  law. 

^^  Touch'd  with  that  remorse. 

liemorse,  i.e.  pity. 

^''  Like  mint  new  made. 

That  is,  like  a  new  made  man.  Mercy  will  breathe 
vrithin  your  lips,  Like  as  you  were  a  newly  formed  man,  so 
different  will  your  nature  and  feelings  be  afterwards. 

^"  The  fowl  of  season. 

The  fowl  that  is  in  season. 

^^  But,  where  they  live,  to  end. 

Tlie  old  copies  corruptly  read,  here  they  live.  Maljor 
made  the  correction. 

"  Every  pelting  petty  officer 

Pelting  is  equivalent  to  paltry.  "Have  every  j citing 
river  made  so  proud,"  Midsummer  JSight's  Dream,  iu  2. 


Giarled,  i.e.  knotty. 


179 


NOTES  TO  MEASU.^E  FOE  ILEASUllE. 


"  Most  ignorant  of  lohat  he 's  most  assjtr'd. 

Tiis  refers  to  his  "glassy  essence,"  his  brittle  and  unccr- 
Inin  being.  Were  not  man  constantly  forgetful  of  this 
truth,  pride  would  not  be  found  when  he  is  "  dress'd  in 
i  little  brief  authority." 

*-  TV7(A  our  spleens. 

With  our  humours,  not  necessarily  in  a  bad  sense. 
mortal,  the  adjective  used  adverbially.  The  angels,  -with 
uur  (Uspositions,  would  all  of  tlicm  laugh  lilie  mortals.  Sir 
W.  Davenant  wiites,  "  if  they  were  mortal,  and  had  spleens 
ike  us."  We  cannot  weigh  our  brvihet  with  yourself,  a 
leading  which  is  confirmed  by  a  similar  line  in  act  v.  8C.  1. 

^  My  sense  breeds  with  it. 

The  word  sense,  in  the  second  place,  seems  to  be  used  for 
'eeling.  Shakespeare  is  marvellously  fond  of  these  jingling 
cpctitions. 

^^  Fond  shekels  of  the  tested  gold. 

Fond,  foolish.  The  folio  reads  sichles,  an  eld  form  of 
ihekcls.  "Tested  gold,"  pure  refined  gold.  Preserved 
souls,  the  nuns  whoso  souls  ai'e  preserved  from  the  impure 
contact  ^^'ith  the  world. 

'^  Where  prayers  cross. 

Tyrwliitt  explains  this  by  quoting  a  passage  from  the 
Merchant  of  Venice : — "  Let  me  say  Amen  betimes,  lest  the 
devil  iroas  tliy  prayer." 

^^  And  pitch  our  evils  there. 

The  meaning  erf  Angelo  scarcely  requires  explanation, 
but  as  Mr.  Knight  says  the  word  eviU  has  here  a  "  peculiar 
aignification,"  alluding,  I  suppose,  to  Dr.  Grey's  foolish 
conjecture  that  it  stands  for  forica:,  it  may  be  as  well  to 
relieve  our  poet  from  the  charge.  He  merely  saj's.  Having 
Bpare  ground  enough  (alluding  to  light  women),  why 
desire  to  invade  the  sanctuaiy  of  purity  with  our  evil 
actions.  Here  we  have  a  sense  congenial  with  the  whole 
Bpeech.  The  explanation  adopted  by  Mr.  Knight  is  impro- 
bable and  disgusting. 

''"  O  cunning  enemy. 

.Enemy  is  an  old  appellation  of  the  dei'il.  "  The  common 
L'uemy  of  man,"  Macbeth,  iii.  1. 

^^  In  the  flames  of  her  own  youth. 

The  old  copy  reads  flawes.  The  correction  Is  made  on 
the  authority  of  Sir  W.  Davent^nt. 

''^  Whilst  my  invention. 

That  is,  imaginafi'on.     "To  invent,  to  imagine, "  Caret, 
680. 

'**  Grown  seard  and  tedious. 

Mciit  cfjpics  of  the  folio  read  fear'd,  but  altliough  the 
Etatti  may  be  feared  wlien  studied  with  reluctance,  the  term 
scarcely  applies  to  "  a  good  thing,  being  often  lead." 
Siar'd  is,  old  and  withered.  The  Earl  of  Ellcsmero'a  copy 
of  the  first  folio  confirms  this  reading. 
180 


^'  'Tis  not  the  devil's  cresL 
"Good  angel"  can  never  be  the  real  motto  of  the  devi- 
though  we  may  choose  to  ^vrite  it  on  his  honi.     My  name  is 
Angelo,  but  that  does  not  mal^e  me  more  like  r.  gooo  angiO. 

'-  Witlt  one  that  swonnds. 
Swounds,  i.e.  swoons ;  the  old  word,  which  should  not  bi 
altered.  Mr.  Knight  prints  swoons  here,  and  yet  retains 
swounded  in  Titus  Andronicus,  v.  1.  It  is  exti-emely  diffi- 
cult for  an  editor  to  be  consistent  in  all  these  minutiae, 
modem  critics  having  corrected  the  test  so  capriciously. 
The  general,  i.e.  the  popiJace. 

'^  As  to  put  mettle  in  restrained  means. 
The  Clime  of  murder  is  not  more  difficult  than  that  foi 
which  Claudio  is  condemned.   Isabella  replies  that  although 
this  construction  may  be  warranted  by  the  di\ine  law,  tho 
first  is  always  considered  more  heinous  on  earth. 

~*  Stand  more  for  number  than  for  accompt. 
Tho  sins  that  are  forced  upon  us,  although  they  incrcast; 
the  catalogue,  are  not  accounted  as  great  ciimes 

"5  And  nothing  of  your  answer. 
That  is,  and  nothing  for  you  to  answer  or  be  accountable 
for. 

"•^  Or  seem  so,  crafty. 

Generally    altered    to    craftily,    but   without    neces-sitr 
Shalcespeare  frequently  uses  the  adjective  adverbially.    M 
have  voluntary  for  voluntarily  in  Troilus  and  Cressida. 

''  Proclaim  an  enshield  beauty. 
A  beauty  covered  as  with  a  shield.      Tyr-whitt  supposes 
tliese  black  mashs  to  allude  to  the  masks  worn  by  some  of 
the  audience. 

■*  Accountant  to  the  law  upon  that  pain. 
Pain,  i.e.  punishment  or  penalty.    Subscribe,  agree  to. 
Question,  conversation.      Jn  the  loss  of  question  is,  perhaps, 
equivalent  to.  For  the  sake  of  argument.    To  this  supposed, 
to  this  supposititious  person. 

"  Thai  long  I  have  been  sichfor. 
The  old  copies  read,  "that  longing  have  been  sick  for." 
Davenant  omits  the  passage.     Trencher  is  misprinted  trm- 
chering  in  the  Tempest,  ii.  2. 

^  Ignomy  in  ransom. 

Ignomy,  .in  old  form  of  ignominy.     So,  in  the  Woakesi 

goes  to  tho  Wall,  1618,— 

Oh,  wher-efor'e  stainc  you  vertue  and  renowne 
AVith  such  foulo  tcamics  of  ignony  and  shame. 

*'  If  not  afcodary. 
Feodary  is  an  old  law  term,  metaphorically  used  by 
Shakespeare  in  the  sense  of  a  participator  or  confederate 
Tho  sense  of  tire  speech,  which  is  siunewhat  elliptical,  ia 
this.  Angelo  says,  "We  are  all  frail."  Isabella  answci-s, 
"  Let  my  brother  die  else ;  if  ho  have  no  associate,  but  he 
only  (of  nil  men)  owe  (own  or  possess)  and  succeed  (follow) 
tliy  weakness."  In  Lord  KUosmcro'a  copy  of  the  fire! 
folio,  a  MS.  note  reads  i/iw  weakness;  a  very  poor  conjeotum 


NOTES  TU  JIEASUKE  I'Olt  MEAStTlCE. 


"-  In  jirnfiting  htj  them. 
Men  mar  tlio  ortiinatiou  of  woim^ii  in  taldng  advantage 
dI  tlieiu.      Credulous  to  false  prints,   accessible   to   false 
Lmpressioas. 

*'  To  pluck  on  otlters. 
Your  virtue  hatU  a  license  in  it,  and  seems  more  licen- 
tious than  it  is,  to  try  others. 

^'  My  vouch  against  you. 
That  is,  my  assertion  against  yours.      Sensual  race,  i.e. 
disposition.      Prolixious,  delaying,  reluctant.     Prompiure, 
temptation.     A  mind  of  honour,  an  honourable  mind. 

*'  Be  absolute  for  death. 
That  is,  bo  determined  for  death. 

*«  Tfiou  art  Death's  fool. 
Douce  saw  a  play  at  a  fair  more  than  half  a  century  ago, 
in  which  skeleton  Death  was  introduced,  attended  by  a 
olo^^'n  or  fool.  The  person  who  represented  Death  was 
nabited  in  a  close  black  vest,  painted  over  with  bones  in 
imitation  of  a  skeleton.  Douce  possessed  an  early  wood- 
cut, belonging  to  the  series  of  the  Dance  of  Death,  in 
which  the  Fool  is  engaged  in  combat  -n-ith  his  adversary, 
and  is  actually  buflfcting  him  with  a  bladder  filled  with 
peas  or  small  pebbles.  Steeveus  also  informs  us  tliat  about 
a  centuiy  ago,  a  friend  of  his  at  Salisbiu^',  during  the  time 
of  some  public  meeting,  happened  to  call  on  a  surgeon  at 
the  very  instant  that  the  representative  of  Death  was 
brought  in  to  bo  let  blood  on  account  of  a  fall  he  had 
had  on  the  stage,  while  in  pursuit  of  his  antagonist,  a 
Merry  Andi'ew,  who  very  anxiously  attended  him  (dressed 
also  in  character)  to  the  phlebotomist's  house.  A  few  days 
ifterwards,  the  gentleman's  curiosity  on  the  subject  being 
aroused,  he  attended  the  performance,  and  described  it  to 
consist  entirely  of  Death's  contrivances  to  surprise  tlie 
Merry  Andi-esv,  and  of  the  efforts  of  the  latter  to  elude  the 
stratagems  of  Death,  by  whom  he  was  at  last  overpowered. 

»'  All  ill  accommodations  that  thou  bear'st. 
All  the  conveniences  of   ei^Hlized  life  are  supplied  by 
mean  labour. 

^^  TJii/  complexion  shifts  to  stiange  effects. 
Thy  disposition  shifts  to  strange  acts.     The  moon  was 
considered  to  have  great  influence  on  the  changeable  nature 
cf  man. 

*"  Eld,  i.e.  old  age.  • 

30  More  fkoasand  deaths. 

The  original  reads,  mo,  the  old  English  word  for  more; 
end  it  should,  I  think,  both  here  and  in  other  places  be 
retained :  except  that  it  would  sound  generally  so  harsh  to 
those  who  are  familiarized  with  the  modem  form. 

"  An  everlasting  lieger. 
Liegcr,  a  resident  or  ambassador  at  a  foreign  court ;  here 
nearly  equivalent  to  a  resident  ambassador. 

"  To  a  determined  scope. 
A  restraint  which  would  confine  you  to  one  particular 
cofleclion,  though  you  had  all  the  world. 


™  77ic  poor  beetle  tlutt  we  tread  upon. 

The  sense  of  the  passage  is  thi.s.  Tlie  pain  of  death  til 
man  is  chiefly  contained  in  the  apprehension  of  it :  the 
mere  eoq)oreal  suffering  from  a  violent  death,  even  if  tha 
sufferer  be  a  giant,  gives  no  more  pain  tlian  a  beetle  feels 
when  wo  crash  the  insect  by  treading  upon  it.  The  con- 
straction  of  the  last  line,  'As  when  a  giant  dies,'  is  uA 
grammatically  perfect.  The  meaning  intended  to  be  con- 
veyed is,  "a%  a  giant  does  wlien  ho  dies."  Often  as  this 
speech  is  quoted,  it  is  almost  always  constnied  in  a  sense 
that  wUl  not  suit  the  context  of  the  whole.  Shakespeare  is 
expressing  the  slight  and  evanescent  pain  of  the  mere  act 
of  death,  not  the  inculcation  of  humanity  to  insects  by 
exaggerating  the  pain  of  their  death.  Naturalists  must 
excuse  our  contending  the  meaning  of  the  poet  is  precisely 
the  reverse  of  the  latter,  and  generally  received,  explanation. 

"'  From  flowery  tenderness. 

Think  you  it  is  necessary  to  fortify  my  resolution  by 
arguments  of  the  gentleness  of  my  suffeiing  ?  IHmmew,  tc 
restrain,  a  metaphor  taken  from  falconry.     Cast,  thrown  out. 

^^  The  princely  Angela. 

The  first  folio  reads  prenzie  Angela,  and  three  Unci 
lower  premie  guards.  The  obvious  coiTuption  is  alteicd  to 
princely  in  the  edition  of  163  '.  Tieck  sugj:ests  precise,  u: 
which  he  is  followed  by  Mr.  Knight ;  and  that  epithet  is 
applied  to  Angelo  in  act  i.  sc.  4.  It  cannot,  however,  be 
Shaliespeare's  word,  as  it  docs  not  suit  the  rhythm  in  the 
second  instance.  The  ear  will  not  admit  of  any  substitute 
where  the  accent  is  not  on  the  first  syllable.  Princely 
guardi,  badges  of  royalty,  laced,  bordered,  ornamented 
robes.  "A  gard  of  a  gannent  cut,  a  hemme,  a  fringe," 
Caret,  1580.  Sir  W.  Davenant  adopts  the  reading  of  the 
second  folio. 

Si"  Prom  t^is  rank  offence. 

On  account  of  this  rank  offence,  which  you  might  repeat, 
Ur,  perhaps,  this  oS'ence,  in  which  I  have  tlie  liberty  to 
offend. 

^'  Has  he  ajfections  in  hint. 

lias  he  passions  in  him. 

^^  Perdurahly,  i.e.  everlastingly.  "  Perdurable,  long  last- 
ing," Cockeram's  English  Dictionarie,  IG'JO. 

^  To  lie  in  cold  obstruction. 

"Obstruction,  a  stopping  or  shutting  up,"  Cockeram's 
English  Dictionarie,  1626. 

Cicero  represents  Scipio  as  saying  that  the  spijifs  of  sen 
sual  livers  were  driven  round  the  world,  and  not  admitted 
into  heaven  till  after  the  unceasing  motion  of  many  ages:— 
"  Kam  corum  animi,  qui  se  corporis  voluptatibus  dediderunt, 
earumque  se  quasi  ministros  prxbuerunt,  impulsuque  libi- 
diniun  voluptatibus  obedientium,  Deorum  et  hominum  jure 
■violavcrvmt,  corporibus  elapsi  circum  terrain  ipsam  voluten- 
tur,  nee  hunc  in  locum,  nisi  mullis  exagitati  sceculis,  re- 
vertuntur." 

And  Chaucer  has  something  of  the  same  kind  in  h'; 
'  Assemblie  of  Foules,'^ 

181 


SOrEH  TO  MEASURE  FOE  3IEASTIRE. 


breakers  of  the  lawe,  sothe  to  saine, 

And  lickerou3  folke,  after  that  they  been  dede, 
Shall  whirle  about  the  wjrlde,  alway  in  paiuc, 
Till  many  a  world  be  passed. 
The  numeroua  explanations  which  nave  been  given  of 
the  passage,  "and  the  deUghted  spirit,"  prove  how  very 
little  attention  has  been  paid  by  editors  to  the  gramma- 
tical construction  employed  by  the  writers  of  Shakespeare's 
time.      The  long  note    by   Mr.   Knight  shows  that  the 
word  delighted  was  entirely  misunderstood  by  that  editor. 
ft  is  merely  the  passive  participle  used  fur  the  active,  of 
which  we  have  numerous  examples  in  the  pages  of  the 
great  di-amatist.     Delitjhled  is  here  of  course  equivalent  to, 
dJightinrj,  delightful,  sweet,  pleasant.    So,  in  Othello,  L  3,— 

If  virtue  no  delighted  beauty  lack, 

Your  son-in-law  is  far  more  fair  than  black. 

1""  In  thrilling  region. 
.So  the  old  copies.     Mr.  Knight  retains  the  regions  of  the 
modem  editors,  but  the  original  appears  to  me  to  be  more 
forcible,  and  it  is,  unquestionably,   Shakespeare's  diction. 
Viewless,  unseen,  in\-isible. 

101  Wilderness,  i.e.  wildncss.     Defiance,  refusal.     Trade, 
a  custom,  practice,  or  habit. 

^"-  In  good  time. 
A  familiar  phi-ase,  equivalent  to.  So  be  it,  very  wcU.    He 
made  trial  oj  you  only,  he  will  assert  that  he  only  made 
trial  of  you.     Limit  of  the  solemnity,  the  time  appointed 
for  the  solemnity.     Combinate,  affianced,  betrothed. 
1™  Only  refer  yourself  to  this  advantage. 
That  is,  only  betake  yourself  to  this  advantage.     Scaled 
is  used  in  Holinshcd  in  the  sense  of  scattered,  diipersed ; 
it  may  mean  here,  put  to  flight. 

1°'  At  the  moated  grange. 
"A  grange  or  forme,  colonia,"  Baret,  1.5S0.  A  grange 
was  a  large  farm-house,  the  chief  one  of  a  wealthy  pro- 
prietor. The  religious  houses,  observes  Mr.  Uunter,  had 
gi-anges  on  most  of  their  estates.  The  officer  who  resided 
there,  called  the  Grangiarius,  superintended  the  farm,  and 
the  produce  was  laid  up  at  the  grange.  The  grange  in  the 
play  was  moated,  therefore  of  some  importance.  This  was 
occasionally  done  for  defence.  They  were  weU-huilt  stone- 
houses,  often  of  considerable  extent  and  height,  and  being 
frequently  at  a  distance  from  the  monastery  or  town,  were 
generally  soUtary.  In  Lincolnsliirc,  any  lone  farm-house 
is  termed  a  grange.  "  Graunye,  a  lone  house  in  the  comi- 
trey,"  Cockeram's  English  Dictionarie,  1G26. 

M-mana's  solitude  is  well  idealized  in  Mr.  Tennj'son's 
beatfiful  poem: — 

And  ever  when  the  moon  was  low, 

And  the  shrill  wirids  were  up  and  away, 
In  the  white  curtain  fo  and  fro 

She  saw  tlic  gusty  shallow  sway. 
But  when  the  moon  was  very  low. 
And  wild  winds  bound  within  their  cell, 
Tlie  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  \v'T  bii'w. 

She  only  said,  "  The  night  is  dreary, 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said; 
She  said,  "  I  am  a-wi,MiT,  a-weory, 
I  would  tliat  1  were  dead. " 

182 


105  Brown  and  white  bastard. 

Bastard  was  a  kind  of,£weet  Spanish  wine,  approach'mg 
the  muscade!  wine  in  flavour,  and  perhaps  made  frcm  a 
bastard  species  of  muscadine  grape ;  but  the  term,  in  mort 
ancient  times,  appears  to  have  been  applied  to  all  mixed 
and  sweetened  wines. 

i»s  From  ourfaulti,  as  faults  from  seeming,  free. 
That  is,  as  free  from  faults,  as  from  seeming  to  have  faults. 

i<"  PygmaVwris  images,  newly-made  woman. 
The  commentators  have  misunderstood  this.     It  refers  to 
the  common  custom  of  the  day  of  passing  off  women  ol 
bad  character  as  new  arrivals  from  the  country.      Pyg- 
malion's image  was  a  -sTrgin. 

Kis  7s  't  not  droum'd  i'  the  last  rain? 

A  proverbial  phrase,  equivalent  to,  'Is  't  not  lost,'  re- 
ferring to  the  reply  wliich  is  not  forthcoming.  Trot,  a  term 
of  contempt,  generally  applied  to  an  old  woman,  but  here 
said  to  Pompey  on  account  of  his  profession. 

II"  It  is  not  the  wear. 
That  is,  it  is  not  the  fashion. 

11"  Much  detected  for  women. 

Detected,  suspected  or  charged.  The  wcrd  is  frequently 
used  m  this  sense  by  old  writers.  "  So  that  he  onely  cf  all 
other  kings  in  his  time,  was  most  detected  with  this  vice  of 
lecherie,"  North's  Plutarch,  1579. 

Ill  Clack-dish. 

A  diah,  or  rather  box,  with  a  moveable  lid,  carried  by 
beggars  in  former  times,  to  attract  notice  by  the  noise 
it  n^ade.  and  to  bring  people  to  their  doors.  It  was  also 
called  a  clap-dish,  and  Forby  mentions  a  phrase  still  in  use, 
"his  tongue  moves  like  a  beggar's  clap-dish."  Inward,  au 
intimate  fncnd.  Ttie  greater  file,  the  larger  number. 
Unweighing,  inconsiderate.     Helmed,  steered  through. 

"■-  Too  unhurlful  an  opposite. 
That  is,  too  harmless  au  enemy. 

113  She  smelt  brown  bread  and  garlick. 
That  is,  she  smelt  of  brown  bread  and  garUck.     A  com- 
mon idiom. 

Ill  Still  forfeit  in  the  same  kind. 

That  is,  still  transgi-ess  in  the  same  way.  TTtis  a  Bail 
make  Mercy  swear,  this  woiJd  overcome  even  Mercy's  mild 
temper.  "  To  make  a  saint  swear,"  is  still  a  common  pro- 
verbial phrase. 

II''  As  it  is  as  dangerous. 

Wo  have  here  one  of  the  numerous  instances  of  redun- 
dant articles  to  be  met  with  in  Shalicspeare.  It  is  some- 
what singiUar  that,  having  been  omitted  for  two  centuries, 
this  aiticle  should  have  been  roetored  by  Mr.  Collier,  bul 
with  an  erroneous  explanation.  Security,  legal  security 
surety. 


NOTES  TO  MiaSUIiK  l-'Oll  MEASUliE, 


"'  Grace  to  stand,  and  virtue  go. 

7'o  U  understood  before  go.  He  should  know  a  pattern 
or  example  iii  himselii  ho  should  have  grace  to  staud  ami 
■.irtue  to  go. 

"'  How  may  likeness  wade  in  crimes. 
riie  original  roads  made  m  crimes,  and  the  four  lines  arc 
'jniiiteUigible.  I  only  giTe  the  above  conjectural  emenda- 
tion, because  some  change  seems  to  be  absolutely  neccssaiy. 
The  poet's  true  language  has  yet  to  be  ascertained.  Like- 
ness alludes  to  the  outward  likeness  of  an  angel,  and  the 
sentence  may  be  paraphrased  thus, — How  greatly  may  spe- 
cious appearance  wade  in  crimes,  working  deceitfully  on 
the  age,  to  draw  substantial  actions  with  its  idle  web. 

"'  Take,  oh  take  those  lips  away. 

This  song,  with  another  stanza,  is  found  in  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher's  'Bloody  Brother,'  or  'Eollo,'  1640;  but  both 
stanzas  are  imputed  to  Shakespeare  in  the  IGIO  edition  of 
his  Poems,  a  work,  however,  of  little  authority.  The  song 
is  scarcely  applicable  to  either  of  tlje  plays  in  which  it  is 
hitroduced,  and,  whatever  we  may  thiiUc  of  the  first  stanza, 
the  second  is  hardly  worthy  of  the  great  poet.  There  were 
other  writers  of  the  time  capable  of  producing  the  poem, 
and  from  its  appearing  by  itself  in  an  anonymous  collection, 
with  no  author's  name,  in  a  MS.  in  the  Ashmolean  Museum 
at  Oxford,  No.  47,  I  am  inclined  to  believe  the  real  author 
of  it  has  not  been  discovered.  Dr.  Wilson  was  the  composer 
of  the  old  music  to  it,  which  is  preserved  in  his  MS.  in 
the  Bodleian  Libraiy.     The  second  stanza  is  as  follows  :— 

Hide,  oh  hide  those  hills  of  snow, 

Which  thy  fi'ozen  bosom  bears. 
On  whose  tops  the  pinks  that  grow 

Are  of  those  that  Api-il  weai-s  : 
But  first  set  my  poor  heart  fi'ee, 
Boimd  in  those  icy  chains  by  thee. 

I  believe  it  is  usually  the  custom,  in  representing  this 
play,  to  commence  the  fourth  act  at  the  speech  beginning, 
"  Very  well  met;"  a  most  injudicious  arrangement,  for  tlie 
lone  situation  of  Mariana  at  the  moated  grange  is  one  of 
the  finest  softenings  of  the  drama.  The  short  scene  between 
the  Duke  and  Friar  Peter,  act  iv.  sc.  5,  has  also  been  im- 
properly omitted,  rendering  the  subsequent  conduct  of  the 
latter  quite  inexplicable  to  the  audience. 

'"  My  mirth  it  much  displecd  d. 
Tuat  is,  it  took  away  any  disposition  I  might  have  for 
mirth,  but  soothed  my.  woe.     Constantly,  eertaiidy,  always, 
Circummured,  walled  around.     Planched,  wooden. 

^™  In  action  all  oj  precept. 

That  is,  his  teaching  was  accomplished  entirely  by  action, 
;T  by  mute  signs.  Possess'd  him,  informed  him.  Stays,  waits. 

^-*  A/ost  contrarious  quests. 

Quests,  enquiries.     Scapes,  escapes,  sallies. 

"-  For  yet  our  tithe 's  to  sow. 

Jchnson  believes  tithe  to  be  right,  and  thinks  that  tlie 
expression  is  proverbial,  in  which  tithe  is  taken,  by  an  easy 
Tatonymy,  for  harvest. 


^^  Leave  me  your  snatches. 

That  is,  leave  off  your  sharp  answers.    Gyvta  aro  fetters 

'-'  An  unpitied  whipping. 

Uupitied  is  generally  used  by  our  old  dramatists  for  un 
merciful.  According  to  Douce,  it  means  here  a  whipping 
that  none  shall  pity,  for  the  reason  that  immediately  follows 

'-'  A  good  favour. 

That  is,  a  good  countenance. 

^•^  Every  true  man's  apparel. 

A  true  man  is,  an  honest  man.  The  clown  proved  the  oc- 
cupation of  the  ladies  to  belong  to  the  mystery  or  trade  of 
painters.  Abhorson  begins  his  proof,  and  the  clown  follows 
it  up  that  hia  craft  belongs  to  the  mysteiy  of  tailors.  He 
doth  oflener  ask  forgiveness,  alluding  to  the  ancient  custom 
of  executioners  asking  pardon  of  the  condemned  before 
they  felled  their  axe.     Yare,  nimble,  quick. 

^^^  When  it  lies  starkly. 

Starkly,  i.e.  stifSy.  So  in  an  old  manuscript  in  the  Bod- 
leian Library, — 

Nay,  gude  Josephe,  com  nere  and  behold, 
This  bluily  lames  body  is  starke  and  cold. 

'-*  To  qualify  in  others. 

That  is,  to  temper  or  moderate. 

'25  Were  he  meal'd. 

Meal'd,  sprinkled.  Here  metaphorically  used  for  defiled 
Wo  meet  with  the  term  in  the  sense  of  smear' d  in  Gayton's 
Notes  on  Don  Qui-xote,  lGo4,  p.  95. 

130  Y^^»  resisting  postern. 

The  original  has  unsisting,  which  is  probably  a  eor* 
ruption.  Mr.  Collier's  folio  of  1632  gives  this  very 
acceptable  correction  of  the  error.  Siege,  a  seat;  a 
dia'erent  word  from  that  which  has  occurreil  in  the 
Tempest. 

^■^^  Tfiis  is  his  lord's  man. 

So  the  original  folio.  Mr.  Knight  gives  this  speech  to 
the  Provost,  and  the  next  to  the  Duke ;  but  surely  the 
Duke  would  be  likely  to  know  the  messenger,  who  may  be 
supposed  to  belong  to  his  court,  and  the  Provost,  after  what 
he  had  heard,  might  natm-ally  thudc  the  missive  was  s 
pardon.  I  follow  the  original.  Putting  on,  spur,  incite- 
ment. One  that  is  a  prisoner  nine  years  old,  one  that  has 
been  a  prisoner  nine  yeara.     Fctct,  deed,  crime. 

"-  It  is  now  apparent  ? 

This  method  of  asking  a  question  was  commor.  Mr. 
Knight  here  again  alters  the  original  to  "  is  it  now  apparent? " 

'23  Desperately  tiorial. 

This  apparently  means,  excessively  attached  to  the  affairs 
of  tliis  world.     Cunning,  knowledge,  sagacity. 

'■^  Tliis  shall  absolutely  resolve  you. 
This  shall  perfectly  convince  you. 

183 


r — 


KOTES  TO  MEASUiiE  FOR  MEASUKE. 


i35  In  for  a  commodity  of  brown  paper. 

Our  Old  dramatiita  have  many  jocular  allusions  to  the 
heterogeneous  articles  the  usurers  compelled  spendthrifts 
to  take  as  part  of  m(aiey  advanced  on  security.  The 
practices  of  the  money-lenders  of  Shakespeare's  time  are 
thus  minutely  described  by  Nashe,  in  a  pamphlet  entitled 
Chnst's  Teares  over  Jerusalem,  1594  :  "  lie  [a  usurer]  falls 
acquainted  with  gentlemen,  frequents  ordinaries  aud  dieing- 
houscs  dayly,  where,  when  some  of  them  at  play  have  lost 
all  their  mouy,  he  is  very  diligent  at  hand,  on  their 
chaincs  and  bracelets,  or  jewels,  to  lend  them  half  the  lvalue. 
Now  this  is  the  nature  of  young  gentlemen,  that  where 
they  have  broke  the  ise,  and  borrowed  once,  they  will 
come  again  the  second  time ;  and  that  these  young  foxes 
know  as  well  as  the  beggar  knows  his  dish.  But  at  the 
second  time  of  their  coming,  it  is  doubtful  to  say  whether 
they  shall  have  money  or  no.  The  world  growes  hard, 
and  wee  all  are  mortal ;  let  him  make  him  any  assurance 
before  a  judge,  and  they  shall  have  some  hundred  pounds 
per  consequence  in  silks  and  velvets.  The  third  time  'if  they 
come,  they  shall  have  baser  commodities :  the  fourti  time, 
lute-strings  aud  grey  paper." 

The  practice  is  by  no  means  obsolete  in  England  at  the 
present  day.  I  have  heard  of  advances  on  bills  being 
partly  made  of  bad  wine,  and  in  one  instance  of  a  load  of 
paving  stones,  which  the  hapless  bonower  was  glad  to  give 
away  for  the  expcnce  of  removal. 

136  j^g  now  for  the  Lord's  sake. 

That  is,  are  now  beggars.  "  Pordiosiros,  men  that  aske 
for  God's  sal;e,  beggers,"  Jlinsheu's  Dictionarie  in  Spanish, 
1599.  Or  there  may  be  an  allusion  to  the  ancient  custom 
of  poor  prisoners  beggmg.  Even  within  the  present  cen- 
tury, the  Fleet  prison  had  a  sort  of  iron  cage,  in  which  one 
of  the  debtors  on  the  poor  side  rattled  a  money-box,  ex- 
claiming, "  Pray  remember  the  poor  debtors."  In  Shake- 
speare's time,  the  cry  was,  "  For  the  Lord's  sake ;  for  the 
Lord's  sake ;"  as  appears  from  an  early  epigram  quoted  by 
Malone. 

1^'  To  clap  into  your  prayers. 

Tliat  is,  to  enter  into  immediately,  to  commence  your 
flayers  at  once. 

"'  To  yond  generation. 

It  is  now  very  early  in  the  morning,  and  we  may  suppose 
the  Uulie  here  points  to  the  stars.  "Ere  twice  the  evm 
hath  made  his  daily  greeting  to  the  stars  of  night."  Ymd 
is  altered  by  Mr.  Ivnight  to  yonder,  but  1  saarcely  think  the 
smendation  necessary. 

'39  Your  hosrm  on  this  icrelcf 

That  is,  your  heart's  desire.     Johnson. 

""  7  am  combined  by  a  sacred  vow. 

This  is  the  neuter  verb  combine,  answering  to  tlic  Latin 
sonjuro.  I  tin  engaged  cr  bound  down  by  a  sacred  vow. 
Watd,  to  go. 

1"  Ife  lives  not  in  them. 

Stccvcna  cxplo'ina  this,  "His  chaiacter  depends  not  on 
them," 

184 


"•  He  's  a  ietter  woodman, 

'We  have  had  this  word  in  the  Merry  "Wives  of  "Windsor 
V.  5.     It  seems  here  used  in  a  metaphorical  sense. 

113  Yet  reason  doves  her  no. 

The  editoi-s  have  altogether  misurderstood  the  idiom  31 
this  passage.  Dares  her  no  is  equivalent  to,  dares  her  not, 
and  is  consonant  with  tte  gi-amraatical  usage  of  the  time. 

1^1  My  autliority  oears  off  a  credent  bulk. 

Explained  by  Dr.  Johnson,  "No  scandal  from  any 
priv.ite  mouth  can  reach  a  man  in  my  authority. " 

115  You  do  blench  from  this  to  that. 

Blench,  to  start  or  fly  off.  "  Thaiuie  shallow  blenche  at 
a  bergh,"  Piers  Ploughm.in,  cd.  Wright,  p.  112.  To  veii 
full  purpose,  to  conceal  his  full  purpose.  Generous,  noble, 
accompUshed. 

'1'  Have  hent  tlte  gates. 

Hent,  seized,  held.     From  the  Anglo-Saxon- 

117  Enter  at  opposite  sides. 

The  origiu'il  reads,  "at  several  doors,"  alluding  to  the 
doors  on  each  side  of  our  old  primitive  theatres,  through 
which  the  actors  passed. 

11®  Vail  your  regard. 

That  is,  lower  yom'  regaid. 

•1'  To  th'  end  of  rech'ning. 

Equivalent  to  the  modem  pluase,  to  the  end  cf  time- 
Johnson's  explanation  is  certainly  erroneous. 

15^  In  all  his  dressi7igs,  characts. 

Literally,  ornaments,  inscriptions. 

'5'  And  hide  tJie  false  seems  true. 

That  is,  and  hide  the  false  which  seems  true.  'W^c  havt. 
already  had  examples  of  this  elliptical  mode  of  construction, 
as  in  the  Tempest.  As  that  the  messenger,  perhaps  an 
ciTor  for,  Was  then  the  tnessenger;  but  tlie  old  text  n-i]l 
make  sense.  The  phrase  is  to  the  matter,  i.e.  suited  to  the 
matter.  liefell'd,  refuted.  liemorsc,  pity.  Li/ic,  probable. 
Fond,  foolish. 

'5-  This  needs  must  be  a  practice. 

Practice,  imlawful  stratagem  or  deceit.  "  Is  it  possibl" 
'uy  herbs,  stones,  spells,  incantation,  enchantment,  exorcism, 
fire,  metal,  planets,  or  any  practice,  to  plant  affection  where 
it  is  not,"  Lilly's  Eiidymion,  1591.  Had  he  been  lay,  had 
he  belonged  to  tlie  liiity. 

153  2for  a  temporary  medler. 

Temporary  perhaps  means  time-serving.  Mere,  a:8<iliito 
Convcntcd,  convened,  (Lat.)  Vulgarly,  publi(;ly,  amon^ 
the  common  people. 

"■'  This  is  a  itrangc  abuse. 
Abttse,  deception,  puzzle. 


JVOTES  TO  MEASURE   FOK  MEASUllh. 


'5'  At  thy  aarden-housc. 

Oftrdcn-hoii8C8  were  summer-houses.  They  arc  fro* 
^liiiitly  mentioned  by  our  old  dramatists  as  celebrated  places 
(or  intriguoa. 

^^^  Came  short  of  compositit^n, 

ller  foitur.e,  wliioh  was  promised  proportionate  to  mine, 
fell  short  of  the  composition,  that  is,  contract  o'  bargain. 
lohnson. 

'"  Tliese  poor  informal  ivonien. 

h/vrma!,  out  cf  their  senses. 

i*s  To  i^oui-  height  of  pleasure. 

So  the  old  copies,  to  being  equivalent  to  unto. 

159  lyu  'II  jg  jj  throughly. 

Throughly,  for  thoroughly,  and  in  many  otiier  instances, 
13  tJie  langiiage  of  the  original.  "  Avanger,  to  fumisli 
(Aroaj/i/y,  to  beare  the  whole  charge  of;"  Cotg.  Cucullusnon 
facit  monachum,  the  cowl  does  not  make  the  monk;  a 
common  old  Latin  proverb,  which  occurs  again  in  Twelfth 
Night,  i.  5. 

^^^  To  retort  your  viauifest  appeal. 
Xo  refer  back  your  open  or  public  appeal. 

""  Nor  here  provincial. 
Does  th?3  mean,  not  belonging  to  this  proWnce  ? 

"'-  Stand  like  the  forfeits  in  a  harltcrs  shop. 

The  barber  was  a  far  more  important  person  in  former 
Jays  than  he  is  now.  Not  only  were  trimming  the  hair, 
drrang-ing  the  love-locks,  and  keeping  the  fantasiie  beard  in 
order,  import.int  occupations,  but  he  often  joined  the  prac- 
tice of  bleeding  and  ehii'urgeiy  to  his  other  profession.  "We 
may  reaiUly  suppose,  many  of  his  customers  had  to  exert 
their  patience  in  waiting  for  their  turns,  and  forfeits  origi- 
nally necessary  for  keeping  them  in  order,  though  they 
afterwards  became,  disregarded.  About  the  year  1750,  Dr. 
Kenriek  saw  a  metrical  bst  of  barber's  forfeits  in  a  shop  in 
Yorkshire,  and  the  follovting  is  a  copy  of  what  the  author 
quoted  from  memoiy  some  years  afterwards.  They  were 
entitled  "Rules  for  seemly  Behaviour," — 

First  come,  first  serve  :  then  come  not  late ; 
Anil,  when  anived,  keep  yoiu-  state : 
For  he,  wlio  fi'om  these  rules  shall  swerve, 
Must  pay  the  forfeits.     So,  observe  : — 

'\Alio  enters  here  with  hoots  and  spur's, 
Must  keep  his  nook ;  f  ir  if  he  stirs. 
And  gives  with  armed  heel  a  kick, 
A  pint  he  pays  for  every  prick. 

'Wlxo  rudely  takes  another's  turn, 
A  forfeit  mug  may  manners  learn. 

Who  rex  crentless  shall  swear  or  eiu'se. 
Must  lug  seven  laithiugs  from  his  pm-se. 

ViTio  checlcs  the  barber  in  his  tale. 
Must  pay  for  each  a  pot  of  ale. 

l^lio  -nill  or  can  not  mras  his  hat. 
While  trinmiing,  pays  a  piut  for  that. 

Ami  he  wlio  can  or  will  not  pay. 
Shall  hence  be  sent  half-trimm'd  away : 
■21 


For,  will  he.  ni!l  he,  if  in  fault. 

He  forfeit  must  in  meal  or  malt. 

But,  mark, — who  is  alreads  in  drink, 

TIk^  enrinikin  must  never  cliidt. 
The  late  Major  Moor,  an  eminent  Oriental  scholar 
bears  witness  to  having  seen  forfeits  similar  to  tlicaliovt 
during  the  present  century.  See  his  SulTolk  Worils 
8vo.,  182.J,  p.  133.  Ha  said,  however,  that  he  had  only 
seen  them  in  one  shop.  Forby  says,  barber's  forfeits  exisi 
to  tliis  day.  They  are,  according  to  that  wiiter,  penaltii'E 
for  handling  the  razors,  &c..  off  mces  very  lilcely  to  be  com- 
mitted  by  lounging  clowns  waiting  for  their  turn  to  be 
scraped  on  a  Satm-day  night  They  are  still,  as  of  old, 
"more  in  mock  than  mark."  Steeveas  ill-natui-edly  pro- 
nounced the  above  to  be  a  forgei-y. 

The  late  Mr.  Croft  of  York,  in  a  very  scarce  pamphlet 
privately  printed,  'Annotations  on  Plays  of  Shakespear, 
8vo.  1810,  gives  us  the  following  ciuious  information  on 
t'ois  subject: — "The  custom  still  prevails,  and  the  table- 
board  of  the  articles  hangs  beliind  the  door,  and  are,  viz.— 
to  talk  of  cutting  throats;  to  weave  a  piece  of  hair;  to 
call  powder  flour ;  or  to  meddle  with  anything  on  the  shop- 
board  ;  arc  hold  as  forfeits.  "  Henley  says  he  once  saw  a 
list  of  barber's  forfeits  in  Devonshire,  "printed  like  Kin^ 
Cliarles's  Rales,  though  I  cannot  recollect  the  contents. " 

This  is  a  sort  of  subject  which  is  very  difficult  to  illus- 
trate, when  the  custom  has  passed  away.  It  was  no  doubt 
a  most  common  practice  to  institute  forfeits  for  all  infringe- 
ments of  rules  not  sufficiently  important  to  obtain  Ic^al 
sanction,  and  on  the  wall  of  the  belfiy  in  St.  John's  at 
Chester  are  painted  the  forfeits  in  verse  of  the  bell-ringei-s 
of  that  ancient  city,  some  of  the  lines  of  which  correspcnd 
with  the  above.  The  country  people  are  fond  of  forfeits  to 
the  present  day,  and  in  a  stable  in  O.'d'ordshire  the  folio  w- 
iug  lines  are  recorded, — 

All  you  who  come  into  this  place. 

To  smoke  among  the  straw. 
Must  pay  a  quart  of  ale  at  least. 
Because  it  is  the  law. 
The  subject  deserves  a  long  note,  the  rather  because  the 
reader  will  find  no  intelligible  account  in  any  previous 
edition. 

••^^  Would  close  now. 

A  MS.  note  in  a  copy  of  the  j/iay  which  I  have  seen, 
reads  ylozc,  to  flatter. 

'"*  Away  with  those  gights  too. 
Giglot:  arc  women  of  light  character.    So  in  MS.  Sloani 
1210,  XV.  cent.— 

Tho  smallere  nese,  tho  mo  to  the  pott ; 
Tho  fayrere  woman,  tho  more  gygiott. 

"^  And  be  hang'd  an  hour .' 
An  hour  is  merely  a  vidgar  expletive.    The  passagi-  is 
equivalent  to,  and  be  hang'd. 

^^  Passes,  fatdts.  Consummate,  being  consummatid. 
Advertising  and  holy,  attentive  and  faithful.  Atttmei/'d. 
deputed.  Jv'ce,  generous.  Braind,  killed,  destroyed 
Proper,  own. 

^""■^  Tliy  other  forfeits. 

porfeifs,  faults,  crimes.     More  gratulafe,  more  pleasing 
'  Gratulate,    to    shew   one's    joy    in    iinrther's    felicity, 
Cockerani's  English  Dietionarie,  1626 

•  185 


€\)t  Coiiiriiij  oF  6rrars. 


"piTE  members  of  the  HoBom^ble  Society  of  Gray's  Inn  celebrated  their  Christmas  revck  in  the 
year  1594  with  miusual  spirit.  Their  hall  was  the  abode  of  mock  sovereignty,  and  the  sports 
n-hich  anciently  accompanied  the  Lord  of  l\Iisnile ;  and  the  transactions  of  the  revels  were  recorded 
by  a  member  of  the  society  in  a  manuscript  wliich  was  afterwards  published  in  1688,  imder  the  title 
of  Gosta  Grayorum.*  The  author  of  this  account,  in  concluding  the  annals  of  one  day's  proceedings 
eays,  p,  22, — "After  such  sports,  a  '  Comedy  of  Errors,'  like  to  Plauttis  Ms  ATenechnus,  was  played  by 
the  players  :  so  that  night  was  begun  and  continued  to  the  end  in  nothing  but  confusion  and  errors 
whereupon  it  was  ever  afterwards  called  tlie  Night  of  Errors. " 

This  notice  of  the  play,  which  is  not  aUuded  to  by  either  Collier  or  Knight,  is  extremely  curious, 
proving  that  the  '  Comedy  of  Errors,'  in  some  form  or  other,  was  in  existence  in  December,  1594.  An 
older  play,  called  the  'Historic  of  Error,'  was  acted  at  Hampton  Court  on  Jan.  1st,  1576-7,  "enacted 
by  the  children  of  Powles, "  and  has  been  conjectured  to  be  the  foimdation  of  Shakespeare's  drama, 
wliich  is  alluded  to  by  Meres  in  1598  under  the  simple  title  of  "Errors."  It  may  also  be  mentioned 
that  when  the  '  Comedy  of  Errors'  was  performed  before  James  I.  on  December  28th,  1604,  it  is  called 
'the  riaie  of  Errors,"  and  the  author's  name  Sliaxherd  is  written  in  the  margin  of  the  accoimt.  If 
we  add  to  these  circumstances  the  strong  internal  evidence  that  this  is  an  early  play,  we  shall  be 
disposed  to  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  Shakespeare's  '  Comedy  of  Errors'  was  written  in  or  before 
1594,  and  that,  in  aU  probability,  he  was  indebted  for  his  materials  to  the  older  play,  entitled  the 
'  Histoiy  of  Error. ' 

The  Mencechni  of  Plautus  was  not  translated  into  English,  or  rather  no  English  translation  of  it 
was  printed,  before  1595;  but  there  are  allusions  in  the  'Comedy  of  Errors,'  which,  if  not  taken  from 
the  older  play,  appear  to  show  the  poet's  familiarity  with  some  of  the  Latin  classics,  not  an  improbable 
supposition,  it  might  be  argued,  in  what  Jlr.  Knight  calls  "  an  age  of  grammar  schools  ;"  but  it  liappens 
someliow  or  other,  that  when  we  really  approacli  the  sources  used  by  Shakespeare,  most  of  the  learning 
is  generally  to  be  traced  to  the  older  compositions,  or,  at  least,  to  contemporary  popidar  works.  Be 
*liis  as  it  may,  there  are  no  similarities  of  sufficient  weight  to  enable  us  to  decide  that  Shakespeare 
borrowed  direct  from  Plautus  ;  and,  I  tliink,  several  circumstances  to  show  that  he  did  not.  Among 
tlie  Litter  may  be  reckoned  there  being  no  reason  assigned  for  the  presence  of  ^Emilia,  or  for  the  curious 
fact  of  the  two  Dromios  having  the  same  name ;  oversights  which  are  probably  to  be  ascribed  to  the 
earlier  play,  and  unlikely  to  have  been  committed  by  a  poet  who  was  chiefly  using  invented  materials. 
Tlie  incidents  which  are   common  to   the   '  Comedy  of  Errors'  and  the  llcnaschmi  are,  principally,  the 

"It  appears  from  the  dedicatiou  to  lliia  Trork,  that  it  was  printed  in  ftill  from  the  ori^iial.  The  editor  snys,  "  It  woa 
though*,  necessary  not  to  clip  anythiny,  which,  though  it  may  seem  odd,  yet  natvj-ally  begets  a  veneration  upon  Recount  of 
ilB  ai.t:.~,uity. " 

187 


OUMhUy  OF   ERRUK.S. 


separation  of  the  twin  sons ;  their  pel  feet  similarity  in  speech,  countenance,  and  name  ;  and  tho  accidents 
happening  to  Menechmus  and  Antiphohis  of  Syracuse,  -who  both  are  troubled  with  jealous  wives,  and 
meet  with  similar  adventures,  Tlie  chief  addition  in  Shakespeare  is  tbs  introduction  of  the  two  Dromios, 
opening,  as  Skottowe  observes,  a  new  source  of  error  and  confusion,  where  most  readers  wiU  be  inclined 
tfj  believe  enough  existed  before.  And  this  opinion  woidd  probably  have  been  right,  had  lliisr- 
materials  of  error  fallen  into  any  other  hands  than  tliose  of  Shakespeare. 

The  translator  of  tho  J/e««c/«««,  1595,  says,  in  liis  preface,  that  he  had  "  divc-se  of  this  poettes 
comedies  EngiislieJ,  for  the  use  and  delight  of  his  private  friends,  who  in  Plautus  o^vne  -n'ords  are  not 
able  to  understand  them."  This  was  not  an  unusual  practice,  and  wc  may  hence  conjecture  that  Shake- 
speare might  luive  had  an  opportunity  of  perusing  a  translation,  although  none  had  been  actually  giver 
to  the  public.  On  this  account,  it  may  be  worth  wliile  to  give  the  reader  a  specimen  of  the  old  EngHsL 
translation,  selecting  the  second  act  of  Plautus  as  a  portion  of  the  play  which  will,  perhaps,  serve  to 
exliibit  the  striking  de^-iations  made  by  Shakespeare  from  the  Latin  original : — 


Enter  Menechmus  Sosides,  Mcssenio  his  servant,  and  some 
Saylers, 

Men.  Surely,  Messenic,  I  thinke  Sca-fairei«  never  take 
BO  comfortable  a  joy  in  anything,  as  when  they  have  been 
long  tost  and  turmoylJ  in  the  wide  seas,  they  hap  at  last  to 
ken  land, 

3Iess.  He  be  sworn,  I  shxild  not  be  gladder  to  see  a 
u'hole  coimtry  of  mine  owne,  then  I  have  bene  at  guch  a 
sight.  But  I  pray,  wherfore  are  we  now  come  to  Epi- 
danmum  ?  must  we  needs  go  to  see  everie  towne  that  we 
lieare  off.' 

Men.  Till  I  finde  my  brother,  all  townes  are  alike  to  me ; 
I  must  trie  in  all  places. 

Mess.  Tttiy,  tlicn,  let 's  even  as  long  as  wee  live  seeke 
your  brother :  siy  yeares  now  have  we  roarade  about  tlius, 
Istria,  Hispania,  Jlassylia,  Ilyiia,  all  the  upper  sea,  all 
high  Greece,  all  haven  towns  in  Italy.  I  think  if  we  had 
sought  a  needle  all  this  time,  wc  must  needs  have  found  it, 
had  it  bene  above  ground.  It  cannot  be  that  he  is  alive  ; 
and  to  seek  a  dead  man  thus  among  the  living,  what  folly 
is  it? 

Men.  Tea,  could  I  but  once  find  any  man  that  could 
certainly  enforme  mo  of  his  death,  I  were  satisfied ;  other- 
wise I  can  never  desist  seeking :  Litle  knowest  thou,  Mcs- 
tenio,  how  neare  my  heart  it  goes. 

Mess.  This  is  washing  of  a  Blackamorc.  Faith,  let 's  goe 
home,  unlesse  ye  mcane  we  should  wiite  a  storie  of  our 
Iravaile. 

Men.  Sirra,  no  more  of  these  sawcic  speeches ;  I  perceive 
I  mu.st  teach  ye  how  to  serve  me,  not  to  rule  me. 

Mess.  I,  so;  now  itappcares  what  it  is  to  be  a  servant. 
Wcl,  I  must  spc'dio  my  conscience.  Do  ye  hcare,  sir? 
Faith,  I  must  tell  ye  one  tiling,  when  I  looke  into  tho  leane 
estate  of  yoiu'  pm-sc,  and  consider  adWsodly  of  your  decay- 
ing stocke,  I  hold  it  verie  needful  to  be  drawing  homeward, 
lest,  ill  looking  your  brotUcr,  wo  qidte  lose  ourselves.  For 
this  assure  yoursclfe,  this  towne  Epidamiuim  is  a  place  of 
outragious  c.tpcnces,  exceeding  in  all  ryot  and  lascivious- 
nesse :  and  (I  heare)  as  full  of  Ribaulds,  Parasites, 
Drunkards,  Catchpoles,  Cony-catchers,  and  Sycophants,  as 
it  can  bo-d.  Then  for  curtizans,  wliy  hero  'e  tho  cun-antest 
stamp  of  them  in  the  world.  Ye  must  not  thinkc  here  to 
ecapc  witli  as  light  cost  as  in  oilier  places.  Tho  verio 
uamc  shows  the  nature ;  no  man  comes  hitlicr  sine  damnc 
1»8 


Men .  Yce  say  very  well  indeed :  give  mee  my  pursa 
into  mine  owne  keeping,  because  I  will  so  be  the  safer,  sinf 
damno. 

Mess.  ^Tiy,  sir  ? 

Men.  Because  I  feare  you  wil  he  busie  among  the  cur 
tizans,  and  so  be  cozened  of  it:  then  should  I  take  great 
paincs  in  belabouring  your  shoulders.  So  to  avoid  both 
these  harms,  He  keep  it  myselfe. 

Mess.  I  pray  do  so,  sir :  all  the  better 

Enter  Cylindrus. 

Ci/l  I  have  tickling  geare  here,  yfaith,  for  their  dinners . 
It  grieves  me  to  the  heart  to  think  how  that  corinoranl 
knave  Peuiculus  must  have  his  share  in  these  daintie  mor- 
sels. But  what  ?  Is  Menechmus  come  ab-eadie,  before  1 
could  come  fi'om  the  market  ?  Menechmus,  how  do  ye,  sir ' 
how  haps  it  ye  eomo  so  soone  ? 

Men.  God  a  mercy,  my  good  friend,  doest  thou  know  mee ! 

Cijl.  Know  ye  ?  no,  not  I.  Where 's  mouldichappes  that 
must  dine  with  ye '  A  murriu  on  his  manners ! 

Afen.  "Whom  meanest  thou,  good  fellow  ? 

Cyl.  Why  Penicidus.  worship,  that  lick-ti-encher,  yo'U 
parasiticall  attendimt. 

Men.  Wiat  Pcnieulus  ?  what  attendant  ?  my  attendant  ? 
Sm'cly  this  fellow  is  mad. 

Mess.  Did  I  not  tell  ye  what  cony-catching  villa'nea 
you  should  finde  here  ? 

Ci/l.  Mencclunus,  harkeye,  sir;  ye  come  too  soone  backe 
againe  to  (hnner  ;   I  am  but  returned  fi'om  the  market. 

Afen.  FcUow,  here  thou  shalt  have  money  of  me ;  got 
get  tho  Priest  to  sacrifice  for  thee,  I  know  t\ou  art  mad 
els  thou  wouldst  never  use  a  stranger  thus. 

Ci/l.  Alas,  sir,  Cylindrus  was  wont  to  be  nc  stranger  t; 
you.     Know  ye  not  Cylindrus  ? 

Men.  Cylindrus,  or  Coliendrus,  or  what  tho  divell  tlioii 
art,  I  Icuow  not,  tieither  do  I  care  to  know. 

Cyt.  I  know  you  to  bo  Menechmus. 

Men.  Thou  should'st  be  in  thy  wits,  in  tliat  thou  nainc.-a 
me  so  right ;  but,  tell  me,  where  hast  thou  Icnown  me  ? 

Q/l.  Where  ?  even  here,  where  ye  first  fell  in  love  witV 
my  mistresse  Erotium. 

Mai.  I  neither  have  lover,  neither  knowo  I  wlio  iLuu  an 

Ci/l.  Know  ye  nolwlo  I  am?  mIio  fiUs  your  cup  ont' 
dresses  your  meat  at  ou!  house  ? 


COMEDY  01-'  EiillOllS. 


Me-is.  What  a  slave  ia  this  ?  That  I  had  somewhat  to 
3roako  the  rascals  pate  ■withal ! 

Moi.  At  your  bouse  !  whnnas  I  never  cann'  in  Epiilam- 
jum  »iU  this  day. 

C«'.  Oh,  that  "s  true !  Do  ye  not  dwell  in  yonder  lio\ise? 

.If™.  Foule  shame  light  upon  them  that  dwell  there,  for 
niy  jtait. 

(  i/t.  Questionlesse,  he  is  mad  indecde,  to  curse  hijuselfe 
ihu3.     Ilarke  ye,  Jlenechmus. 

Men.  'Wliat  saist  thou  ? 

Ci/l.  If  I  may  advise  ye,  ye  shall  bestow  this  money 
phiob  ye  offred  me  upon  a  sacrifice  for  youi'selfe :  for  out 
rf  doubt,  you  are  mad  that  curse  yoiirsclfe. 

Mess.  AVhat  a  verlet  art  thou  to  trouble  us  thus  ! 

Cyl.  Tush,  he  will  many  times  jest  with  me  thus.  Yet 
n'hen  his  wife  is  not  by,  'tis  a  ridiculous  jest. 

Men.  What 's  that  ? 

C)/!.  This  I  say.  Thinke  ye  I  have  brought  meate 
iiiougli  for  three  of  you  ?  If  not,  He  fetche  more  for  you 
md  your  wench,  and  Snatchcrust,  your  Parasile. 

Men.  "Wliat  wenches .'  what  Parasites  ? 

Mess.  Villaiue,  He  make  thee  tell  rac  what  thou  meanest 
hy  all  this  talke. 

Ci/l.  Away,  Jack  Napes,  I  say  nothing  to  thee,  for  I 
know  thee  not;  I  speake  to  him  that  I  know. 

Mcti.  Out!  dnmkea  fooie ;  without  doubt  tliou  art  out  of 
Ihy  wits. 

Q/l.  That  yon  shall  scs  by  the  dressing  of  your  meat. 
Go,  go ;  yo  were  better  to  go  in  and  finde  somewhat  to  do 
tliere,  whilca  your  dinner  is  making  roadie.  He  tell  my 
unstrcssc  yo  be  here. 

Men.  Is  he  gone  ?  Mossenio,  I  thinke  nppon  thy  words 
alreadie. 

Mess.  Tush ;  rsarke,  I  pray.  He  laie  fortie  pound  here 
dwels  sonic  curtiz.an  to  whom  this  fellow  belongs. 

Men.  But  I  wonder  how  he  kuowes  my  name. 

Mess.  Oh,  He  toll  yec.  These  eourtizans,  as  soone  as 
nnie  straunge  shippe  aniveth  at  the  haven,  they  sonde  a  boye 
or  a  weneh  to  cnciuiie  what  they  be,  what  their  names  be, 
whence  they  come,  wherefore  they  come,  &c.  If  they  can 
by  any  meanes  strike  acquaintance  with  him,  or  allure  him 
to  their  houses,  he  is  their  owne.  We  are  here  in  a  tickle 
place,  maister :  tis  best  to  bo  circumspect. 

Alen.  I  mislike  not  thy  counsaile,  Messenio. 

Mess.  I,  but  follow  it  then.  Soft,  here  comes  somebodie 
forth.      Here,  sirs,  mai-rinc^,  keep  this  same  amongst  you. 

Enter  Erotluni. 

Er.  Let  the  dooro  stand  bc.  Away  I  it  shall  not  be  shut. 
Hake  haste  within  there,  ho :  Maydes,  looke  that  all  things 
bc  readie.  Cover  the  boord,  put  fire  under  the  perfuming 
p  inncs :  let  all  things  be  veiy  handsome.  Where  is  hee 
that  Cylindrus  sayd  stood  without  here  ?  Oh  !  what  meane 
7c;i.  sweet  heart,  that  ye  come  not  in '  I  trust  you  thinke 
y'Urselfe  more  welcome  to  this  house  then  to  your  owne, 
.tnd  great  reason  wh}"  you  should  do  so.  Your  dinner  and 
all  things  are  readie  as  you  willed.     Will  ye  go  sit  downe  ? 

Men.  Whom  doth  this  woman  speake  to  .* 

Er.  Even  to  you,  sir- ;  to  whom  else  should  I  speake  ? 

Men.  Gentlewoman,  ye  are  a  straunger  to  me,  and  I 
MarveU  at  your  speeches. 


/>.  Yi  1,  sir,  but  such  a  strautger,  as  I  ack-nowledgo  yi 
for  my  best  and  deaicst  friend,  and  well  you  have  di;- 
served  it. 

Men.  Surely,  Messenio,  this  woman  is  also  mad  »i 
drunke,  that  useth  all  this  kindncsse  to  me  uppon  so  sm.ill 
acquaintance. 

Mess.  Tush,  did  not  I  tell  ye  right  ?  these  be  but  leaves 
that  fall  upon  you  now,  in  comparison  of  the  trees  that  wil 
tumble  on  your  necke  shortly.  I  t^:id  ye,  here  were  eilvr;i 
tong'dc  hacstcrs.  But  let  mc  talke  with  her  a  little.  Gen- 
tlewoman, what  acquaintance  have  you  with  tliis  man? 
wliere  have  you  scene  him  ? 

Er.  Where  he  sawe  me,  here  in  Epidamnum. 
Mess.  In  Epidamnum  ?  who  never  till  tliis  day  set  his 
foote  within  the  towne  ? 

Er.  Go,  go,  flowting  Jack !  Jlenechmus,  what  need  all 
this  ?  I  pray  go  in. 

Men.  She  also  calls  me  by  my  name. 
Mess.  She  smcls  yoiu'  purse.  1 

Men.  Jlessenio,  come  hither :  here,  take  my  purse.      Ho 
know  v.-hether  she  aime  at  me  or  my  purse,  ere  I  go. 
Er.  Will  ye  go  in  to  dinner,  sir  ? 

Men.  A  good  motion ;  yea,  and  thanks  with  all  my  heart. 
Er.  Xever  thanke  me  for  that  which  you  commaunded 
to  ho  proiided  for  yourscKe. 
Men.  That  I  commaunded  ? 
Er.  Yea,  for  you  and  yotu'  Parasite. 
Men.  My  Parasite  ? 

Er.  Peniculus,  who  came  with  you  this  morning,  when 
you  brought  me  the  cloake  -wliich  you  g'lt  from  your  wife? 
Men.  A  cloake  that  I  brought  you,  which  1  got  from  mj 
wife  ? 

Er.  Tush,  what  noedeth  ail  this  jesting  ?  Pray  leave  oil 

i)/e«.  Jest  or  earnest,  this  I  tell  ye  for  a  truth.     I  nevei 

had  wife,  neither  have  I ;  nor  never  was  in  this  place  til 

this  instant ;  for  only  thus  fan-e  am  I  come,  since  I  brake 

my  fast  in  the  ship, 

Er.  What  ship  do  ye  teU  me  off? 

Mess.  Many-,  He  tell  ye :  an  old  rotten  weather-beaten 
ship,  that  we  have  sailed  up  and  downe  in  these  srsc 
yeares.     1st  not  time  to  be  going  homew.ards,  thinke  ye .' 

Er.  Come,  come,  Menechmus,  I  pray  leave  this  sporting; 
and  go  in. 

Men.  Well,  gentlewoman,  the  truth  is,  you  mistake  my 
person  ;  it  is  some  other  you  looke  for. 

Er.  Why,  thinlce  ye  I  know  ye  not  to  he  Menechmus, 
the  Sonne  of  Moschus,  and  have   heard  ye  say,  ye  were 
borne   at   Siraeusis  where    /  gathocles    did   raigne ;    tli^u 
Pytliia,  then  Liparo,  and  now  Hiero. 
]\fen.  AU  this  is  ti-uc. 

Mess.  Either  shoe  is  a  witch,  or  tlse  shee  hath  dwell 
there  and  knew  ye  there. 

Men.  He  go  in  with  her,  Messenio ;  He  see  further  ol 
this  ra.atter. 

Mes.s.  Ye  are  cast  away  then. 

ifen.  Why  so  r  I  wairant  thee,  I  can  lose  nothing , 
something  I  shall  gaine;  perhaps  a  good  lougiiig  during  my 
abode  here.  He  dissemble  with  her  another  while.  Nowe, 
when  you  please,  let  us  go  in.  I  made  straunge  with  you. 
because  of  this  fellow  heii,  least  he  should  toll  my  wife  oi 
the  cloake  which  I  gave  yo.i, 

1S9 


COMEDY   OF   EllROKS. 


Er.  Will  you  etaie  any  longer  for  your  Penieulue,  your 
Parasite? 

Men.  Not  I,  Tie  neither  stale  for  him,  nor  have  him 
yet  oome  in,  if  he  do  come. 

Er.  All  the  better.     But,  sir,  will  you  doo  one  thing 
for  me  1 
Men.  'What  is  that? 

Er.  To  bcare  that  cloaie  you  gave  me  to  the  diarg,  to 
ave  it  new  tiimd  and  altrcd. 

Men.  Tea,  tliat  will  be  well,  so  my  wife  shall  not  know 
it.  Let  mee  have  it  ^vith  mee  after  dinner.  I  will  but 
speaki.-  a  word  or  two  with  this  fellowe ;  then  lie  follow  ye 


in.  Ho,  Messenio,  come  aside.  Goe  ana  provide  for  thv 
selfe  and  tliese  ship-boyes  in  some  inne  ;  then  looke  thai 
after  dinner  you  come  hither  for  mc. 

Mess.  Ah,  maister,  will  ye  be  conycaeht  thus  wilfully  ■ 

Men.  Peace,  foolish  knave  !  secst  thon  not  what  ii  sol 
ehe  ml  1  shal  coozen  her,  I  warrant  thee 

Mess.  Ay,  Maister. 

il/fn.  Wilt  thou  be  gone  ? 

Mess.  See,  see ;  she  hata  tarn  safe  inough  now.  T.'aua 
he  hath  escaped  a  himdieth  J'yratcs  hands  at  sua ;  and  now 
one  landrover  hath  bom-ded  him  at  first  encounter.  Coun 
away,  feUowes. 


If  is  supposed  by  most  of  the  critics  that  the  allusion  to  France  by  Dromio  of  Syracuse,  "  in  hci 
forehead,  arni'd  and  reverted,  making  war  against  her  heir,"  refers  to  King  Henry  IV.,  the  /w;'»-  of  I'ranc^. 
:onceniing  whose  succession  to  the  throne  there  was  a  civil  war  in  that  country  which  did  not  eoncludi 
tiU  the  year  1593.  There  appears  to  be  no  reason  for  doubting  the  correctness  of  this  opinion,  lu 
1591,  Lord  Essex  was  sent  with  four  thousand  troops  to  tlie  French  King's  assistance,  and  his  brothci 
Walter  was  kiUed  before  Koiien  in  Xormandy.  From  that  period,  till  Henry  was  fimdv  setth^d  on  the 
throne,  Elizabeth  sent  sevend  bodies  of  troops  to  his  assistance;  so  that  the  war  must  have  bc.'cu  sulli- 
cicntly  notorious  for  the  allusion  to  be  at  once  perceived  by  the  audience. 

The  title  of  the  play  was  either  a  common  proverb  or  furnished  the  subject  of  one.  Anton,  in  lii 
Philosophical  Satires,  1616,  p.  51,  exclaims,  " '^Tiat  Comedies  of  Errors  swell  the  stage!"  So,  al>o 
Decker,  in  his  Knights  Conjuring,  1607, — "his  ignorance,  arising  from  his  blindenes,  is  the  onely  cans, 
of  this  Comedie  of  Errors;"  and,  previously,  in  liis  Satiromastix,  1602,  he  seems  to  allude  to  the  \Xii\ 
itself: — "Insteed  of  the  trumpets  sounding  thrice  before  the  play  begin,  it  shall  not  be  amisse,  for  Idu 
that  will  read,  first  to  beholde  this  short  Comedy  of  Errors,  and  where  the  greatest  enter,  to  give  thorn 
instead  of  hisse,  a  gentle  correction."  Again,  also,  in  the  Jleeting  of  Gallants  at  an  Ordinarie,  100-!,— 
•This  was  a  prettie  Commedie  of  Errors,  my  round  host." 

We  learn  from  Drummond  that  Ben  Jonson  "  had  ane  intention  to  have  made  a  play  like  Pluutus'^ 
Amphitrio,  btit  left  it  of,  for  that  he  could  never  find  two  so  like  others  that  he  could  persuade  il: 
spectators  they  were  one."  Tliis  difficidty  is  over-stated,  for  it  suits  the  dramatic  action  of  the  piece  \. 
present  the  "rue  with  a  difference."  It  is  not  necessary,  or  even  desirable,  that  the  audience  shotd'. 
be  wholly  ieceived  in  the  matter,  and  I  suspect,  in  the  present  play  at  least,  much  of  the  ludicrour 
wotdd  bo  lost  in  representation  were  that  the  case.  It  is  sufficient  that  the  two  similar  couples  shouli; 
be  habited  in  simple  Greek  costume,  which  can  be  made  alike  in  each  case  without  adding  Ic  lii 
violation  of  probability. 

The  materials  of  which  the  '  Comedy  of  Errors  '  is  constructed,  chiefly  belong  to  the  cycle  of  faieo 
but  they  have  been  worked  into  a  comedy  by  a  wonderful  effort  of  dramatic  power;  the  lighter  chariu- 
ter,  however,  remaining  prominent  in  partictdar  scenes.  Comedy  would  allow  the  two  .\ntij)lioli!sii: 
with  a  license  similar  to  that  which  sanctions  the  resemblance  between  Sebastian  and  Viola;  hut  thi 
two  Dromios  in  conjunction  with  the  former  certainly  belong  to  farce.  The  admirable  manner  in  which 
the  mistakes  arising  iioui  tlicao  identities  are  conducted,  and  tlie  dignity  given  to  tlie  whole  hy  the 
introduction  of  fine  poetry  most  artistically  interwoven,  are  indicative  of  tliat  liigh  drauiatic  genius 
which  belongs  almost  exclusively  to  Shakespeare.  The  poftical  conversation  between  Luciana  and 
Antipholus  of  Syracuse  reminds  us  forcibly  of  the  '  Sonnets,'  and  the  similar  ideas  in  the  former  are 
strengthened  in  power  by  being  associated  with  a  dramatic  narrative ;  for  had  Shakespeare  not  been  a 
dramatist,  he  would  scarcely  have  ranked  as  so  great  a  poet.  No  play  of  Shakespeare's,  when  eithet 
effectively  read  or  acted,  affords  so  many  subjects  for  broad  merriment  as  this;  and  it  eays  little  for 
the  taste  of  the  present  day,  that  so  many  worthless  pieces  should  be  produced,  wliile  a  regular  drama, 
containing  all  the  best  iiualilies  of  farce,  being  its  general  character  subdued  by  poetic  tn.ste,  sh  )uld  bf 
Buffered  to  remain  entirely  neglected. 


100 


PERSONS    REP  RESENTED. 


SoLiNDs,  Duke  of  EpJmus. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.     Act  V.  so.  1. 

.^QEON,     a     mercliant     of    Syracuse. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.     Act  V.  sc.  1. 

kiiTrpnoLCS  OF  Ephesus,  twin-lrother  to  Anti- 
pliolus  of  Syracuse,  hut  unknown  to  him,  and  son 
to  ^geon  and  Jimilia. 

Appears,  Act  III.  sc,  1.  Act  IV.  sc.  1;  sc.  2.    Act  V.  sc.  1. 

\2<'j.ipnoLUS  OP  Sykaccsb,  twiyi-hrother  to  Antipho- 
lus  of  Ephesnis,  hat  unhiuwn  to  Mm,  and  son  to 
^goon  and  Emilia. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.  Act  II.  sc.  2.  Act  III.  sc.  2. 
Act  IV.  6c.  2.     Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Duomo  or  Ephesus,  (tcin-lrotJur  to  Dromio  of 
Syracuse,  and  an  attendant  on  Antipholus  of 
Ephesus. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.  Act  II.  sc.  1.  Act  III.  sc.  1. 
Act  IV.  sc.  1  ;  sc.  2.     Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Dbomio  of  Syracuse,  tirin-hrother  to  Dromio  of 
EphoBus,  and  an  attendant  on  Antipholus  of 
S3Tacuse. 

if  pears,  Act  1.  sc.  2.  Act  II.  sc,  2.  Act  III.  so.  1;  sc.  2. 
Act  rv.  sc  1 ;  6c.  2.    Act  V.  so.  1. 


Balthazab,  a  merchmA. 

Appears,  Act  111.  sc.  1. 

Angelo,  a  goldsmith. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.  Act  IV.  sc.  1.  Aa  V.  s-.-.  1 

A  Jlcrchant  of  SjTacusc. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.     Act  IV.  sc.  1.     Act  V.  Bc.  1. 

Pixcn,  a  schoolmaster  and  conjuror. 
Ajipcars,  Act  IV.  sc.  2. 

iE.MiLiA,  icife  to  iEgeon,  an  ailess  at  Ephesus 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Aduiana,  teife  to  Antipholus  of  Ephesus. 
Appears,  .A.ct  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.   Act  IV.  sc.  2.    Act  ^'.  sc.  1 

LuciAJiA,  sister  to  Adriana. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.  Act  III.  sc.  2.  Act  IV.  ti:.  '2 
Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Luce,  Iter  servant. 

Appears,   Act    III.     ec.    1. 

A  Courtezan. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  2.    Act  V.  ca.  I . 

Gaoler,  Officers,  and  other  Attertdmt^. 

SCENE,— Ephesus. 
191 


^" 


^!ir  Ciiiiirili!  of  Crrars. 


ACT   I, 


SCENE  I.— A  mil  in  tlu  D'ake'3  Palace. 

Erder  Dusi;,  JEgeox.  Guoler,  Officers,  and.  other 
Attenilants. 

yB7«.  Procoocl,  Solinus,  to  procure  my  fall, 
A  nd,  bj-  the  doom  of  death,  end  woes  and  all. 

Dulce.  Merchant  of  Syracusa,  plead  no  more ; 
'i  am  not  partial  to  infringe  our  laws ; 
The  enmity  and  discord,  which  of  late 
!>pning  from  the  rancorous  outrage  of  your  duke 
To  merchants,  our  well-dealing  countrymen, — 
Who,  wanting  gilders  to  redeem  their  lives,' 
Have  seal'd  his  rigorous  statutes  with  their  bloods — 
Excludes  all  pity  from  our  thrcat'ning  looks. 
For,  since  the  mortal  and  intestine  jars 
'Twixt  thy  seditious  countrymen  and  us, 
It  hath  iu  solemn  s}'nods  been  decreed, 
Both  by  the  Syracusans  and  ourselves, 
To  admit  no  traffic  to  our  adverse  towns : 
Nay,  more; — If  any,  born  at  Ephesus, 
Be  seen  at  any  Syracusan  marts  and  fairs, — 
Again,  if  any  Syracusan  born. 
Come  to  the  bay  of  Ephesus, — ^lie  dies, — 
His  goods  confiscate  to  the  duke's  disposo, 
Unless  a  thousand  marks  be  levied. 
To  quit  the  penalty,  and  to  ransom  him. 
1'hy  substance,  valued  at  the  highest  rate, 
Cannot  amount  \mto  a  hundred  marks  ; 
Therefore,  by  law  thou  art  condomn'd  to  die. 

^^e.  Yet  this  my  comfort,  v.dien  your  words 
are  done, 
102 


My  woes  end  likewise  with  the  evening  sun. 

Bule.  WeU,  SyracusMi,  say,  in  brief,  the  ca:XBe 
Why  thou  departed' st  from  thy  native  homt ; 
And  for  what  cause  thou  cam'st  to  Ephesus. 

uEge.  A  heavier  task  could  not  liave  been  impna'd. 
Than  I  to  speak  my  griefs  unspeakable. 
Yet,  tliat  the  world  may  witness  tl  at  my  end 
Was  wrought  by  nature,"  not  by  vile  offence, 
I  '11  utter  what  my  sorrow  gives  me  leave. 
In  Syracusa  was  I  bom  ;  and  wed 
Unto  a  woman,  happy  but  for  me. 
And  by  mc,^  had  not  our  hap  been  bad. 
With  her  I  liv'd  in  joy ;  our  wealth  increas'd, 
By  prosperous  voyages  I  often  made 
To  Epidamnum,  till  my  factor's  death. 
And  the  great  care  of  goods  at  random  left, 
Drew  me  from  kind  embracements  of  my  spoiiao ; 
From  whom  my  absence  was  not  six  months  old, 
Before  herself  (almost  at  fainting  under 
The  pleasing  punishment  that  women  bear) 
Had  made  pro-vision  for  her  following  mo, 
And  soon  and  safe  arrived  where  1  was. 
There  had  she  not  been  long,  but  she  became 
A  joyful  motlicr  of  two  goodly  sons ; 
And,  wliich  was  strange,  the  one  so  Lke  the  oUioi 
As  could  not  bo  distinguisli'd  but  by  names. 
That  very  hour,  and  in  the  self-same  inn, 
A  poor  uican  woman  was  delivered 
Of  such  a  burthen,  male  twins,  both  alike  : 
Those,  for  their  parents  were  exceeding  poor, 
I  bought,  and  brought  up  to  attend  my  sons. 


COMEDY  OF  EKKOKS. 


bCKNE   I. 


M_v  ivifo,  not  nipanly  prowl  of  two  such  bors 
Made  daily  motions  for  our  home  retuni  : 
Umvilling  I  agreed ;  alas,   too  soon '     We  came 

aboard ; 
A  k'iig-ac  froui  Epidamnum  had  we  sail'd, 
Bf  fjie  the  always- wind-obeying  deep 
Gave  any  tragic  instance  of  our  harm  : 
But  longer  did  wo  not  retain  much  hope ; 
For  what  obscured  light  the  heavens  did  grant 
Did  but  convey  unto  oiu'  fearful  minds 
A  doubtful  warrant  of  immediate  death  ; 
Which,  tliough  myself  would  gladly  have  embrac'd, 
i'et,  the  incessant  weepings  of  my  wife. 
Weeping  before  for  "what  she  saw  must  come, 
And  piteous  plainings  of  the  pretty  babes. 
That  mourn'd  for  fashion,  ignorant  what  to  fear, 
f  orc'd  mo  to  seek  dela3-s  for  them  and  me. 
And  this  it  was — for  other  means  was  none. — 
The  sailors  sought  for  safety  by  our  boat. 
And  left  the  ship,  then  sinking-ripe,  to  us: 
-My  -^^-ife,  more  carcfid  for  the  latter  bom , 
Elad  fasten'd  him  unto  a  small  spare-mast, 
Such  as  seafaring  men  pro'^'ide  for  storms : 
To  him  one  of  the  other  twins  was  bound, 
VVliilst,  I  had  been  like  heedful  of  tlie  other. 
''I'hc  children  thus  dispos'd,  my  wife  and  I, 
fixing  our  eyes  on  whom  our  care  was  fix'd, 
Fasten'd  ourselves  at  either  end  the  mast ; 
And,  floating  straight,  obedient  to  the  stream. 
Were  carried  towards  Corinth,  as  we  thought. 
.At  length  the  sun,  gazing  upon  the  earth, 
Dispcrs'd  those  vapours  that  oftended  us ; 
And,  by  the  benefit  of  his  wished  light, 
The  seas  wax'd  calm,  and  we  discovered 
Two  ships  from  far  making  amain  to  us. 
Of  Corinth  that,  of  Epidaurus  this  : 
But  ere  they  came, —  0,  let  me  say  no  more  ! 
Gather  the  sequel  by  that  went  before. 

Bulce.  Nay,  forward,  old  man,  do  ncrt  break  off  so ; 
For  we  may  pitj-,  though  not  pardon  thee. 

uJHije.  0,  had  the  gods  done  so,  I  had  not  now 
Worthily  term'd  them  merciless  to  us! 
For  ere  the  ships  could  meet  by  twice  five  leagues, 
We  were  encounter'd  by  a  mighty  rock  ; 
\Miich  being  violently  borne  upon, 
Q\vc  helpful  ship  was  splitted  in  the  midst, 
i>o  tluit,  in  tills  unjust  divorce  of  us, 
Fortime  had  left  to  both  of  us  alike 
What  to  delight  in,  what  to  sorrow  for. 
Her  part,  poor  soul !  seeming  as  burdened 
V^'ith  lesser  weight,  but  not  with  lesser  woe, 
W^as  carried  with  more  speed  before  tlie  wind  ; 


And  in  our  siglit  they  three  wore  taken  up 
V>y  fishermen  of  Corinth,  as  we  thought. 
At  length,  another  ship  had  seiz'd  on  us ; 
And,  knowing  whom  it  was  their  hap  to  save, 
Gave   healthful   widcome*   to   their    shipwreck' 

guests  ; 
And  would  have  reft  the  fishers  of  their  prey, 
Had  not  their  bark  been  very  slow  of  sail. 
And  therefore  homeward  did  tlioy  Ix'nd  their  couisc. 
Thus  have  you  heard  me  sever'd  from  my  tlisa ; 
That  by  rhisfortunes  was  my  life  prolong' d. 
To  tell  sad  stories  of  my  own  mishaps. 

Duhe.  And,   for    the  sake    of  them    thou   sor- 
rowest  for. 
Do  me  the  favour  to  dilate  at  full 
"VMiat  hath  befaH'n  of  them,  and  thee,  till  now. 

^g0.  My  youngest  boy,  and  yet  my  eldest  euro 
At  eighteen  years  became  inquisitive 
After  his  brother ;  and  importun'd  me 
That  his  attendant  (so  his  case  was  like, 
Ivcft  of  his  brother,  but  retain'd  his  name) 
Might  boar  him  company  in  the  quest  of  him  : 
Whom  whilst  I  laboured  of  a  love  to  sec, 
I  hazarded  the  loss  of  whom  I  lov'd. 
Five  summers  have  I  spent  in  farthest  Greece, 
Eoaming  clean  through  the  bounds  of  Asia, 
And,  coasting  homeward,  came  to  Ephesus ; 
Hopeless  to  find,  yet  loth  to  leave  unsought, 
Or  that,  or  any  place  that  harbours  men. 
But  here  must  end  the  story  of  my  life ; 
A.nd  happy  were  I  in  my  timely  death, 
Coiild  all  ray  travels  warrant  me  they  live. 

Buke.  Hapless   ^geon,   whom   the  fates  have 
marV:'d 
To  bear  the  extremity  of  dire  mishap  ! 
Now,  trust  me,  were  it  not  against  om-  laws, 
Against  my  cro-vvu,  my  oath,  my  dignity 
Which  princes,  woiild  they,  may  not  disannul, 
My  soul  sb.ould  sue  as  advocate  for  thee. 
But,  though  thou  art  adjudged  to  the  death, 
And  passed  sentence  may  not  be  recall'd 
But  to  our  honour's  great  disparagement, 
Yet  will  I  favour  thee  in  what  I  can : 
Therefore,  mercliant,  I  "U  limit  thee  this  day, 
To  seek  thj'  help  by  beneficial  help : 
Try  all  the  friends  thou  hast  in  Ephesus: 
Beg  thou,  or  bon'ow,  to  make  up  the  sum, 
And  live ;  if  no,  then  thou  art  doom'd  to  die ; — 
Gaoler,  take  him  to  thy  custody. 

Goal.  I  will,  my  lord. 

^ye.  Hopeless  and  helpless  doth  -.Pigeon  wend 
But  to  proci'astiuate  his  liveless  eud.  [Et'ni.j.i 

19,1 


COMEDY  OF  ERROKS. 


8ci:nk  n 


SCENE  11.—^  pullic  Place. 

^nier  Aktiphoi.us  and  Dromio  of  Syracuse,  and  a 

Mekchant. 

Mer.  Tnerefore  give  out  you  are  of  Epidamnum, 
\r%X  that  your  goods  too  soon  be  confiscate. 
This  verj-  day,  a  SjTacusan  merchant 
Is  apprehended  for  arrival  licre ; 
And,  not  being  able  to  buy  out  his  life, 
According  to  the  statute  of  the  town, 
Dies  ere  the  weary  sun  set  in  the  west, 
rhere  is  yovtr  money  that  I  had  to  keep. 

Ant.  S.  Go,  bear  it  to  the  Centaur,  where  we 
host. 
And  stay  there,  Dromio,  till  I  come  to  thee. 
Within  tliis  hour  it  will  be  dinner-time : 
Till  that,  I'll  view  the  manners  of  the  town, 
I'eruse  the  traders,  gaze  upon  the  buildings. 
And  then  return,  and  sleep  within  mine  inn ; 
For  with  long  travel  I  am  stiff  and  weary. 
Get  thee  away 

Dro.  S.  Many  a  man  would  take  j'ou  at  your 
word, 
And  go  indeed,  having  so  good  a  mean. 

[£xit  Deo.  S. 

Ani.  S.  A  trjsty  ^allain,'  sir,  that  very  oft, 
Wlien  I  am  dull  with  care  and  melancholy, 
lightens  my  humour  with  his  merry  jests. 
Wliat,  will  you  walk  with  me  about  the  town, 
And  then  go  to  my  inn  and  dine  with  me  ? 

3Ier.  I  am  invited,  sir,  to  certain  merchants. 
Of  whom  I  hope  to  make  much  benefit ; 
I  crave  your  pardon.     Soon  at  five  o'clock, 
i-iease  you,  I  '11  meet  with  you  upon  the  mart, 
And  afterward  consort  you  till  bedtime  ; 
My  present  business  calls  me  from  you  now. 

Ant.  S.  Farewell   tiU  then  :     I   will   go   lose 
myself, 
And  wander  up  and  down,  to  view  the  city. 

Mer.  Sir,  I  commend  you  to  j"our  owti  content. 

\^Extt  Mer. 

A)if.  S.  Ho  that  commends  me  to  mine  own 
content 
Commends  me  to  the  thing  I  cannot  get. 
I  to  the  world  am  like  a  drop  of  water, 
That  in  the  ocean  seeks  another  drop ; 
Who,  falling  there  to  find  his  fellow  forth. 
Unseen,  inquisitive,  confounds  liimsclf : 
60  I,  to  find  a  mother  and  a  brother. 
In  quest  01  them,  unhappy,  lose  myself. 

Ejiter  Dkomio  of  Ephesus. 
Hero  comes  the  almanac  of  my  true  date." — 
104 


Wliat  now  ?     How   chance  t-hou  art  retuni'ii  > 
soon  r 
Dro.  E.    Ileturn'd  so  soon  !    rnther  aj.proaf  1-.  rl 
too  late : 
Tlie  capon  burns,  the  pig  falls  from  the  spit ; 
The  clock  hath  strucken  twelve  upon  the  bell, 
My  mistress  made  it  one  upon  my  cheek  : 
She  is  so  hot,  because  the  meat  is  cold ; 
The  meat  is  cold,  because  you  come  not  home 
Youcome  not  home,  because  j'ou  have  no  storaacli ; 
You  have  no  stomach,  having  broke  your  fast ; 
But  we,  that  know  what 't  is  to  fast  and  pray, 
Are  penitent  for  your  delimit  to-day. 

Ant.  S.  Stop  in  your  wind,  sir ;  teU  me  lliis, 
I  pray : 
WTiere  have  you  left  the  money  that  I  gave  you  ? 
Dro.  E.  0, — sixpence,  that  I  had  0'  Wedn'sday 
last. 
To  pay  the  saddler  for  my  mistress'  crupper , 
The  saddler  had  it,  sir ;  I  kept  it  not. 

Ant.  S.  I  am  not  in  a  sportive  humour  now  : 
TeU  me,  and  dally  not,  where  is  the  money  r 
"We  being  strangers  here,  how  dair'st  thou  trust 
So  great  a  charge  from  thine  ovra  custody  ? 

Dro.  E.    I  pray  you,  jest,    sir,    as   you  sit  o' 
dumer : 
I  from  my  mistress  come  to  you  in  post ; 
If  I  return,  I  shall  be  post  indeed ;' 
For  she  wiU  score  j'our  fault  upon  my  pate. 
Metliinks  your  maw,   like  mine,  should  De  you! 

cook. 
And  strike  you  home  without  a  messenger. 

Ant.  S.    Come,  Dromio,  come,  these  jests  aie 
out  of  season ; 
Eeserve  them  till  a  merrier  hour  than  this : 
"Uliere  is  the  gold  I  gave  in  charge  to  thee  ? 
Dro.  E.    To  mc,  sir?    whj-,  you  gave  no  gold 

to  me. 
Ant.  S.  Come  on,   sir  knave  ;  have  done  youi 
foolishness. 
And  tcU  me  how  thou  hast  dispos'd  thy  charge. 
Dro.  E.  My  charge  was  but  to  fetch  you  trom 
the  mart 
Home  to  your  house,  the  Pliocnix,  fir,  to  dinner : 
My  mistress  and  her  sister  stay  for  you. 

Ant.  S.  Now,  as  I  am  a  Christian,  answer  ni( . 
In  what  safe  place  you  have  befitow'd  my  money, 
Or  I  shall  break  that  meny  sconce  of  yours. 
That  stands  on  tri."ks  v.dicn  I  am  undispos'd  : 
Where  is  the  thousantV  marks  thou  hadst  of  mo  ? 
Dro  E.  I  have  some  marks  of  yours  upon  nij 
pate, 


COMEDY  OF  EllliOES. 


Some  of  my  mistress'  marks  upon  my  shoulders, 
But  not  a  thousand  marks  between  you  both. 
If  I  should  pay  your  worship  those  again, 
Perchance  you  will  not  bear  them  patiently. 
Ant.  S.  Thy  mistress'   marks  ?  what  mistress, 

slave,  hast  thou  ? 
Dro.  £.  Your  worship's  wife,  my  mistress  at 
the  Phcenix ; 
She  that  doth  fast  till  you  come  homo  to  dinner. 
And  prays  that  you  will  hie  you  home  to  dinner. 
Ant.  S.  What,  wilt  thou  flout  me  thus  luito 
my  face. 
Being  forbid  ?     There,  take  you  that,  sir  knave. 
Dro.  £.  What  mean  you,  sii-  ?  for  God's  sake, 
hold  your  hands : 


Nay,  an  you  vn\l  not,  sir,  I'll  take  my  heels 

[Exit  Dko.  E. 
Ant.   S.    Upon  my    life,   by  some    device    oi 
other. 
The  villain  is  o'er-raiight'  of  all  my  money. 
They  say  this  town  is  full  of  cozenage  ; 
As,  nimble  jugglers  that  deceive  the  eye, 
Dark-working  sorcerers  that  change  the  mLad. 
Soul-kUling  witches  that  deform  the  body 
Disguised  cheaters,  prating  mountebanks, 
And  many  such  like  liberties  of  sin:' 
If  it  prove  so,  I  will  be  gone  the  sooner 
I  '11  to  the  Centaur,  to  go  seek  this  slavo  ; 
I  greatly  fear  my  money  is  not  safe. 

Eiit 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  I. — A  Sail  in  the  house  of  Antipholus  of 
Ephesus. 

Enter  Ajeiaij a  and  LnaANA. 

Adr.  Neither  my  husband,  nor  the  slave  retum'd, 
That  in  such  haste  I  sent  to  seek  his  master ! 
Sure,  Luoiana,  it  is  two  o'clock. 

Ltic.  Perhaps,  some  merchant  hath  invited  him, 
And  from  the  mart  he 's  somewhere  gone  to  dinner. 
Good  sister,  let  us  dine,  and  never  fret : 
A  man  is  master  of  his  liberty  : 
Time  is  their  master ;  and  when  they  see  time, 
They  'U  go,  or  come.    If  so,  be  patient,  sister. 

Adr.  Why  should   their  liberty  th;m  ours  be 
more? 

Zuc.  Because  their  business  still  lies  out  o'  door. 

Adr.  Look,  when  I  serve  him  so,  he  takes  it  iU. 

Zuc.  0,  know,  he  is  the  bridle  of  your  wiU 

Adr.  There  's  none  but  asses  will  be  bridled  so. 

Zuc.  "Why,    headstrong   liberty  is  lash'd  with 
woe.'° 
There's  nothing  situate  under  heaven's  eye 
But  hath  his  bound,  in  earth,  in  sea,  in  sky  : 
The  beasts,  the  fishes,  and  the  winged  fowls, 
.Vjb  their  males'  subjects,  and  at  their  controls : 
Men,  more  divine,  the  masters  of  all  these. 
Lords  of  the  wide  world,  and  wild  wat'r)-  seas 
Indued  with  intellectual  sense  and  souls. 
Of  more  pre-eminence  that  fish  and  fowls, 


Are  masters  to  their  females,  and  their  lords : 
Then  let  your  will  attend  on  their  accords. 

Adr.  Tliis  servitude  makes  you  to  keep  unwed 

Zuc.  Not  this,  but  troubles  of  the    marriage 
Led. 

Adr.    But  were  you  wedded,  you  would  bcai 
some  sway. 

Zuc.  Ere  I  learn  love,  I  'U  practise  to  obey. 

Adr.  How  if  your   husband   start  some  othei 
where  ? 

ZiiC.  Tin  he  came  home  again,  1  would  forbear 

Adr.  Patience  unmov'd !  no  marvel  though  she 
pause  ;  . 
They  can  be  meek  that  have  no  other  cause. 
A  wretched  sold,  bruis'd  with  adversity, 
We  bid  be  quiet  when  we  hear  it  cry ; 
But  were  we  burden'd  with  like  weight  of  pain," 
As  much,  or  more,  we  should  ourselves  complain : 
So  thou,  that  hast  no  unkind  mate  to  grieve  thee. 
With  urging  helpless  patience'-  would  relieve  me: 
But,  if  thou  live  to  see  like  right  bereft, 
This  fool-begg'd  patience"  in  thee  will  be  left. 

Zuc.  Well,  I  wUl  marry  one  day,  but  to  try  ;— ■ 
Here  comes  your  man  ;  now  is  youi-  husband  nigh 

Enter  Dro-mio  of  Ephesus. 

Adr.  Say,  is  yom-  tardy  mastei  now  at  hand  ? 
Dro.  E.  Nay,  he  's  at  two  hands  with  me  anc 
that  my  two  ears  can  witness. 

195 


COIIEDY  OF  ERKOKS. 


Adr.  Say,  didst  thou  rpeak  vrith.  Lirj  ?  know'st 
tliou  liis  mind  ? 

Dro.  E.  Ay,  ay,  he  told  his  mind  upon  mine 
ear.  Beshrew  Lis  hand  !  I  scarce  could  under- 
tand  it." 

Liie.  Spake  he  so  doubtfully,  thou  couldst  not 
feel  his  meaning  ? 

3ro.  E.  H^ay,  he  struck  so  jjlainly  I  could  too 
wcU  feel  his  blows ;  and  •n'ithal  so  doubtfully,  that 
I  could  scai'ce  imderstand  them. 

Adr.  Bat  say,  I  prithee,  is  he  coming  home  ? 
It  seems  he  hath  great  care  to  please  his  wife. 

Bro.  E.  "Wliy,  mistress,  sure  my  master  is 
Lorn-mad. 

Adr.  Hom-mad,  thou  villain  ? 
Dro.  E.  I  mean  not  cuckold  mad ; 
But  sure  he  is  stark  mad  : 
When  I  desir'd  him  to  come  home  to  dinner, 
He  ask'd  me  for  a  thousand  marks  in  gold : 
"  'T  is  dinner-time,"  quoth  I ;   "  My  gold,"  quoth 

he: 
"Tour  meat  doth  bum,"   quoth  I;   "My  gold," 

quoth  he  : 
"Will  you  come?"  quoth  I ;    "My  gold,"  quoth 

he: 
'  Where    is   the   thousand  marks    I    gave    thee, 

^•iUain  ? " 
"The  pig,"  quoth  I,  "is  bm-n'd;"   "My  gold," 

quoth  he  : 
"My  mistress,    sir,"    quoth  I;     "Hang  up  thy 

mistress ; 
I  know  not  thy  mistress ;  out  on  thj'  misti'ess !" 
Luc.  Quoth  who  ? 
Dro.  E.  Quoth  my  master. 
"'  I  know,"   quoth  ho,  "  no   house,   no  wife,   no 

mistress;" 
So  that  my  arrant,  due  unto  my  tongue, 
I  thank  him,  I  bare  home  upon  my  shoulders  ; 
For,  in  conclusion,  he  did  beat  me  there. 

Adr.  Go  back  again,  thou  slave,  and  fetch  him 

home. 
Dro.  E.  Go  back  again,  and  be  new  beaten  home? 
For  God's  sake  send  some  other  messenger. 
Adr.  Bauk,  slave,  or  I  wUl  break  tliy  pate  across. 
Dro.  E.    And  he   -ndU   bless   that  cross   with 
otlicr  beating  : 
Between  you  I  sliuU  have  a  holy  head. 

Adr.  Hence,  prating  peasant !  fetch  thy  master 

home. 
Dro.  E.  Am  I  so  round  with  you,  as  you  with  me, 
riuit  like  a  football  you  do  spuin  me  tlms  ? 
i'ou  spurn  me  hence,  and  ho  wOl  spurn  me  hither  : 
l«6 


If   I  last  in  this   service,  you    must  case  me  in 
leather.  [Exit. 

Luc.  Fie,  how  impatience  louretli  in  your  face  I 

Adr.  His  company  must  do  his  minions  grace, 
"RTiilst  I  at  home  starve  for  a  merry  look ! 
Hath  homely  age  th'  alluring  beauty  took 
From  my  poor  cheek  ?  then  he  hath  wasted  it : 
Are  my  discourses  dull  ?  barren  my  wit  ? 
If  voluble  and  sharp  discourse  be  marr'd, 
Unkindncss  blunts  it  more  than  marble  hard. 
Do  their  gay  vestments  his  affections  bait  ? 
That  's  not  my  fault,  he  's  master  of  my  state : 
Wliat  ruins  are  in  me  that  can  be  found 
By  him  not  ruin'd  ?  then  is  he  the  groimd 
Of  my  defeatures  :'*  My  decayed  fair 
A  sunny  look  of  his  would  soon  repair : 
But,  too  unruly  deer,  he  breaks  the  pale, 
And  feeds  from  home  :  poor  I  am  but  his  stale." 

Luc.  Self  harming  jealousy ! — fie  !  beat  it  hence. 

Adr.     UufeeHng  fools  can    with    such  wrongs 
dispense  ! 
I  know  his  eye  doth  homage  otherwhere ; 
Or  else,  what  lets  it  but  he  would  be  here  ? 
Sister,  you  know  he  promis'd  me  a  chain  ; — 
Would  that  alone  alone  he  would  detain," 
So  he  woidd  keep  fair  quarter  with  Lis  bed ! 
I  sec,  the  jewel  best  enamelled 
Will  lose  his  beauty,  yet  the  gold  'bides  still, 
That  others  touch  ;  and  often  touching  will 
Wear  gold ;  and  no  man,  that  hath  a  name, 
By  falsehood  and  con'uption  doth  it  shame ! 
Since  that  my  beauty  cannot  please  his  eye, 
I  'U  weep  what 's  left  away,  and  weeping  die. 

Luc.  How  many  fond  fools  servo  mad  jealousy  ! 

\_Exeuni. 

SCEXE  II. — A  Streei  in  Ephesus,  near  the  how. 
of  Antipholus. 

Enter  ANiirnoLUs  of  S3Tacuse. 

Ant.  S.  The  gold  I  gave  to  Dromio  is  laid  ap 
Safe  at  the  Centaur ;  and  the  heedful  slave 
Is  wandcr'd  forth,  in  care  to  seek  mo  out. 
By  computation  and  mine  host's  report, 
I  could  not  speak  with  Dromio,  since  at  first 
I  sent  him  from  the  mart :  See,  here  he  comes. 

Enter  Dbomio  of  Syracuse. 

How  now,  sir  ?  is  your  merry  humour  alter'd  ? 
As  }-ou  love  strokes,  so  jest  with  me  again. 
You  kn(jw  no  Centaur  ?  you  receiv'd  nc  gold  ? 
Your  mistress  sent  to  have  mc  home  to  dinner  ? 


Atrr  n. 


COMEDY  OF  ERllOES. 


BCEKE   n. 


ify  house  was  at  the  Phienix  ?     Wast  tliou  mad, 
'i'ltat  thvis  sc  madly  thou  didst  answer  me  ? 

D)u.  a.    What    answer,   sii  ?      When  spake  I 

such  a  word  ? 
Ant,  S.  Even  now,  even  here,  not  half  an  hour 

since. 
Dio.  S.  I  did  not  see  you  since  you  sent  me 
hence 
ffome  to  the  Centaur,  with  the  gold  yon  gave  me. 
A}it.   8.    Villain,  thou    didst  deny  the    gold's 
receipt, 
And  told'st  me  of  a  mistress,  and  a  dinner  ; 
For  ■which,  I  hope,  thou  felt'st  I  was  displeas"d. 
Dro.  S.    I  am  glad  to  see  you  in  this  merry 
vein  : 
WTiat  means    this   jest?     I    pray   you,    master, 
tell  me. 
Ant.  S.  Yea,  dost  thou  jeer,  and  flout  me  in 
the  teeth  ? 
Think'st  tliou  I  jcot?     Hold,  take  thou  that,  and 
that.  \_Beating  him. 

Dro.   S.  Hold,  sir,  for  God's  sake  :  now  your 
jest  is  earnest : 
Upon  what  bargain  do  you  give  it  me  ? 

AtU.  S.  Because  that  I  familiarly  sometimes 
Do  use  you  for  my  fool,  and  chat  with  you. 
Four  saucincss  wiU  jest  upon  mj'  love, 
And  make  a  common  of  my  serious  hours." 
When  the  sun  sliincs,  let  foolish  gnats  make  sport, 
But  creep  in  crannies  when  lie  hides  his  beaais. 
If  you  will  jest  with  me,  know  my  aspect, 
And  fashion  your  demeanour  to  my  looks. 
Or  I  will  beat  tiiig  method  in  your  sconce." 

Dro.  S.   Sconce  call  }"ou  it  ?  so  you  would  leave 
battering,  I  had  rather  have  it  a  head  :  an  j'ou  use 
these  blows  long,  I  must  get  a  sconce  for  my  head, 
and  iiisconoe  it  too ;  or  else  I  shall  seek  m)-  wit  in 
my  shoulders.     But,  I  pray  sir,  why  am  I  beaten  ? 
Ant.  S.  Dost  thou  not  know  ? 
Dro.  S.  Nothing,  sir ;  but  that  I  am  beaten. 
Atit.  S.  ShaU  i  tell  you  why  ? 
Dro.  S.  Ay,  sir,  and  wherefore ;  for,  lliey  say, 
eveiy  why  hath  a  wherefore. 

Ant.  S.  Why,  first — for  flouting  me  ;  and  then, 
wherefore, — 
For  urging  it  the  second  time  to  me. 
Dro.  S.  AVas  there  ever  any  man  thus  beaten 
OTit  of  season  ? 
When,  in  the  why,  and  the  wherefore,  is  neither 

rhyme  nor  reason  ? 
Well,  sir,  I  thank  you. 

Ant.  S.  Thank  me,  sir "  fur  what  ? 


Dro.  S.  Afarrj-,  sir,  for  this  something  that  you 
gave  me  for  notliing. 

Ant.  S.  I  '11  make  you  amends  next,  to  give  you 
nothing  for  something.  But,  say,  sir,  is  it  dinner- 
time ? 

Dro.  S.  No,  sir;  I  tliink  the  meat  wants  tliat  I 
have. 

Ant.  S.  In  good  time,  sir;  v/liat  's  that? 
Dro.  S.  Basting. 

Ant.  S.  Well,  sir,  then  't  will  be  dry. 
Dro.  S.  If  it  be,  sir,  I  pray  you  eat  noao  of  it. 
Ant.  S.  Your  reason  ? 

Dro.  S.  Lest  it  make  you  choleric,  and  pur- 
chase me  another  dry  basting. 

Ant.  S.  V/ell,  sir,  learn  to  jest  in  good  time. 
There  's  a  time  for  all  things. 

Dro.  S.  1  durst  have  denied  that,  before  you 
were  so  choleric. 

Ant.  S.  By  what  rule,  sir  ? 
Bro.  S.  Harry,    sir,  by  a  rule  as  plain  as  the 
plajji  bald  pate  of  father  Time  himself. 
Ant.  S.  Let  "s  hear  it. 

Dro.  S.  There 's  no  time  for  a  man  to  recover 
his  hail',  that  gi-ows  bald  by  nature. 

Ant.  S.  May  he  not  doit  by  fine  and  recovery: 
Dro.  ,S.  Yes,  to  pay  a  fine  for  a  periwig,   an'^ 
recover  the  lost  liair  of  another  man. 

Ant.  8.  Why  is  Time  such  a  niggaiu  ^f  hair, 
being,  as  it  is,  so  plentiful  an  excrement  ? 

Dro.  8.  Because'it  is  a  blessing  that  he  bestows 
on  beasts :  and  what  he  luith  scanted  men  in  hair, 
he  hath  given  them  in  wit. 

Ant.  8.  Why,  but  there  's  many  a  man  hath 
more  hair  than  w^t. 

Dro.  8.  Not  a  man  of  those  but  he  hath  tiw 
■wit  to  lose  his  hair. 

Ant.  8.  Why,  thou  didst  conclude  hairy  men 
plain  dealers  witliout  wit. 

Dro.  8.   The  plainer  dealer,   the  soonei    lost : 
Yet  he  ioseth  it  in  a  lund  of  jollity. 
Ant.  8.  For  what  reason  ? 
Dro.  8.  For  two ;  and  sound  ones  too. 
Ant.  8.  Nay,  not  sound,  I  pray  you. 
Dro.  8.  Sure  ones  then. 
Ant.  8.  Nay,  not  sure,  in  a  thing  falling'. 
Dro.  8.  Certain  ones  then. 
Atit.  S.  Name  them. 

Dro.  8.  The  one,  to  save  the  money  ihat  Lc 
spends  in  trimming;™  the  other,  that  at  dinner 
they  should  not  drop  in  his  porridge. 

Ant.  8.  You  would  all  this  time  havff  orov'd 
there  is  no  time  for  all  things. 

197 


COMEDY  OF  EimOKS. 


Dro.  S.  5]  arrv.  and  did,  sir  ;  namely^  in  no  time 
to  recover  liair  lost  by  nature. 

Ant.  S.  But  your  reason  was  not  substantial, 
ttliy  tlicre  is  no  time  to  recover. 

Dro.  S.  Thus  I  mend  it :  Time  himself  is  bald, 
and  therefore  to  the  world's  end  T^-ill  have  bald 
followers. 

An(.  S.  I  knew  't  would  be  a  bald  conclusion  : 
liut,  soft,  who  wafts  us  yonder  ? 

I.\ier  Adeuna  and  Lucian.v. 

Adr.  Ay,    ay,    Antipholus,    look   strange,   and 
frown ; 
Some  other  mistress  hath  thy  sweet  aspects : 
I  am  not  Adriana,  nor  thy  wife. 
The  time  was  once,  when  thou  unurg'd  wouldst  vow 
That  never  words  were  music  to  thine  car. 
That  never  object  pleasing  in  thine  ej-e, 
That  never  touch  well- welcome  to  thy  hand, 
That  never  meat  swcet-savour'd  in  thy  taste, 
Unless  I  spake,  or  look'd,  or  touch'd,  or  carv'd  to 

thee. 
How  comes  it  now,  my  husband,  oh,  how  comes  it, 
That  thou  art  then  estranged  from  thj-self  ? 
Thyself  I  call  it,  being  strange  to  me. 
That,  undi\'idable,  incorporate, 
Am  better  tlian  thy  dear  self's  better  part. 
Ah,  do  not  tear  awaj'  thyself  from  me ; 
For  know,  my  love,  as  easj'  mayst  thou  fall 
A  drop  of  water  in  the  breaking  gulf, 
And  take  unminglod  thence  that  drop  again, 
Without  addition  or  diminishing. 
As  take  from  me  thj-self,  and  not  me  too. 
How  dcarl}'  would  it  touch  thee  to  the  quick, 
Shouldst  thou  but  hear  I  were  Kcentious ! 
And  that  tliis  bod}-,  consecrate  to  thee, 
By  ruffian  lust  should  be  contaminate  ! 
M'ouldst  tiiou  not  spit  at  me,  and  spurn  at  mo. 
And  hurl  the  name  of  husband  in  my  face. 
And  tear  the  stain'd  skin  off  my  harlot  brow,-' 
And  from  my  false  hand  cut  the  wedding-ring. 
And  break  it  with  a  deep-divorcing  vow  .■ 
I  know  thou  canst ;  and  therefore  see  thou  do  it. 
I  am  possess'd  with  an  adulterate  blot; 
My  blood  is  mingled  with  the  crime  of  lust: 
For,  if  we  two  be  one,  and  thou  play  false, 
I  Jo  digest  the  poison  of  thy  flesh, 
lioing  strumpetcd  by  thy  contagion. 
Keep  then  fair  league  and  truce  with  thy  true  bed; 
I  live  iinstain'd,  thou,  undislionoured. 

Ant.  S.  Plead  you  to  me,  fair  dame?  I  know 
you  not : 


In  Ephesus  I  am  but  two  houi-s  old. 
As  strange  unto  j-our  town  as  to  your  talk  ; 
Who,  every  word  by  all  my  wit  being  scanii'd. 
Wants  wit  in  all  one  word  to  understand. 
Zuc.  Fie,   brother !  how  the  world  is  chang'a 
^^'ith  you ! 
^Mien  were  you  wont  to  use  my  sister  thus  ? 
She  sent  for  you  by  Dromio  homo  to  dinner. 
Ant.  S.  By  Dromio  ? 
Dro.  S.  By  me  ? 

Adr.  By  thee ;  and  this  thou  didst  return  froni 
him, — 
That  he  did  buffet  thee,  and,  in  his  blows, 
Denied  my  house  for  his,  me  for  his  wife. 

Ant.  S.  Did  you  converse,  sir,  with  this  gentle- 
woman ? 
^Tiat  is  the  course  and  drift  of  your  compact  ? 
Dro.  S.  I,  sir  ?     I  never  saw  her  till  this  time 
A?it.  S.  Villain,  thou  liest ;  for  even  her  vei j 
words 
Didst  thou  deliver  to  me  on  the  mart. 

Dro.  S.  I  never  spake  with  her  in  all  my  life. 
Ant.  S.  How  can  she  thus  then  call  us  by  ou 
names. 
Unless  it  be  by  inspiration  ? 

Adr.  How  ill  agrees  it  with  j-our  gi-a\ity 
To  counterfeit  thus  grossly  ^-ith  j-our  slave, 
Abetting  him  to  thwart  me  in  my  mood ! 
Be  it  my  wrong,  you  are  from  me  exempt," 
But  wrong  not  that  wrong  with  a  more  contempt. 
Come,  I  will  fasten  on  this  sleeve  of  thine : 
Thou  art  an  elm,  my  husband,  I  a  vine, 
WTiosc  weakness,  married  to  th}'  stronger  state, 
Makes  me  wth  thy  strength  to  communicate  : 
If  aught  possess  thee  from  me,  it  is  dross, 
Usurping  i^-}-,  briar,  or  idle  moss ; 
Who,  all  for  want  of  pruning,  with  intrusion 
Infect  thy  sap,  and  live  on  thy  confusion. 

Ant.  S.  To  me  she  speaks ;  she  moves  me  for 
her  theme : 
"Wliat,  was  I  married  to  her  in  my  dream  ? 
Or  sleep  I  now,  and  think  I  hear  all  this? 
AVhat  eiTor  drives  our  eyes  and  eai-s  amiss  ? 
Until  I  know  this  sure  uncertainty, 
I  '11  entertain  the  forced  fallacy. 

Luc.    Dromio,   go  bid  tlio  servants  spread  foi 

dinner. 
Dro.  S.  0,  for  ray  beads!  I  cross  me  for  a  sinner 
This  is  the  fairy  land; — O,  spite  of  spiles! 
We  talk  with  goblins,  owls,  and  elvish  sprites;'' 
If  we  obey  them  not,  this  will  ensue, 
They  '11  suck  our  breath,  or  pincOi  us  black  and  bluo. 


^OJIEDY  OF  EJiEOKS. 


8CENE    I. 


Luc.  Wliy  prat'st  thou  to  thyself,  and  answer'st 
not? 
Dromio,  thou  Dromio,  thou  snail,  thou  slug,  thou 

sot! 
Dro.  S.  I  am  transformed,  master,  am  I  not  ? 
Ani.  S.  I  think  thou  art,  in  mind,  and  so  am  I. 
Dro.   S.  Nay,  master,  both  in  mind,  and  in  my 

shape. 
Ant.  S.  Tliou  hast  thino  own  form. 
Dro.  S.  No,  I  am  an  ape. 

Luc.  If  thou  art  chaiij^'d  to  aught,  't  is  to  an  ass. 
Dro.  S.  'T  is  true ;  slie  rides  me,  and  I  long  for 
grass. 
'T  is  so,  I  am  an  ass ;  else  it  could  never  be, 
But  I  should  know  lier  as  wcU  as  she  knows  mc. 

Adr.  Come,  come,  no  longer  wiU  I  be  a  fool, 
To  put  the  finger  in  the  eye  and  weep. 


Whilst  man  and  master  laugh  my  woes  to  sconi. 
Come,  sir,  to  dinner ;  Dromio,  keep  the  gate  • — 
Husband,  I  '11  dine  above  with  you  to-day, 
And  shrive  you  of  a  thousand  idle  pranks ; 
Sirrah,  if  any  ask  you  for  your  master, 
Say,  he  dines  forth,  and  let  no  creature  entei. 
Come,  sister : — Dromio,  play  the  porter  well. 

Ant.  S.  Am  I  in  earlh,  in  heaven,  or  in  hell? 
Sleeping,  or  waldng  ?  mad,  or  weU-advis'd  ? 
Known  unto  these,  and  to  myself  disguis'd  I 
I  '11  say  as  they  say,  and  persever  so," 
And  in  this  mist  at  all  adventures  go. 

Dro.  S.  Master,  shall  I  bo  porter  at  the  gate  ? 

Adr.  Ay ;  and  let  none  enter,  lest  I  break  youi 
pate. 

Zao.  Come,  come,  Antipholus,  we  dine  too  late. 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I. — A  public  place  opposite  the  house  of 
Antipholus  o/Ephesus. 

Enter  ksTipno-Lvs  o/Ephesus,  Dkomio  o/Ephesus, 
Angelo,  and  Baithazak. 

Ant.  E.  Good  signior  Angelo,  you  must  excuse 
us  aU. 
My  wife  is  shrewish,  when  I  keep  not  hours  : 
Saj%  that  I  linger'd  with  you  at  your  shop, 
To  see  the  making  of  her  caroanet," 
And  that  to-morrow  you  wiU  bring  it  home. 
But  here  's  a  villain,  that  would  face  mo  do\vn 
Ha  met  me  on  the  mart;  and  that  I  beat  him, 
And  charg'd  him  witli  a  thousand  marks  in  gold ; 
And  that  I  did  deny  my  wife  and  house : 
Thou  drunkard,  thou,  what  didst  thou  mean  by  this? 

Dro.  E.  Say  what  you  will,  sir,  but  I  know 
what  I  know : 
That  you  beat  me  at  the  mart,  I  have  your  hand 

to  s'liow : 
[f  tlie  skin  were  parchment,  and  the  blows  you 

gave  were  ink, 
i'our  own  handwriting  would  tell  you  what  I  think. 

Ant.  E.  I  think  thou  art  an  ass. 

Dro.  E.  Marry,  so  it  doth  appear 

By  the  wrongs  I  suffer  and  the  blows  I  bear. 
I  should  kick,  being  kick'd;  and,  lieing  at  that  pass, 


You  would  keep  from  my  heels,  and  beware  of  au 
ass. 
Ant.  E.  Y'  are  sad,  signior  Balthazar:  'Pray 
God,  our  cheer 
May  answer  my  good  wiU,  and  your  good  welcome 
here. 
Bal.  I  hold  your  dainties  cheap,  sii-,  and  your 

welcome  dear. 
Ant.  E.  0,  signior  Balthazar,  either  at  flesh  or 
fish, 
A  table  fuU  of  welcome  makes  scarce  one  dainty 
dish. 
Bal.  Good  meat,    sir,   is  common;  that  every 

churl  aifords. 
Ant.  E.  And  welcome  more  common ;  for  that 's 

nothing  but  words. 
Bal.  Small  cheer  and  great  welcome  make  a 

merry  feast. 
Ant.  E.   Ay,   to  a  niggardly  host,   and  more 
sparing  guest : 
But  though  my  cates  be  mean,'"  take  them  in  good 

part ; 
Better  cheer  may  you  have,  but  not  with  tetter 

heart. 
But,  soft ;  my  door  is  lock'd.    Go  bid  them  let  us  in. 
Dro.  E.  Maud,  Bridget,  Mman,  Cicely,  Gillian, 
Jen'! 

190 


AOT  ui                                                 COMEDY  OF  EKltOKS.                                                scesk  ^ 

J))-o.  S.  [  Within.']  Momo,='  malf-horse,  capon, 

Lv.ce.                 Let  him  knock  till  it  ake^ 

coxcomb,  idiot,  patch ! 

Ant.  E.  You  '11  cry  for  this,  minion,  if  T  heal 

Either  gut  thee  from  the  door,  or  sit  down  at  the 
hatch: 

the  door  down. 
Luce.  A\Tiat  needs  all  that,  and  a  pair  of  stock- 

Dost  thou  conjure  for  wenchos,  tliat  thou  call'st  for 

in  the  town  ? 

such  store. 
When  one  is  one  too  many  ?     Go,  got  thee  from 

Adr.  [  Within.]  Who  is  that  at  the  door,  thu 
keeps  all  this  noise  ? 

the  door. 
D)-o.  E.  AMiat  patcli  is  made  our  porter  ?      M)- 

master  stays  in  the  street. 
D)o.  S.  Let  him  vralk  from  -whence  he  came. 

Bro.  S.  By  my  troth,   your  town  is  troubled 

with  unruly  boys. 
Aitt.  E.  Are  you  there,  wife  ?  you  might  havo 

come  before. 

lest  lie  catch  cold  on  's  feet. 
Ant.  E.  Who  talks  within  there  r  ho  !  open  the 

Ar!r.  Y'our  wife,  sir  knave  !  go,  get  you  from 
the  door. 

door. 
Bro.  S.  liight,  sir,  I  '11  tell  you  when,  an  you  '11 

Dro.  E.  If  you  went  in  pain,  master,  this  knav(' 
would  go  sore. 

tell  me  wherefore. 

Ana.  Here  is  neither  cheer,  sir,  nor  welcome ; 

Anf.  E.  Wherefore  ?  for  my  dinner ;  I  have  not 

wc  would  fain  have  either. 

din'd  to  day. 
Bro.  S.  Nor  to-day  here  you  must  not;  come 

Bal.  In  debating  which  -was  best,  we  shall  part 
with  neither. 

again  when  you  may. 
Ant.  E.  "^Tiat  art  thou,  that  keep'st  me  out  from 

Dro.  E.  They  stand  at  the  door,   master;  bid 
them  welcome  hither. 

the  house  I  owe  ? 

Ant.  E.  There  is  something  Ln  the  wind,  that 

Bro.  S.  The  porter  for  this  time,  sir,  and  my 

we  cannot  get  in. 

name  is  Dromio. 

Bro.  E.  You  -would  say  so,  mastei,  if  your  gar- 

Bro. E.  0,  villain,  thou  hast  stol'n  both  mine 

ments  were  thin. 

office  and  my  name  ; 

Y'our  cake  here  is  warm  within ;  you  stand  here  in 

The  one  ne'er  got  me  credit,   the   other   miclde 

the  cold : 

blame. 

It  would  make  a  man  mad  as  a  buck  to  be  so 

If  thou  hadst  been  Dromio  to-day  in  my  place, 

bought  and  sold.^ 

Thou  wouldst  have  chaug'd  thy  face  for  a  name,  or 

Ant.  E.  Go  fetch  me  something,  I  '11  break  ope 

thy  name  for  an  ass. 

the  gate. 

Luce.  [  Within.']  What  a  coil  is  there  !    Dromio, 
who  are  those  at  the  gate 

Dro.  S.  Break  any  breaking  here,  and  I  '11  break 
your  knave's  pate. 

Bro.  E.  Let  my  master  in,  Luce. 

Litce.                 Faith,  no ;  he  comes  too  late ; 

Bro.  E.  A  man  may  break  a  -word  with  you, 
sir,  and  words  are  but  wind : 

Ajid  so  tell  your  master. 

Bro.  E.                 0  Lord,  I  must  laugh ; — 

Ay,  and  break  it  in  your  face,  so  he  break  it  not 
behind. 

Have  at  you  with  a  proverb. — Shall  I  set  iu  my 

Dro.  S.  It  seems,  thou  want'st  breaking  :   Out 

staff? 
Luce.  Have  at  you  with  another :    that  's, — 

upon  thee,  hind  ! 
Bro.  E.  Here  's  too  much,   out  upon  thee  I  I 

When  ?  can  you  tell  ? 

pray  thoe,  let  me  in. 

Bro.  S.  If  thy  name  he  called  Luce,  Luce,  thou 

Bro.  S.  Ay,  when  fowls  have  no  feathers,  and 

hast  answer'd  him  well. 

fish  have  no  ibi. 

Ant.  E.  Do  you  hear,  you  minion  ?  you  '11  let 

Ant.  E.  AV"eU,  I  'U  break  iu  :  Go,  boiTow  me  a 

us  in,  I  hope  ? 
Lnce.  1  thought  to  have  ask'd  you. 

crow. 
Bre.  E.  A  crow  without  feather :  master,  mean 

Dro.  S.                 And  you  said,  no. 

Bro.  E.  So,  come,  help;  well  struck  ;  there  was 

you  so  ? 
For  a  fish  -without  a  fin,  there  's  a  fowl  without  a 

blow  for  blow. 

feather : 

Ant.  E.  Thou  baggage,  let  me  in. 

If  a  crow  help  us  in,  sirrah,  wo  '11  pluck  a  crow 

Luce.                Can  you  toll  for  whose  sake  ? 
Bro.  E.  Uaj-ter,  knock  the  door  hard. 
200 

together. 
Ant.  E.  Go,  get  thee  gone,  fetch  me  an  iron  crow. 

ACT    111. 


COMEpX  OX^'  EKKOllS. 


B<il.  U  avo  patience,  sir,  0  let  it  not  be  so. 
Herein  you  war  against  your  reputation, 
And  dniw  within  the  compass  of  suspect" 
Th'  ^ln^■iolatecl  honour  of  your  wife 
Once  this, — Your  long  experience  of  her  wisdom, 
Her  sober  virtue,  years,  and  modesty, 
Plimd  on  her  part  some  cause  to  you  unknown ; 
And  doubt  not,  sir,  but  she  will  well  excuse 
Wliy  at  this  time  the  doors  are  made  against  you. 
Be  iTil'd  by  me  ;  depart  in  patience, 
And  let  us  to  the  Tiger  all  to  dinner  : 
And,  about  evening,  come  yourself  alone. 
To  know  the  reason  of  this  strange  restraint. 
If  by  strong  hand  you  offer  to  break  in. 
Now  in  tlie  stirring  passage  of  the  day, 
A  vulgar  comment  will  be  made  of  it ; 
And  that  supposed  by  the  common  rout. 
Against  your  yet  ungaUed  estimation. 
That  may  with  foul  intrusion  enter  in. 
And  dwell  upon  your  grave  when  you  are  dead  : 
For  slander  lives  upon  succession  ; 
For  ever  housed,  where  it  gets  possession. 

Ant.  E.  You  have  prevail'd.      I  will  depart  in 
qiiiet. 
And,  in  despite  of  ilirth,'"  mean  to  be  merry. 
I  know  a  wenrh  of  excellent  discourse ; 
Pretty  and  •\vitty  ;  wild,  and  yet,  too,  gentle; — 
There  will  we  dine  :  this  woman  that  I  mean, 
My  wife  (but,  I  protest,  without  desert) 
Hath  oftentimes  upbraided  me  withal ; 
To  her  will  we  to  dinner.     Get  you  home. 
And  fetch  the  chain ;  by  tliis,  I  know,  't  is  made : 
Bring  it,  I  pray  you,  to  the  Porpcntine  ; 
For  there  's  the  house ;   that  chain  wiU  I  bestow 
(Be  it  for  nothing  but  to  spite  my  wife) 
Upon  mine  hostess  there  :  good  sir,  make  haste : 
Since  mine  own  doors  refuse  to  entertain  me, 
I  '11  knock  elsewhere,  to  see  if  tlicy  11  disdain  me. 

Ang.  I  '11  meet  you  at  that  place  some  hour 
hence. 

Ant.  E.  Do  so.  Tliis  jest  shaU  cost  me  some 
expense.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  ll.~A  public  street. 
Enter  Luciana  and  AsTipnoLus  of  Syracuse. 
Luc.  And  may  it  be  that  you  have  quite  forgot 

A  husband's  oifice  ?  shall,  Antipholus, 
Even  in  the  spring  of  love,  thy  love-springs  rot  ? 

Shall  love,  in  buildiug,  grow  so  ruinous?" 
\i  you  did  wed  my  sister  for  her  wealth, 

Then  for  her  wealth's  sake,  use  her  with  more 
kindness ; 

26 


Or,  if  you  like  elsewhere,  do  it  by  stealth  ; 
Muffle  your  false  love  with   Home  show  o( 
blindness : 
Let  not  my  sister  read  it  in  your  eye ; 

Be  not  thy  tongue  thy  own  shame's  orator ; 
Look  sweet,  speak  fair,  become  disloyalty ; 

Apparel  vice  like  virtue's  harbinger : 
Bear  a  fair  presence,  though  your  heart  be  tainted 

Teach  sin  the  carriage  of  a  holy  saint ; 
Be  secret-false  :  What  need  she  be  acquainted 
"Wliat  simple  thief  brags  of  his  own  attaint .' 
'T  is  double  wrong  to  truant  with  your  bed. 
And  let  her  read  it  in  thy  looks  at  board : 
Shame  hath  a  bastard  fame,  well  managed ; 
lU  deeds  are  doubled  with  an  evil  word. 
Alas,  poor  women !  make  us  but  believe. 

Being  compact  of  credit, '*  that  you  love  us ; 
Though  others  have  the  arm,  show  us  the  sleeve ; 
We  in  your  motion  turn,  and  you  may  move  us, 
Then,  gentle  brother,  get  you  in  again  ; 

Comfort  my  sister,  cheer  her,  call  her  '  -ndfe :' 
'T  is  holy  sport  to  be  a  little  vain, 

When  the  sweet  breath  of  flattery   eonquere 
strife. 
Ant.  S.  Sweet  mistress,  (what  your  name  is  else 
I  know  not. 
Nor  by  what  wonder  you  do  liit  of  mine,) 
Less,  in  5'our   knowledge,   and  your  grace,   3'ou 
show  not 
Than    our    earth's    wonder,  more    than   canL 
di^-ine. 
Teach  me,  dear  creature,  how  to  think  and  speak ; 

Lay  open  to  my  earthy  gross  conceit, 
Smothcr'd  in  errors,  feeble,  shallow,  weak. 

The  folded  meaning  of  your  words'  deceit. 
Against  my  soul's  pure  truth  why  labour  you, 

To  make  it  wander  in  an  unknown  field  ? 
Are  you  a  god  ?  would  you  create  me  new  ? 
Transform  me  then,   and  to  your  power  I  'II 
yield. 
But  if  that  I  am  I,  then  well  I  Imow, 

Your  weeping  sister  is  no  wife  of  minej 
Nor  to  her  bed  no  homage  do  I  owe ; 

Far  more,  far  more,  to  you  do  I  decline. 
0,  train  me  not,  sweet  mermaid,  with  thy  note. 

To  drown  me  in  thy  sister  flood  of  tears  ; 
Sing,  siren,  for  thyself,  and  I  will  dote  : 

Spread  o'er  the  silver  waves  thy  golden  hairs. 
And  as  a  bed  I  'U  take  tliee,  and  there  lie  ; 
And,  in  that  glorious  supposition,  think 
He  gains  by  death,  that  hath  such  means  to  die  : — 
Let  Love,  being  light,  be  dro-mied  if  she  sink  ! 

201 


■kCI  Ul. 


COMEDY  OF  ERROES. 


Lxu.  WTiat,  are  you  mad,  that  you  do  reason  so? 
Ant.  S.  Not  mad,    but  mated  ;  how,   I  do  not 

know. 
Luc.  It  is  a  fault  that  springeth  from  your  eye. 
Arii.  S.  For  gazing  on  your  beams,  fair   sun, 

being  by. 
Luc.  Gaze  where  you  should,  and  that  will  clear 

your  sight. 
Ant.  S.  As  good  to  wink,  sweet  love,  as  look  on 

night. 
Luc.  AVhy  call  you  me  love  '  caU  my  sister  so. 
Ant.  S.  Thy  sister's  sister. 
Luc.  That 's  my  sister. 

Ant.  S.  No; 

[t  is  thyself,  mine  own  self's  better  part ; 
Mine   eye's   clear   eye,    my   dear   heart's   dearer 

heart ; 
My  food,  my  fortune,  and  my  sweet  hope's  aim. 
My  sole  earth's  heaven,  and  my  heaven's  claim.'' 
Luc.  All  this  my  sister  is,  or  else  should  he. 
Ant.  S.    Call  tliysclf  sister,   sweet,   for  I  aim 
thee  ; 
Thee  ^^■ill  I  love,  and  with  thee  lead  my  life  : 
Thou  hast  no  husband  yet,  nor  I  no  wife  : 
Give  me  thy  hand. 

Luc.  0,  soft,  sir,  hold  you  still ; 

1  '11  fL'tch  my  sister,  to  get  her  good  will. 

l^I^x-it  Luc. 

Enter,  from  the  house  o/"  AxTipnonjs  q/'Ephesus, 
Deomio  of  Syracuse. 

Ant.  S.  Why,  how  now,  Dromio  ?  where  runn'st 
thou  so  fast  ? 

L>ro.  S.  Do  you  know  me,  sir?  am  I  Dromio  ? 
am  I  your  man?  am  I  myself? 

Ant.  S.  Thou  art  Dromio;  thou  art  my  man; 
thou  art  thyself. 

Bro.  iS.  I  am  an  ass,  I  am  a  woman's  man,  and 
I'esides  myself. 

Ant.  S  Wliat  woman's  man  ?  and  how  besides 
thyself? 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  besides  myself,  I  am  due  to 
a  woman ;  one  that  claims  me,  one  that  haunts  me, 
one  tliat  will  have  me. 

Ant.  S.  What  claim  lays  she  to  thee? 

I)ro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  such  claim  as  you  would 
la}-  to  yo\ir  horse ;  and  she  would  have  me  as  a 
beast :  not  that,  I  being  a  beast,  she  would  have 
ine:  Ijt  tliat  she,  being  a  very  beastly  creature, 
lays  claim  to  me. 

Ant.  S.  What  ia  she? 

Dro.   S.  A  very  reverent  body ;  ay,  Bucli  a  one 
2t>2 


as  a  man  may  not  speak  of,  without  he  say,  sir 
reverence  :  "  I  have  but  lean  luck  in  the  mat«h. 
and  yet  is  she  a  wondrous  fat  marriage. 

Ant.  S.  How  dost  thou  mean  a  fat  marriage. 

Dro.  S.  MaiTy,  sir,  she  's  the  kitchen-wench, 
and  all  grease ;  and  I  know  not  what  use  to  put 
her  to,  but  to  make  a  lamp  of  her,  and  run  from 
her  by  her  own  light.  I  warrant,  her  rags,  and 
the  taUow  in  them,  will  bum  a  Poland  winter :  if 
she  lives  till  doomsday,  she  '11  bum  a  week  longer 
than  the  whole  world. 

Ant.  S.  What  complexion  is  she  of? 

Dro.  S.  Swart,  like  my  shoe,  but  her  face 
nothing  like  so  clean  kept.  For  why?  she  sweats, 
a  man  may  go  over  shoes  in  the  grime  of  it. 

Ant.  S.  That 's  a  fault  that  water  will  mend. 

Dro.  S.  No,  sir,  't  is  in  grain;  Noah's  iioo<i 
coxild  not  do  it. 

Ant.  S.  What 's  her  name  ? 

Dro.  S.  Nell,  sir; — but  her  name  is  three 
quarters,  that  's,  an  ell;''  and  three  quarters  will 
not  measure  her  from  hip  to  hip. 

A7it.  S.  Then  she  bears  some  breadth  ? 

Dro.  S.  No  longer  from  head  to  foot,  than  from 
hip  to  hip  :  she  is  spherical^  like  a  globe.  I  couli' 
find  out  coimtries  in  her. 

Ant.   S.  In  what  part  of  her  body  stands  Ireland? 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  sir,  in  her  buttocks.  I  found  it 
out  by  the  bogs. 

Ant.  S.  Where  Scotland  ? 

Dro.  S.  I  foimd  it  by  the  barrenness ;  hard,  in 
the  palm  of  the  hand. 

A)it.  S.  Where  France  ? 

Dro.  S.  In  her  forehead ;  arm'd  and  reverted, 
making  war  against  her  heir. 

Ant.  S.  Wliere  England  ? 

Dro.  S.  I  loook'd  for  the  chalky  cliffs,  but  I 
could  find  no  whiteness  in  them  ;  but  I  guess  it 
stood  in  her  cliin,  by  the  salt  rheum  that  ran 
between  France  and  it. 

Ant.  S.  "\Miere  Spain  ? 

Dro.  S.  Faith,  I  saw  it  not ;  but  I  ft  It  it  hot  iu 
her  breath. 

Afit.  yS." Where  America,  the  Indies? 

Dro.  S.  0,  sir,  upon  her  nose,  all  o'er  embel- 
lished with  rubies,  carbuncles,  sapphires,  declining 
their  rich  aspect  to  the  hot  breath  of  Spain  ;  who 
sent  wliole  arniadoes  of  carracks''  to  be  ballast  at 
her  nose. 

Ant.  S.  Where  stood  (telgia,  the  Nctheilands? 

Dro.  S.  0,  sir,  I  did  not  look  so  low.  To  con- 
clude, this  drudge  or  diviner  laid  claim  to  mo : 


\ci  IV. 


COMEDY  OF  EllliOliS. 


scLna  1. 


jall'cl  me  Dromio ;  swore,  I  was  assur' J  to  her ; 
tuld  mo  wliat  privy  marks  I  liad  about  me,  as  the 
murk  of  my  shoulder,  tho  mole  in  my  neck,  the 
great  wart  on  my  left  a",ra,  that  I,  amaz'd,  ran  from 
her  as  a  witc^h: 
Uul,  I  tliink,  if  my  breast  had  not  been  made  of 

faith,  and  ray  heart  of  steel, 
iShe  had  transform'd  mo  to  a  curtail-dog,  and  made 

me  turn  i'  tlio  wheel."' 
Ant.  S.  Go,    hie   thee   presently,   post   to   the 

road ; 
And  if  tlio  wini.,  blow  any  way  from  shore, 
[  will  not  liarbour  in  this  town  to-niglit. 
If  any  bark  put  forth,  come  to  the  mart, 
Wliere  I  will  walk,  till  thou  return  to  me. 
If  every  one  knows  us,  and  we  know  none, 
"lis  time,  I  think,  to  trudge,  pack,  and  be  gone. 

Dro.  S   As  from  a  bear  a  man  would  nm  for  life. 

So  fly  I  from  her  that  would  be  my  wife.      \_&it. 

Ant.  S.  There  's  none  but  witches  do  inhabit 

here  ; 
And  therefore  't  is  high  time  that  I  were  hence. 
She,  that  doth  call  me  husband,  even  my  soul 
Doth  for  a  wife  abhor :  but  her  fair  sister, 
Posscss'd  with  such  a  gentle  sovereign  grace, 
C>f  such  enchanting  presence  and  discourse, 
U  ath  almost  made  me  traitor  to  myself : 
But,  lest  myself  be  guUty  to  self-wrong, 
I  '11  stop  mine  ears  against  the  mermaid's  song. 


Enter  Angelo,  with  the  (.liain  in  hi»  hand. 
Ang.   Master  Antipholus  ? 
Ant.  S.  Ay,  that  's  my  name. 
Ang.  1  know  it  wcU,  sir.  Lo,  here  's  the  chain 
I  thouglit  to  liavc  ta'en  you  at  tlie  Poqientinit : '" 
The  chain  uiifiuish'd  made  me  stay  thus  long. 
Ant.  S.  What  is  your  will  that  I  shall  do  with 

this  ? 
Ang.  What  please  yourself,  sir ;  I   liave  made 

it  for  )'ou. 
Ant.  S.  Made  it  for  me,  sir !  I  bespoke  it  not. 
Ang.  Not  once,  nor  twice,  but  twenty  times 
you  have : 
Go  home  with  it,  and  please  your  wife  withal ; 
And  soon  at  supper- time  I  '11  visit  you. 
And  then  receive  my  money  for  tho  chain. 

Ant.  S.  I  pray  you,  sir,  receive  the  money  now, 
I'or  fear  you  ne'er  see  chain  nor  money  more. 
A)ig.  You  are  a  merry  man,  sir ;  fare  you  well. 

[Kiit. 
Ant.  S.  AMiat  I  should  think  of  tliis  I  cannot 
teU: 
But  this  I  tliink,  tliore  's  no  man  is  so  vain 
That  would  refuse  so  fair  an  offer'd  chain. 
I  see,  a  man  here  needs  not  live  by  shifts, 
^V^len  in  the  streets  he  meets  such  golden  gifts. 
I  'II  to  the  mart,  and  there  for  Dromio  stay ; 
If  any  ship  put  out,  then  straight  away. 

Exit 


ACT    IV. 


SCEJSTE  l.—A  Street  in  Ephesus. 
Enter  a  Mehchaut,  Anqelo,  and  an  Officer. 

Mer.  You  know,  since  Pentecost  the  sum  is  due, 
A  nd  since  I  have  not  much  importun'd  you. 
Nor.  now  I  had  not,  but  that  I  am  bound 
To  Persia,  and  want  gilders  for  my  voyage : 
Therefore  make  present  satisfaction, 
Or  I  "11  attach  you  by  this  officer 

Ang.  Even  just  the  sum  that  I  do  owe  to  you 
.  s  growing  to  me^'  by  Antipholus  : 
And,  in  tho  instant  that  I  met  with  you. 
He  had  of  me  a  chain  ;  at  five  o'clock 
[  shall  receive  tho  money  for  the  same : 
Pleaseth  you  walk  with  me  down  to  his  house, 
I  will  discharge  my  bond,  and  thank  you  too. 


Enter  Antipholus  of  Ephesus,  and  Dromio  oj 

Epl;esus. 
Off.  That  labour  you  may  save ;  see  where  he 

comes. 
Ant.  E.  AVhile  I  go  to  the  goldsmith's  house, 
go  thou 
And  buy  a  rope's  end  ;  that  will  I  bestow 
Among  my  wife  and  her  confederates, 
Foi  locking  me  out  of  my  doors  by  day 
But  soft,  I  see  tho  goldsmith  :— get  thee  gone ; 
Buy  thou  a  rope,  and  bring  it  home  to  me. 

I>ro.  E.  I  buy  a  thousand  jjounds  a  year!     1 
buy  a  rope  !  \_Erit  Drojiio. 

Ant.  E.  A  man  is  well  help  up  that  trusts  to 
you. 
I  promised  your  presence,  and  the  chain  ; 

203 


\(7r  IV. 


COilEDY  OF  EEKOliS. 


SCliKE   I. 


But  neither  chain,  nor  goldsmith,  came  to  me : 
Belike,  you  thought  our  love  would  last  too  long, 
If  it  were  chain'd  together ;  and  therefore  came 
not. 
Ang.  Saving  vour  merry  humour,   here  's  the 
note 
How  much  your  chain  weighs  to  tlie  utmost  carat; 
The  fineness  of  the  gold,  and  chargeful  fashion  ; 
Which  d"th  amount  to  three  'dd  ducats  more 
riuui  I  stand  debted  to  this  gentleman  : 
[  pray  you,  see  him  presently  discharg'd, 
For  he  is  bound  to  sea,  and  stays  but  for  it. 
Ant.  E.  I  am  not  fumish'd  with  the  present 
money ; 
desides  I  have  some  business  in  the  towTi : 
jood  signicr,  take  the  stranger  to  my  house. 
And  with  you  take  tlie  chain,  and  bid  my  wife 
Disburse  the  sum  on  the  receipt  thereof; 
Perchance,  I  will  be  there  as  soon  as  you. 
Antj.  Then  you  will   bi'ing   the    chain  to   her 

vom-self : 
Anl.  E.  ISo  ;  bear  it  with  you,  lest  I  come  not 

time  enough.' 
An  J.  Well,  su',    I  will :  Have  you  the  chain 

about  3'ou  r 
Ant.  E.  An  ii  I  have  not,  sir,  I  hope  you  have ; 
Or  else  you  may  return  ^vithout  youi-  money. 
Anr/.  Nay,  come,  I  pray  you,  sir,  give  me  the 
chain ; 
Both  wind  and  cide  stays  fur  tliis  gentleman, 
And  I,  to  blame,  have  held  him  here  too  long. 
Ant.  E.  Good  Lord,  j'ou  use  tliis  dalliance'"  to 
excuse 
Yovi  brf.ach  of  promise  to  the  Porpentine  : 
[  should  have  chid  you  for  not  bringing  it, 
But,  like  a  shrew,  you  first  begin  to  brawl. 

Mer.  The   hour  steals    on ;    I   pray   you,    sir, 

dispatch. 
Ang.  You  hear  how  he  importunes   me ;  the 

chain — 
Ant.  E.  Wliy,  give  it  to  my  wife,  and  fetch 

your  money. 
Ang.  Come,    come,   you   know  I  gave  it  you 
even  now ; 
Either  send  the  chain,  or  send  me  by  some  token. 
Ant.  E.  Fie  !  now  you  run  this  humour  out  of 
breath  : 
Come,   Where's  the  chain?     I  pray  you,  let  me 
see  it. 
Mer.  My  business  cannot  brook  this  dalliance : 
Otod  sir,  «ay,  wlie'r  you  '11  answer  me,  or  no. 
If  not,  I  '11  leave  liim  to  the  oificer. 
9.M 


Ant.  E.  I  answer  you  !    Wliat  should  I  answeJ 

you  ? 

Ang.  The  money  that  you  owe  me  for  the  chain. 

Ant.  E.  I  owe  you  none,  till  I  receive  the  chain 

Ang.  You  know  I  gave  it  you  half  an  hour  since 

Ant.  E.  You  gave  me  none ;   you  -wTong  mi' 
much  to  say  so. 

Ang.  Y'ou  wrong  me  more,  sir,  in  den3-ing  it : 
Consider  how  it  stands  upon  my  credit. 

Mer.  Well,  officer,  arrest  him  at  my  suit. 

Ojf.  1  do ;  and  charge  you,  in  the  duke's  name 
to  obey  me. 

Ang.  This  touches  me  in  reputation  : — 
Either  consent  to  pay  this  sum  for  me, 
Or  I  attach  you  by  this  oificer. 

Ant.  E.  Consent  to  pay  thee  that  I  never  had 
jirrest  me,  foolish  fellow,  if  thou  dar'st. 

Ang.  Here  is  thy  fee;  arrest  him,  officer. 
I  would  not  spare  my  brother  in  this  case, 
If  he  should  scorn  me  so  apparently. 

Off.  I  do  arrest  3-ou,  sir ;  you  liear  the  suit. 

Ant.  E.  I  do  obey  thee,  till  I  give  thee  bail ; 
But,  sirrah,  j"OU  shall  buy  this  sport  as  dear 
As  all  the  metal  in  your  shop  will  answer. 

Ang.  Sir,  sir,  I  shall  have  law  in  Ephesus, 
To  yom-  notorious  shame,  I  doubt  it  not. 

Enter  Dkomio  of  Syracuse. 

3ro.  S.  ilaster,  there  's  a  bark  of  Epidamnum. 
That  stays  but  till  her  owner  comes  aboard. 
And  then,  sir,  she  beiu-s  awaj- :  our  fraughtage,  six, 
I  have  convey'd  aboard  ;  and  I  have  bought 
The  oil,  the  balsamum,  and  aqua-vitie. 
The  ship  is  in  her  trim ;  the  merry  wind 
Elows  fair  from  land:  they  stay  for  nought  at  all, 
But  for  their  owner,  master,  and  yourself. 

Ant.  E.  How  now !    a  madman  ?    Why,    tho;; 
peevish  sheep,'" 
What  sliip  of  Epidamnum  stays  for  me  ? 

JDro.   S.  A  ship  yon  sent  me  to,  to  hire  waftage 

Ant.  E.  Thou  drunken  slave,  I  sent  thee  for  s 
rope; 
And  told  tliee  to  what  purpose,  and  what  end. 

Dro.   S.  You  sent  me  for  a  rope's-end  as  soon: 
Y^ou  sent  me  to  the  bay,  sir,  for  a  bark. 

Ant.  E.  I  %vill  debate  this  matter  at  mere  leisure 
.And  teach  your  cars  to  list  me  wV'.n  more  heed. 
To  Adriana,  villain,  hie  thee  straight : 
(Jive  her  this  key,  and  tcJ  her,  in  the  desk 
That 's  cover'd  o'er  with  Turkish  tapestry. 
There  is  a  purse  of  ducats;  let  her  send  it; 
Tell  her,  I  am  arrested  in  the  street. 


COMEDY  OF  EllllOllS. 


SCSSTS  IX. 


Ajid  that  shall  hail  me  :  hie  thse,  slave  :  bo  gone. 
On,  officer,  to  prison,  till  it  come. 

[^Exeunt  Meh.,  Ang.,  Off.,  and  Ant.  E. 
Dro.  S.  To  Adriana  !  that  is  where  wo  din'd. 
Where  Dousabel  did  claim  me"  for  her  husband  : 
She  is  too  big,  I  hope,  for  me  to  compass. 
Thither  I  must,  although  against  my  will, 
For  servants  must  theu-  masters'  minds  fulfil. 

lExit. 

SCENE  U.— Another  street. 

Enter  Adkiaua  and  Luciana. 

Adr.  Ah,  Luciana,  did  he  tempt  thee  so? 

Mightst  thou  perceive  austerely  in  his  eye 
That  he  did  plead  in  earnest,  yea,  or  no  ? 

Look'd  he  or  red,  or  pale ;  or  sad  or  merrily  ? 
What  observation  mad'st  thou  in  this  case, 
3f  his  heart's  meteors  tilting  in  his  face  ? 

Luc.  First,  he  doni'd  you  had  in  him  no  right.*' 

Adr.  He  meant  he  did  me  none ;  the  more  my 
spite. 

Luc.  Then  swore  he,  that  he  was  a  stranger  here. 

Adr.  And  true  he  swore,  though  yet  forsworn 
he  were. 

Ltic.  Then  pleaded  I  for  you. 

Adr.  And  what  said  he  ? 

Luc.  That  love  I  begg'd  for  you,  he  begg'd  of  me. 

Adr.  With  what  persuasion  did  he  tempt  thy 
love  r 

Luc.  With  words  that  in  an  honest  suit  might 
move. 
First,  he  did  praise  mj-  beauty ;  then,  my  speech. 

Adr.  Didst  speak  him  fair  ? 

Luc.  Have  patience,  I  beseech. 

Adr.  1  cannot,  nor  I  will  not,  hold  me  stni ; 
My  tongue,  though  not  my  heart,  shall  have  his 

wiU. 
He  is  deformed,  crooked,  old,  and  sere," 
lU-fao'd,  worse-bodied,  shapeless  everywhere  ; 
Vicious,  ungentle,  foolish,  blunt,  unkind; 
Stigmatical  in  making,  worse  in  mind. 

Luc.  Who  \\'ould  be  jealous  then  of  such  a  one  ? 
N'o  evd  lost  is  wail'd  when  it  is  gone. 

Adr.  Ah !  but  I  think  him  better  than  I  say, 
And  yet  would  hereia  others'  eyes  were  worse  : 

Far  from  her  nest  the  lapwing  cries,  away ; 
•dy  lieart  prays  for  him,  though  my  tongue  do 
curse. 

Enter  Deojiio  of  Syracuse. 

Dro.  S.  Here,  go :  the  desk,  the  purse ;  sweet, 
now,  make  haste. 


Luc.  How  hast  thou  lost  thy  breath  ? 
Dro.  S.  By  running  fast. 

Adr.  Where  is  thy  master,  Dromio  ?  is  he  well  ? 
Dro.  S.  No,  he  's  in  Tartar  limbo,  worse  than 
hell. 
A  devil  in  an  everlasting  garment"  hath  him  ; 
One  whose  hard  heart  is  button'd  up  with  steel ; 
A  fiend,  a  fairy,  pitiless  and  rough  ; 
A  wolf,  nay,  worse, — a  fellow  aa  in  buff; 
A  back-friend,  a  shoidder-clappcr,  one  that  coun- 
termands 
The  passages  of  alleys,  creeks,  and  narrow  lands  ; 
A  hound  that  runs  coimter,  and  yet  draws  dry-foot 

weU;" 
One  that,  before  the  judgment,  cames  poor  souls 
to  hell. 
Adr.  Why,  man,  what  is  the  matter  ? 
Dro.  S.  I  do  not  know  the  matter  ;  he  is  'rested 

on  the  case. 
Adr.  What,  is  he  an-ested  ?  teU  me,  at  whose 

suit. 
Dro.  S.    I  know  not  at  whose  suit  he  is  ar- 
rested, well ; 
But  is  in  a  suit  of  butf,  which  'rested  him,  that  caa 

I  teU  : 
Will  you  send    him,   mistress,   redemption,   the 
money  in  his  desk  ? 
Adr.  Go  fetch  it,  sister. — This  I  wonder  at. 

[_Exit  Luc 
That  he,  unknown  to  me,  should  be  in  debt : — 
TeU  me,  was  he  arrested  on  a  band  ? " 

Dro.  S.  Not  on  a  band,  but  on  a  stronger  thing ; 
A  chain,  a  chain :  do  you  not  hear  it  ring  ? 
Adr.  What,  the  chain  ? 

Dro.  S.  No.  no,  the  boll :  't  is  time  that  I  were 
gone. 
It  was  two  ere  I  left  him,   and  now  the  clock 
strikes  one. 
Adr.  The  hours  come  back !  that  did  I  never 

hear. 
Dro.  S.  0  yes.     If  any  hour  meet  a  sergeant, 

a'  turns  back  for  veiy  fear. 
Adr.  As  if  Time  were  in  debt !  how  fondly  dosl 

thou  reason  I 
Dro.  S.  Time   is  a  very  bankrupt,    and   owea 
more  than  he  's  worth  to  season. 
Nay,  he  's  a  thief  too  :    Have  you  not  heaid  men 

say. 
That  Time  comes  stealing  on  by  night  and  day  ? 
H  he  be  in  debt,  and  theft,  a  id  a  sergeant  in 

the  way. 
Hath  he  not  reason  to  turn  back  »n  h  mr  in  a  day  ? 

20C 


ACT  rv. 


COMEDY  OF  EKKOES. 


fUBSK  a. 


Unier  Luciana. 
Ad/r.  Go,  Broinio ;  there  's  the  money,  bonr  it 

straight ; 
And  bring  thy  master  home  immediately. 
Come,  sister ;  I  am  prebs'd  do-rni  with  conceit ; 
Conceit,  my  comfort,  and  my  injury. 

\_Exeunt. 
Enter  AxTirnoLus  of  Syracuse. 
Ant.  S.  There  's  not  a  man  I  meet  but  doth 
salute  me. 
As  if  I  Tvere  their  ■well-acquainted  friend  ; 
And  every  one  doth  call  me  by  my  name. 
Some  tender  money  to  me,  some  invite  me ; 
Some  other  give  me  thanks  for  kindnesses ; 
Some  offer  me  commodities  to  buy : 
Even  now  a  tailor  call'd  me  in  his  shop, 
.And  show'd  me  silks  that  he  had  bought  for  me, 
And,  therewithal,  took  measure  of  my  body. 
Sure,  these  are  but  imaginary  -wiles, 
Asid  Lapland  sorcerers  inhabit  here. 

Enter  Dromio  of  Syracuse. 

Dre.  S.  Master,  here  's  the  gold  you  sent  me 
for: 
What  hjive  you  got  the  picture  of  Old  Adam**  new 
appareU'd } 

Ant.  S.  AMiat  gold  is  this  1  "HTiat  Adam  dost 
thou  mean  ? 

Dro.  S.  Not  that  Adam  that  kept  the  paradise, 
but  that  Adam  that  keeps  the  prison:  he  that 
goes  in  the  calf's-skin  that  was  kill'd  for  the 
prodigal;  he  that  came  behind  you,  sir,  like  an 
evil  angel,  and  bid  you  forsake  your  liberty. 

Ant.  S.  I  midcrstand  thee  not. 

Dro.  S.  No  ?  why,  't  is  a  plain  case :  he  that 
went  like  a  base-viol,  in  a  case  of  leather;  the 
man,  sir,  that,  when  gentlemen  are  tired,  gives 
them  a  fob,"  and  'rests  them ;  he,  sir,  that  takes 
pity  on  decayed  men,  and  gives  them  suits  of 
dm-ance ;  he  that  sets  up  his  rest  to  do  more  ex- 
ploits with  his  mace,  than  a  morris-pike.*' 

Ant.  S.  What !  thou  mean'st  an  officer. 

D>-o.  S.  Ay,  sir,  the  sergeant  of  the  band ;  ho, 
that  brings  any  man  to  answer  it  that  breaks  his 
band ;  cue  tliat  thinks  a  man  always  going  to  bed, 
and  says,  "  God  give  you  good  rest !" 

Ant.  S.  W'cll,  sir,  there  rest  in  your  foolery. 
Is  tlirre  any  ship  puts  forth  to-night?  may  we  be 
gone? 

Dro.  S.  Why,  sir,  I  brought  j'ou  word  an  hour 
since,  that  the  bark  Expeilifion  jiut  forth  to-night; 
md  then  wore  you  hiiidred  by  the  sergeant,  to 
20« 


tarrj'  for  the  hoy  Delay :  Here  are  the  angels  thul 
you  sent  for,  to  deliver  you. 

Ant.  S.  The  fellow  is  distract,  and  so  am  I ; 
And  here  we  wander  in  illusions ; 
Some  blessed  power  deliver  us  from  hence ! 

Enter  a  Couktezan. 

Cour.  "^'eU  met,  well  met,  master  Antipholus. 
I  see,  sir,  you  have  found  the  goldsmith  now : 
Is  that  the  chain  you  promis'd  me  to-dav? 

Ant.  S.  Satan,  avoid !  I  charge  thee,  tempt  me 
not! 

Dro.  S.  Master,  is  this  mistress  Satan? 

Ant.  S.  It  is  the  devil. 

Dro.  S.  Kay,  she  is  worse,  she  is  the  devil's 
dam ;  and  here  she  comes  in  the  habit  of  a  light 
wench ;  and  thereof  comes,  that  the  wenches  say, 
"God  damn  me,"  that's  as  much  to  say,  "God 
make  me  a  light  wench."  It  is  written,  they 
appear  to  men  Hke  angels  of  light :  light  is  an 
effect  of  fire,  and  fire  will  bum;  ergo,  lighl 
wenches  wUl  bum.     Come  not  near  her. 

Coicr.  Your  man  and  you  are  marvellous  merry, 
sir.  Will  you  go  with  me .'  We  '11  mend  oui 
dinner  hero. 

Dro.  S.  Master,  if  ycu  do,  expect  spoon-meat,  oi 
bespeak  a  long  spoon. 

Atit.  S.  Why,  Dromio? 

Dro.  S.  Marry,  he  must  have  a  long  spoon  thai 
must  eat  with  the  devil. 

Ant.  S.  Avoid  thee,  fiend !    what  tell'st  thou 
me  of  supping  ? 
Thou  art,  as  you  are  all,  a  sorceress : 
I  conjure  thee  to  leave  me,  and  be  gone. 

Cour.  Give  me   the   ring  of  mine  you  had  af 
dinner. 
Or,  for  my  diamond,  the  chain  you  promis'd ; 
And  I  '11  be  gone,  sir,  and  not  trouble  you. 

Dro.  S.  Some  dcvUs  ask  but  the  parings  of  one's 
nail, 
A  rush,  a  hair,  a  drop  of  blood,  a  pin, 
A  nut,  a  cherry-stone ;  but  she,  more  covetous, 
Y/oidd  have  a  chain. 
Master,  be  wise ;  an'  if  you  give  it  her. 
The  devil  will  shake  her  chain,  and  fright  us  with  it. 

Cour.  I  pray  you,  sir,  my  ring,  or  else  the  ihain, 
I  hope  you  do  not  mean  to  cheat  me  du. 

Ant.  S.  Avaunt,  thou  witch !     Come,  Dromio, 
let  us  go. 

Dro.  S.  Fly  pride,  s.iys  the  joacock:  MistroTS, 
that  you  know. 

^Exeunt  A  vi.  S.  a'ld  Duo.  B 


iCT    IV. 


COMEDY  OF  EllEORS. 


SCKNU  n. 


Com:  Now,  out  of  doubt,  Antipholus  is  mad, 
Else  would  he,  never  so  demean  himself : 
A.  ring  he  hath  of  mine  worth  forty  ducats, 
And  for  the  same  ho  promis'd  mo  a  chain ; 
Both  one  and  other  he  denies  mo  now. 
The  reason  tliat  I  gather  ho  is  mad, 
(Besides  this  present  instance  of  his  rage,) 
Is  a  mad  tale  he  told  to-day  at  dinner. 
Of  his  own  doors  being  shut  against  his  entrance. 
Belike,  his  wife,  acquainted  with  liis  fits, 
On  purpose  shut  the  doors  against  his  way. 
My  way  is  now  to  hie  homo  to  his  house, 
And  tell  his  wife,  that,  being  lunatic. 
He  rush'd  into  my  house,  and  took  perforce 
My  ring  away :  This  course  I  fittest  choose  ; 
For  forty  ducats  is  too  much  to  lose.  [^Exit. 

Enter  A^'titholus  of  Ephesus,  and  a  Gaolee. 

Ant.  E.  Fear  me  not,   man,  I  will  not  break 
away : 
I  '11  give  thee,  ere  I  leave  thee,  so  much  money 
To  warrant  thee,  as  I  am  'rested  for. 
My  wife  is  in  a  wayward  mood  to-day; 
And  will  not  lightl}'  trust  the  messenger, 
That  I  should  be  attach'd  in  Ephesus ; 
1  teU  you,  't  will  sound  harslily  in  her  ears. — 

Enter  Dkomio  of  Ephesus,  with  a  rope'i  end. 

Here  comes  my  man ;  I  think  he  brings  the  money. 
How  now,  sir  ?  have  you  that  I  sent  you  for  ? 
J)ro.  E.  Here  's  that,  I  warrant  you,  will  pay 

them  all." 
Ant.  E.  But  where  's  the  money  ? 
I)ro.  E.  ^Vhy,  sir,  I  gave  the  money  for  the  rope. 
Ant.  E.  Five  himdred  ducats,  ^allain,  for  a  rope? 
Di'o  E.  I  'U  serve  you,  sir,  five  hundred  at  the 

rate. 
Ant.  E.  To  what  end  did  I  bid  thee  hie  thee 

home? 
Jh-o.  E.  To  a  rope's  end,  sir,  and  to  that  end 

am  I  rcturn'd. 
Ant.  E.  And  to  that  end,  sir,  I  will  welcome 
you.  \_Beating  him. 

Gaol.  Good  sir,  be  patient. 
jyro.  E.  Nay,  't  is  for  me  to  be  patient ;  I  am  in 
adversity. 

Gaol.  Gi^od,  now,  hold  thy  tongue. 
Dro.  E.  Nay,  rather  persuade  him  to  hold  his 
hands 
Ant   E.  Thou  whoreson,  senseless  villain ! 
3r»   E.  I  would  I  were  senseless,  sir,  that  I 
might  not  feci  your  blows. 


Ant.  E.  Thou  art  sensible  in  nothing  but  blowp, 
and  so  is  an  ass. 

Dro.  E.  I  am  an  ass,  indeed;  you  may  prove  it 
by  my  long  ears.  I  have  served  him  from  the  Ikjui 
of  my  nativity  to  this  instant,  and  have  nothing 
at  his  hands  for  my  service  but  blows  •  when  1  aiu 
cold,  he  heats  me  with  beating;  when  I  am  warm, 
he  cools  mo  with  beating;  I  am  wak'd  with  il. 
when  I  sleep;  rais'd  with  it,  when  I  sit;  driven 
out  of  doors  with  it,  when  I  go  from  home ;  wel- 
com'd  home  with  it,  when  I  return :  nay,  I  bear 
it  on  my  shoulders,  as  a  beggar  wont  her  brat ; 
and,  I  think,  when  he  hath  lam'd  me,  I  shall  beg 
with  it  from  door  to  door. 

Enter  Adeia^a,  Luciana,  and  the  Couetezan,  with 
PrucH,  and  others. 

Ant.  E.  Come,  go  along;    my  wife  is  coming 

yonder. 
Bro.  E.  Mistress,  respice  fincm,  respect  your  end ; 
or  rather  the  prophecy,  like  the  parrot,  "Beware 
the  rope's  end."" 

Ant.  E.  Wilt  thou  stUl  talk?  [_Beats  him. 

Cour.  How  say  you  now  ?  is  not  your  husband 

mad? 
Adr.  His  incivUity  confirms  no  less. 
Good  doctor  Pinch,  you  are  a  conjurer; 
Establish  him  in  his  true  sense  again. 
And  I  will  please  you  what  you  will  demand. 
Lue.  Alas,  how  fiery  and  how  sharp  he  looks ! 
Coxir.  Mark,  how  he  trembles  in  his  extasy  ! 
Pinch.  Give  me  your  hand,  and  let  me  feel  your 

pulse. 
Ant.  E.  There  is  my  hand,  and  let  it  feel  your 

ear. 
Pinch.  I  charge  thee,  Satan,  hous'd  within  tin? 
man, 
To  yield  possession  to  my  holy  prayers, 
And  to  thy  state  of  darkness  hie  thee  straight: 
I  conjure  thee  by  all  the  saints  in  heaven. 

Atit.  E.  Peace,  doting  wizard,  peace ;  I  am  not 

mad. 
Adr.    0,  that  thou  wert  not,   poor    distressed 

soul ! 
Ant.  E.  You  minion,  you,  are  these  your  cub- 
tomers  ? " 
Did  this  companion  with  the  saffron  face 
Eevel  and  feast  it  at  my  house  to-day, 
Whilst  upon  me  the  guilty  doors  were  shut, 
And  I  denied  to  enter  in  my  house  ? 

Adr.  0  husband,  God  doth  know  you  diix'd 
home, 

207 


COAIEUY  OF  ERltOKS. 


WTiore  Voiild  you  had  remain'd  until  this  time, 
Vree  from  these  slanders,  and  this  open  shame ! 
Ant.  E.  Din'd  at  home  I     Thou  ^dUain,  Avhat 

saj-est  thou  ? 
Dro.  E.   Sir,  sooth  to  say,  you  did  not  dine  at 

home. 
Ant.  E.  Were  not  my  doors  lock'd  up,  and  I 

shut  out  ? 
Bro.  E.  Perdy,  your  doors  were  lock'd,  and  you 

shut  out. 
Ant.  E.  And   did   not    she   herself  revile    me 

there  ? 
Dro.  E.  Sans  fahlo,  she  herself  rcTil'd  you  ihere. 
Ant.  E.  Did  not  her  kitchen-maid  rail,  taunt, 

and  scorn  me  ? 
Dro.  E.    Certes,    she   did;    the    kitchen- vestal 

scom'd  you. 
Ant.  E.  And   did  not  I  in  rage  depart  from 

thence  ? 
Dro.  E.  In  verity,   you  did ; — my  bones  bear 
■witness, 
That  since  have  felt  the  vigour  of  his  rage. 
Adr.  Is 't  good  to  soothe  him  in  these  contraries  ? 
Pinch.  It  is  no  shame ;  the  fellow  finds  his  vein. 
And,  yielding  to  him,  humours  well  his  frenzy. 
Ant.  E.  Thou  hast  suborn'd   the  goldsmith  to 

aiTest  me. 
Adr.  Alas !  I  sent  you  money  to  redeem  you, 
Ry  Dromio  here,  who  came  in  haste  for  it. 

Bro.  E.  Money  by  me  ?    heart  and  good- will 
you  might, 
But,  surely,  master,  not  a  rag  of  money. 
Ant.  E.  Wenfst  not  thou  to  her  for  a  purse  of 

ducats  ? 
A.dr.  He  came  to  me,  and  I  deliver"d  it. 
Luc.  And  I  am  Avitness  with  her,  that  she  did. 
Dro.    E.    God   and    the   rope-maker  bear  me 
witness, 
riiat  I  was  sent  for  nothing  but  a  rope 
Pinch.    Mistress,    both    man    and    master  are 
possess'd  ;'^ 
[  know  it  by  their  pale  and  dcjully  looks : 
Tlujy  must  be  bound,  and  laid  in  some  dark  room. 
Ant.  E.  Say,  wherefore  didst  thou  lock  me  forth 
to-day  ? 
And  why  dost  thou  deny  tlie  bag  of  gold  ? 

Adr.  I  did  not,  gentle  husband,  lock  thee  forth. 
Dro.  E.  And,  gentle  master,  1  rcceiv'd  no  gold; 
But  I  confess,  sir,  that  we  were  lock'd  out. 

Air.  Dissembling  villain,  thou  speak'st  fdse  in 

both. 
Ant.  E.  Dissen.blingliarlot,  thou  art  false  in  all; 
208 


And  art  confederate  with  a  damned  pack, 

To  make  a  loathsome  abject  scorn  of  me  : 

But  with  these  naUs  I  '11  pluck  out  these  false  eycb. 

That  would  behold  in  me  this  shameful  sport. 

Enter  Attendants,  icho  Imd  Akt.  E.  and  Deo.  E 
after  a  slight  struggle. 

Adr.  0,  bind  him,  bind  him,  let  him  not  come 

near  me. 
Pinch.    More    company;    the   fiend   is   strong 

within  him. 
Zutf.  Ah  me,  poor  man !  how  pale  and  wan  he 

looks ! 
Ant.  E.  What,   will  you  murder  me?     Thou 
gaoler,  thou, 
I  am  thy  prisoner :  wilt  thou  suffer  them 
To  make  a  rescue  ? 

Gaol.  Masters,  let  him  go  : 

He  is  my  prisoner,  and  you  shall  not  have  Ivan.. 
Pinch.  Go,  bind  this  man,  for  he  is  frantic  too. 
Adr.  "^Txat  wilt  thou  do,  thou  peevish  officer  ? 
Hast  thou  delight  to  see  a  wretched  man 
Do  outrage  and  displeasure  to  himself? 

Gaol.  He  is  my  prisoner ;  if  I  let  him  go. 
The  debt  he  owes  wiU  be  requir  d  of  me. 

Adr.  I  will  discharge  thee,  ere  I  gc  from  tlicc 
Bear  me  forthwith  unto  his  creditor. 
And,  knowing  how  the  debt  grows,  I  -will  pay  it. 
Good  master  doctor,  see  him  side  convey'd 
Home  to  my  house.     0  most  unhappy  day ! 
Ant.  E.  0  most  unhappy  strumpet ! 
Dro.  E.  JIaster,  I  am  here  enter'd  in  bond  lot 

you. 
Ant.  E.  Out  on  tlice,  villain !   wherefore  dost 

thou  mad  me : 
Dro.  E.   WiU  you  be  bound  for  nothing?   be 
mad,  good  master;  cr}',  the  devil. — 

Luc.  God  help,  poor  souls,  how  idly  do  they  talk ! 
Adr.  Go,  bear-  him  hence. — Sister  go  you  with 
me. — 

\Exeunt  Pinch  and  Attendants,  ivifh 
AxT.  E.  and  Dro.  E. 
Say  now,  whose  suit  is  ho  arrested  at? 

Gaol.  One  Argelo,  a  goldsmith.     Do  you  know 

him  ? 
Adr.  I  know  tlie  man :   AMiat  is  the  sum  ho 

owes : 
Gaol.  Two  liundred  ducats. 
Adr.  Say,  how  grows  it  duo? 

Guol.  Due  for  a  chain  your  luisband  had  of  liim. 
Adr.  He  did  bcireak  a  chain  for  me,  but  baa 
it  not. 


ACI   V. 


COMEDY  OF  ERRORS. 


BCENB    I. 


Cour.  Wlicnas  your  husband,"  all  in  rage,  to- 
day. 
Came  to  my  house,  and  took  away  my  ring. 
The  ring  I  saw  upon  his  finger  now,) 
Straight  after  did  I  meet  him  with  a  cliain. 

Aclr.  It  may  be  so,  but  I  did  never  see  it : — 
Come,  gaoler,  bring  rae  where  the  goldsmith  is ; 
[  long  to  know  the  truth  hereof  at  large. 

Enter  ANiirnoLUs  of  Syracuse,  with  his  rapier 
drawn,  and  Dbojiio  of  Syracuse. 

Luc.  God,  for  thy  mercy  !  they  are  loose  again. 
Adr.  And  come  with  naked  swords ;  let 's  call 
more  help, 
To  have  them  bound  again. 

GmI.  Away,  they  'll  kiU  us. 

[  Exeunt  Gaolee,  Auk.,  and  Luc,  runnhuj. 


Ant.  S.   I   see,   these  witches    are   afraid  of 

swords. 
I>ro.  S.  She  that  would  bo  your  wife  now  ran 

from  you. 
Ant.  S.  Come  to  tlio  Centaur ;  fetch  our  stuff ''' 
from  thence  : 
I  long  that  we  were  safe  and  sound  aboard. 

I)ro.  S.  Faith,  stay  here  this  night,  they  will 
surely  do  us  no  harm  ;  you  saw  they  speak  us  fair, 
give  us  gold :  methinks  they  are  such  a  gentle 
nation,  that,  but  for  the  mountain  of  mad  flesh 
that  claims  marriage  of  me,  I  could  find  in  my 
heart  to  stay  hero  still,  and  turn  witcli. 

Ant.  S.    I  wiU  not  stay  to-night  for  all  the 
town; 
Therefore  away  to  get  our  sttiff  aboard.     \Ex(mni. 


ACT   V, 


SCENE  I. — Apuhlicplacc  in  Epheous. 
Enter  Meechant  and  Angeio. 

Any.  1  am  sorry,  sir,  that  I  have  hinder d  you; 
But  I  protest  he  had  the  chain  of  me, 
Though  most  dishonestly  he  doth  deny  it. 

Mcr.    Jlow  is  the  man  estcem'd  here  in  the 
city? 

Atiff.  Of  very  reverent  reputation,  sir. 
Of  credit  infinite,  highly  belov'd. 
Second  to  none  that  lives  here  in  the  city  : 
His  word  might  bear  my  wealth  at  any  time. 

Mer.    Speak   softly :    yonder,   as  I   think,  he 
walks. 

Etiter  ANTirnoLTJS  and  DEOJno  of  Syracuse. 

Anj.  'T  is  so  ;•  and  that  self  chain  about  his 
neck. 
Which  he  forswore,  most  monstrously,  to  have. 
Good  sir,  draw  near  to  me,  I  '11  speak  to  him. 
Signior  Antipholus,  I  wonder  much 
That  you  would  put  me  to  this  shame  and  trouble ; 
Ars!  ro*  without  some  scandal  to  yourself. 
With  circumstance  and  oaths  so  to  deny 
This  chain,  which  now  you  wear  so  openly  : 
Bi.'side  the  charge,  the  shame,  imprisonment. 
You  have  done  wrong  to  this  my  honest  friend ; 
Who,  but  for  staying  on  our  controversy, 

2T 


Had  hoisted  sail,  and  put  to  sea  to-day  • 
This  chain  you  had  of  me,  can  you  deny  it  ? 

A)it.  S.  I  think  I  had  ;  I  never  did  deny  it. 

Mer.  Yes,  that  you  did,  sir ;  and  forswore  it  too. 

Ant.  S.  Who  heard  me  to  deny  it,  or  forswear  it  r 

Mer.  These  ears  of  mine,  thou  know'st,  did  hear 
thee  ; 
Fie  on  thee,  wretch  !  'tis  pity  that  tliou  Hv'st 
To  walk  where  any  honest  men  resort. 

Ant.  S.  Thou  art  a  villain  to  impeach  me  thus : 
I  '11  prove  mine  honour  and  mine  honesty 
Against  thee  presently,  if  thou  dar'st  stand. 

Mer.  I  dare,  and  do  defy  thee  for  a  vUlain. 

[TAfy  draw. 

Enter  Adeiajja,  Luciajxa,  Cousiezan,  and  others, 

Adr.  Hold,  liui-t  him  not,  for  God's  sake ;  he  ie 
mad  ; 
Some  get  within  him,'"  take  his  sword  away : 
Bind  Dromio  too,  and  bear  them  to  my  house. 
Bro.  S.  Itun,  master,  run ;  for  God's  sake  take 
a  house. 
This  is  some  priory. — In,  or  wo  are  spoU'd. 

\_Exeunt  Ast.  S.  and  Duo.  S.  to  ilu)  Priwy 

Enter  the  Abbess. 


Ahh.  Be  quiet,  people, 
hither  ? 


A\Tiert;fore  throng  yon 


209 


ACT   V. 


COMEDY  0¥  EREOES 


Adr.    To  fetch    my  poor  distracted  husband 
hence : 
Let  us  come  in,  that  we  may  bind  him  fast, 
And  bear  him  home  for  his  recovery. 

An(j.  I  knew  he  was  not  in  his  perfect  wits. 

Mer.  I  am  sorry  now  that  I  did  draw  on  him. 

Aib.  Howlonghath  this  possession  held  the  man? 

Adr.  This  week  he  hath  been  heavy,  sour,  sad. 
And  much  different  from  the  man  he  was ; 
But,  till  this  afternoon,  his  passion 
Ne'er  brake  into  extremity  of  rage. 

Abb.  Hath  he  not  lost  much  wealth  by  wreck 
of  sea  ? 
Buried  some  dear  friend  ?     Hath  not  else  his  eye 
Stray'd  his  affection  in  unlawful  love  ? 
A  sin  prevailing  much  in  youthful  men, 
Who  give  iheir  eyes  the  liberty  of  gazing. 
VThich  of  these  sorrows  is  he  subject  to  ? 

Adr.  To  none  of  these,  except  it  be  the  last ; 
Namely,  some  love,  that  drew  him  oft  from  home. 

Abh.  You  should  for  that  have  reprehended  him. 

Adr.  Why,  so  I  did. 

Abb.  Ay,  but  not  rough  enough. 

Adr.  As  roughly  as  my  modesty  would  let  me. 

Abb.  Haply,  in  private. 

Adr.  And  in  assemblies  too. 

Abb.  Ay,  but  not  enough. 

Adr.  It  was  the  copy  of  our  conference : '' 
In  bed,  he  slept  not  for  my  ui'ging  it; 
At  board,  he  fed  not  for  my  urging  it; 
Alone,  it  was  the  subject  of  my  theme  ; 
In  company,  I  often  glanced  it ; 
Still  did  I  tell  him  it  was  vild  and  bad. 

Abb.  And   thereof  came  it  that  the  man  was 
mad: 
The  venom  clamours  of  a  jealous  woman. 
Poison  more  deadly  than  a  mad  dog's  tooth. 
It  seems  his  sleeps  wore  hindor'd  by  thy  railing : 
And  thereof  comes  it  that  his  head  is  light. 
Thou  say'st  his  meat  was  sauc'd  with  thy  up- 

braidings : 
Unquiet  meals  make  ill  digestions, 
Thereof  the  raging  fire  of  fever  bred ; 
And  what 's  a  fever  but  a  fit  of  madness  ? 
Thou    saycst   his   sports   were   hindcr'd    by   thy 

brawls : 
Sweet  recreation  barr'd,  what  doth  ensue 
But  moody  and  dull  melancholy. 
Kinsman  to  grim  and  conifortlcss  despair. 
And,  at  hrr  Inels,  a  huge  infectious  troop 
Of  pale  distempcraturcs,  and  foes  to  life  ' 
In  food,  in  sport,  and  life-preserving  rest 
210 


To  be  disturb'd,  would  mad  or  man,  or  biast : 
The  consequence  is  then,  thy  jealous  fits 
Have  scar'd  thy  husband  from  the  use  of  wits. 

Zuc.  She  never  reprehended  him  but  mildly, 
When   he   demean'd   himself  rough,    rude,     ulhi 

wildly. 
Wliy  bear  you  these  rebukes,  and  answer  not ' 

Adr.  She  did  betray  me  to  my  own  reproof. — 
Good  people,  enter,  and  lay  hold  on  him. 

Abb.  No,  not  a  creature  enters  in  m)-  house. 

Adr.  Then,  let  your  servants  bring  my  husband 
forth. 

Abb.  Neither  ;  he  took  this  place  for  sanctuary, 
And  it  shall  privilege  him  from  your  hands, 
Tdl  I  have  brought  him  to  his  wits  again. 
Or  lose  my  labour  in  assaying  it. 

Adr.  I  wiU  attend  my  husband,  be  his  nurse, 
Diet  his  sickness,  for  it  is  my  office, 
And  will  have  no  attorney  but  myself ; 
And  therefore  let  me  have  him  home  with  me. 

Abb.  Be  patient :  for  I  will  not  let  him  stir, 
Tin  I  have  us'd  the  approved  means  I  have. 
With  wholesome  syrups,  drugs,  and  hcly  prayers. 
To  make  of  him  a  formal  man  again :  °' 
It  is  a  branch  and  parcel  of  mine  oath, 
A  charitable  duty  of  my  order; 
Therefore  depart,  and  leave  him  here  with  nio. 

Adr.  I  will  not  hence,  and  leave  my  husbanl 
here; 
And  ill  it  doth  beseem  your  holiness, 
To  separate  the  husband  and  the  wife. 

Abb.  Be  quiet,  and  depart ;  thou  shalt  not  have 
him.  \_H.vit  Abbbss 

Ztic.  Complain  unto  the  duke  of  this  indignity. 

Adr.  Come,  go  ;  I  will  fall  prostrate  at  his  fee;. 
And  never  rise  until  my  tears  and  prayers 
Have  won  his  grace  to  come  in  person  hither, 
And  take  perforce  my  husband  from  the  abbess. 

Mer.  By  this,  I  think,  the  dial  points  at  five  : 
Anon,  I  'm  sure,  the  duke  himself  in  person 
Comes  this  way  to  the  melancholy  vale, — 
The  place  of  depth"  and  sorry  execution, 
Behind  the  ditches  of  the  abbey  here. 

Ang.  Upon  what  cause  ? 

Mer.  To  sec  a  reverend  S5Tacusan  merchant, 
Who  put  unluckily  into  this  bay. 
Against  the  laws  and  statutes  of  this  town. 
Beheaded  publicly  for  his  offence. 

Anff.  See  where  they  come ;  we  will  behold  hif 
deatli. 

Ltic.  Kneel  to  the   duke,    before    he  pa>id  Uie 
abbey. 


COMEDY  OF  EIUIOES. 


scijrE  0. 


Enter  Dcke,  attended;   ^geon,  bare-Jieaded ;  with 
the  Headsman  and  other  Officers. 

Bulce.  Tet  once  again  proclaim  it  publiclj", 
If  any  friend  will  pay  the  sum  fur  him, 
He  shall  not  die,  so  much  we  tender  him. 

Adr.    Justice,    most  sacred  duke,  against   the 
abbess ! 

Duke.  She  is  a  virtuous  and  a  reverend  lady; 
It  cannot  be  that  she  hath  done  thee  wrong. 

Adr.  May  it  please  your  grace,  Antipholus,  my 
husband, — 
WTio  I  made  lord  of  me  and  aU  I  had, 
A-t  your  important  letters," — this  ill  day 
A  most  outrageous  lit  of  madness  took  him  ; 
That  desp'rately  he  hurried  through  the  street, 
(With  him  his  bondman,  all  as  mad  as  ho,) 
Doing  displeasure  to  the  citizens 
By  rushing  in  their  houses,  bearing  thence 
Rings,  jewels,  anything  his  rage  did  like. 
Once  did  I  get  him  bound,  and  sent  him  home ; 
Whilst  to  take  order^  for  the  wrongs  I  went, 
That  here  and  there  his  fury  had  committed. 
Anon,  I  wot  not  by  what  strong  escape, 
He  broke  from  those  that  had  the  guard  of  him ; 
A-ud,  with  his  mad  attendant  and  himself. 
Each  one  with  ireful  passion,  with  drawn  swords, 
Met  ua  again,  and,  madly  bent  on  us, 
Chas'd  us  away  ;  till,  raising  of  more  aid. 
We  came  again  to  bind  them  :  then  they  fled 
Into  this  abbey,  whither  we  pursu'd  them ; 
And  here  the  abbess  shuts  the  gates  on  us. 
And  will  not  suffer  us  to  fetch  him  out, 
Nor  send  him  forth,  that  we  may  bear  him  hence. 
Therefore,  most  gracious  duke,  with  thy  command, 
Let  him  be  brought  forth,  and  borne  hence  for  help. 

Buke.  Long  since,  thy  husband  serv'd  me  in  my 
wars ; 
And  I  to  thee  engag'd  a  prince's  word, 
When  thou  didst  make  him  master  of  tliy  bed. 
To  do  him  all  the  grace  and  good  I  could. 
Go,  some  of  you,  knock  at  the  abbey-gate. 
And  bid  the  lady  abbess  come  to  me ; 
I  wiU  determine  this  before  I  stir. 

Enter  a  Servant. 
Serv.  0  mistress,  mistress,  shift  and  save  your- 
self! 
AIj-  master  and  his  man  are  both  broke  loose. 
Beaten  the  maids  a-row,""  and  bound  the  doctor. 
Whose  beard  they  have  sing'd  off  with  brands  of 

fire; 
And  over  as  it  blaz'd,  they  threw  on  him 


Great  pails  of  puddlfd  mire  to  quench  the  hair: 
Sly  master  preaches  patience  to  him,  and  the  wluli) 
His  man  with  scissars  nicks  liira  like  a  fool  :** 
And,  sure,  unless  you  send  some  present  helji. 
Between  them  they  will  kill  the  conjurer. 

Adr.  Peace,  fool ;  thy  master  and  his  man  ar» 
here  ; 
AnA  that  is  false  thou  dost  report  to  us. 

Seru.  Mistress,  upon  my  life,  I  tell  you  true ; 
I  have  not  breath'd  almost  since  I  did  see  it. 
He  erics  for  you,  and  vows,  if  he  can  take  you. 
To  scorch  your  face,  and  to  disfigure  you : 

\_Crij  within 
Hark,  Hark,  I  hoar  him ;  Mistress,  fly,  be  gone. 

Btiho.  Come,  stand  by  me,  fear  nothing :  Guard 
with  halberds. 

Adr.  Ah  me,  it  is  my  husband !     Witness  you 
That  he  is  borne  about  invisible : 
Even  now  we  hous'd  him  in  the  abbey  here ; 
And  now  he 's  there,  past  thought  of  human  reason! 

Enter  AxxipnoLtrs  (znrf  Dkomio  o/Ephesus. 

Atit.  E.  Justice,  most  gracious  duke,  oh,  grant 
me  justice ! 
Even  for  the  service  that  long  since  I  did  thee, 
"WTien  I  bestrid  thee  in  the  wars,"*  and  tool: 
Deep  scars  to  save  thy  life ;  even  for  the  blood 
That  then  I  lost  for  thee,  now  grant  me  justice. 

JEge.  Unless  the  fear  of  death  doth  make  me  doto, 
I  see  my  son  Antipholus  and  Dromio. 

Ant.   E.   Justice,    sweet    prince,    against    that 
woman  there. 
She  whom  thou  gav'st  to  me  to  be  my  wife; 
That  hath  abused  and  dishonour'd  me. 
Even  in  the  strength  and  height  of  injury ! 
Beyond  imagination  is  the  ■wrong 
That  she  this  day  hath  shameless  thro^\Ti  on  me. 
I)ahe.  Discover  how,  and  thou  shaltfind  me  just. 
Ant.  E.  This  day,  great  duke,   she   siiut  the 
doors  upon  me. 
While  she  with  harlots"  feastea  m  my  nouse, 
Buke.  A   grievous  fault :    Say,   woman,    didal 

thou  so  ? 
Adr.    No,  my  good  lord; — myself,  he  and  my 
sister. 
To-day  did  dine  together :  So  befall  my  soid. 
As  this  is  false  he  burdens  me  withal ! 

Luc.  Ke'er  may  I  look  on  day,  nor  sleep  on 
night. 
But  she  tells  to  your  highness  simple  truth ! 

Ang.  0  perjui'd  woman!  they  are  both  forsworn: 
In  this  the  madman  justly  chargeth  them. 

211 


ACT  V. 


COilEDT  UF  EEROKS. 


SCENE    1. 


Ant.  E.  My  liege,  I  am  advised  -n-hat  I  Bay ; 
Neither  disturbed  with  the  etfect  of  wine, 
Sot  lieady-rash,  provok'd  with  raging  ire, 
Albeit  my  wrongs  might  make  one  wiser  mad. 
Tliis  woman  lock'd  me  out  this  day  from  dinner : 
That  goldsmith  there,  were  ho  not  pack'd  witli  her. 
Could  witness  it,  for  he  was  with  me  then ; 
^Tio  parted  with  me  to  go  fetch  a  chain, 
Promising  to  bring  it  to  the  Poi-pentine, 
Wliore  Balthazar  and  I  did  dine  together. 
Our  dinner  done,  and  he  not  coming  thither, 
I  went  to  seek  him  :  in  the  street  I  met  him ; 
And  in  his  company,  that  gentleman. 
There  did  this  perjur'd  goldsmith  swear  me  down, 
Tliat  I  this  day  of  him  receiv'd  the  chain, 
AMiioh,  God  he  knows,  I  saw  not :  for  the  which, 
He  did  arrest  me  with  an  officer. 
I  did  obey ;  and  sent  my  peasant  home 
For  certain  ducats :  He  with  none  retimi'd. 
Then  fairly  I  bespoke  the  officer, 
To  go  in  person  with  me  to  my  house. 
By  til'  way  we  met  my  wife,  her  sister,  and  a 

rabble  more 
Of  vild  confederates  ;"'  along  with  them 
They  brought  one  Pinch,   a  hungry  lean-fao'd 

villain, 
A  mere  anatomy,  a  mountcbanlt, 
A  thread-bare  juggler,  and  a  fortune-teller ; 
A  needy,  hollow-ey'd,  sharp-looldng  wretch, 
A  living  dead  man  :  this  pernicious  slave. 
Forsooth,  took  on  him  as  a  conjui-er. 
And  gazing  in  mine  eyes,  feeling  my  pulse. 
And  with  no  face,  as  't  were,  outfacing  me, 
Cries  out,  I  was  possess'd :  then  all  together 
They  fcU  upon  me,  bound  me,  bore  me  thence ; 
And  in  a  dark  and  dankish  vaidt  at  home 
There  left  me  and  my  man,  both  bound  togetlicr; 
Till  gnawing  with  my  teeth  my  bonds  in  sunder, 
I  gain'd  my  freedom,  and  immediately 
Ilan  hither  to  your  gi-acc ;  whom  I  beseech 
To  give  me  amjilo  satisfaction 
For  these  deep  shames,  and  great  indignities. 

Aug.  3Iy  lord,  in  truth  thus  far  I  witness  witli 
him. 
That  he  din"d  not  at  home,  but  was  lock'd  out. 

J)uhe.  But  had  lie  such  a  chain  of  thee,  or  no? 

Ang.  lie  had,  my  lord  ;  and  when  he  ran  in  here, 
These  people  saw  the  chain  about  his  neck. 

Mer.  Besides,  I  will  be  sworn,  these  ears  of  mine 
Heard  j-ou  confess  you  liad  the  chain  of  1dm, 
After  you  first  forswore  it  on  the  mart, 
iV.nd,  thereupon,  I  drew  my  sword  on  you ; 


And  then  you  fled  into  this  abbey  here, 

From  whence,  I  think,  you  are  come  by  miracle. 

A7d.  E.  I  never  came  within  these  abbey  walls 
Nor  ever  didst  thou  draw  thy  sword  on  mc ; 
I  never  saw  the  chain :  So  help  me  heaven, 
As  this  is  false  you  burden  me  withal ! 

Buhe.  Why  what  an  intricate  impeach  is  this  ! 
I  think  you  all  have  diunk  of  Circe's  cup. 
If  here  you  hous'd  him,  here  he  would  have  been 
If  he  were  mad,  he  would  not  plead  so  coldly  : 
You  say  he  din'd  at  home;  the  goldsmith  here 
Denies  that  saying: — SiiTah,  what  say  you? 

Bro.  E.  Sir,  he   din'd  with  her  there  at  Iho 
Porpentine. 

Cour.  He  did;   and  fi'om  my  finger   snatched 
that  ring. 

Ant.  ^.  'T  is  true,  my  iiege,  this  ring  I  had  of  her. 

Buhe.  Saw'st  thou  him  enter  at  the  abbey  here? 

Cour.  As  sure,  my  ucge,  as  I  do  see  your  grace. 

Duke.  "Why  this  is  strange: — Go  caU  the  abbesa 
hither. 
I  think  you  are  all  mated,"'  or  stark  mad. 

\_Exit  Attend. 

^ge.  Most  might}'  duke,  Touchsafe  me  speak 
a  word ; 
Haply,  I  see  a  friend  will  save  my  life. 
And  pay  the  sum  that  may  deliver  mo. 

Buke.  Speak  freely,  Syracusan,  what  thou  wilt. 

^ge.  Is  not  your  name,  sir,  caU'd  Antipholus ' 
And  is  not  that  your  bondman  Dromio  ? 

Bro.  E.  Within  this  hour  I  was  his  bondman,  sir. 
But  he,  I  thank  him,  gnaw'd  in  two  my  cords : 
Ifow  am  I  Dromio,  and  his  man,  unboimd. 

^ge.  I  am  siu-o  you  both  of  you  remember  mo 

Bro.  E.  Ourselves  we  do  remember,  sir,  by  you 
For  lately  we  were  bound,  as  you  are  now. 
You  are  not  Pinch's  patient,  are  you,  sir  ? 

JEge.  Wliy  look  you  strange  on  me  ?  you  know 
me  well. 

Ant.  E.  I  never  saw  you  in  my  life,  till  now. 

JEge.  Oh  !  grief  hath  chang'd  me,  since  you  saw 
mo  last ; 
And  careful  hoiirs,™  with  Time's  deformed  hand, 
Have  written  strange  defeatures  in  my  face : '" 
But  tcU  mo  yet,  dost  thou  not  know  my  voico  ? 

Ant.  E.  Neither. 

JEge.  Dromio,  nor  thou  ? 

Bro.  E.  No,  tnist  me,  sir,  nor  I. 

JEge.  I  am  sure  thou  dost. 

Bro.  E.  I,  sir  ?  but  I  am  sure  I  do  not ;  and 
whatsoever  a  man  denies,  you  are  no\7  bound  t« 
believe  him. 


ACT    V. 


COMEDY  OF  EKIIORS. 


SCENE  1. 


^ge.  Not  Icnow  my  voice !  0,  time's  extremity ! 
Flast  thou  so  cruck'd  and  splitted  my  poor  tongue, 
[n  seven  short  years,  that  here  my  only  son 
Knows  not  my  feeble  key  of  untun'd  cares  ? 
Though  now  this  grained  face  of  mine"  be  hid 
In  sap-consuniiiig  winter's  drizzled  snow, 
;\.nd  all  the  conduits  of  my  blood  froze  up, 
i'et  hath  my  night  of  life  some  memory, 
My  wasting  lamps  some  fading  glimmer  left, 
My  dull  deaf  ears  a  little  use  to  hear : 
M\  these  old  witnesses  (I  cannot  en-) 
Tell  me,  thou  art  my  son  Antipholus. 

Ant.  E.  I  never  saw  my  father  in  my  life. 

JEge.  But  seven  years  since,  in  Sj'racusa,  boy, 
Thou  know'st  we  parted :  but,  perhaps,  my  son, 
Thou  sham'st  to  acknowledge  me  in  misery. 

Ant.  E.  The  duke,  and  all  that  know  me  in  tbe 
city, 
Can  ■witness  \vith  me  that  it  is  not  so ; 
I  ne'er  saw  Syracusa  in  my  life. 

Diike.  I  tell  thee,  Sjrracusan,  twenty  years 
Have  I  been  patron  to  Antipholus, 
During  wliich  time  he  ne'er  saw  Syracusa : 
I  see  thy  age  and  dangers  make  thee  dote. 

Enter  the  Abbess,  icith  ANTirnoLus  of  Syracuse, 
and  Deojiio  of  Syracuse. 

All.  Most  mighty  duke,   behold  a  man  much 
■wrong'd.  \_All  gather  to  see  him. 

Adr.  I  see  two  husbands,  or  mine  eyes  deceive 
me. 

Bake.  One  of  these  men  is  genius  to  the  other ; 
And  so  of  these :  "\\Tiich  is  the  natural  man, 
ind  which  the  spirit  ?     "Wlio  dociplicrs  them  ? 

Dro.  S.  I,  sir,  am  Dromio ;  command  him  away. 

Dro.  E.  I,  sir,  am  Dromio;  pray,  let  me  stay. 

Ant.  S.  iEgeon,  art  thou  not  ?  or  else  his  ghost  ? 

Dro.  S.  0,  my  old  master,  who  hath  bound  1dm 
here? 

Abb.  Wlioevor  bound  him,  I  \vill  loose  his  bonds, 
And  gain  a  husband  by  liis  liberty  : 
Speak,  old  ^geon,  if  thou  be"st  the  man 
That  hadst  a  wife  once  caU'd  iEmilia, 
That  bore  thee  at  a  burden  two  fair  sons 
0,  if  thou  be'st  the  same  jEgeon,  speak, 
And  speak  unto  the  same  Emilia ! 

^Ege.  If  I  dream  not,  thou  art  Emilia : " 
If  thou  art  she,  tcU  me,  where  is  that  son 
That  floated  with  thee  on  the  fat;xl  raft  ? 

Alb.  By  men  of  Epidamnum,  he,  and  I, 
.\jid  the  twin  Dromio,  all  were  taken  up : 
But,  by  and  by,  rude  fishermen  of  Corinth 


By  force  .took  Dromio  and  my  son  from  Ihem, 
And  mo  they  left  with  those  of  Epidamnum  : 
"W^hat  then  became  of  them  I  cannot  tell ; 
I,  to  this  fortune  that  you  see  me  in. 

Bide.    Why,   here   begins   his   morning    story 
right. 
These  two  Antii)holus',  these  two  so  like, 
And  these  two  Dromios,  one  in  semblance, — 
Besides  her  urging  of  licr  ■wTcek  at  sea," — 
These  are  the  parents  to  these  children, 
Wliich  accidentally  are  met  together. 
Antipholus,  thou  cam'st  from  Corinth  first  ? 

Jnt.  S.  'No,  sir,  not  I ;  I  came  fi-om  85x0^^130. 

Luke.  Stay,  stand  apart;   1  luiow  not  w'jch  is 
which. 

Ant.  E.  I  came  froia  Corinth,  my  most  gracious 
lord. 

Dro.  E.  And  I  with  him. 

Ant.  E.  Brought  to   this   to^ni  by   that  most 
famous  warrior, 
Duke  Mcnaplion,  your  most  renowned  unc'/;. 

Adr.  A\niich  of  you  two  did  dine  with  n  j  to-da    • 

Ant.  S.  T,  gentle  mistress. 

Adr.  And  are  not  you  my  husband ? 

Ant.  E.  No,  I  say  nay  to  that. 

Ant.  S.  And  so  do  I,  yet  did  she  ca'l  me  so 
And  this  fair  gentlewoman,  her  sister  here. 
Did  call  me  brother: — What  I  told  you  the* 
I  hope  I  shall  have  leism-o  to  make  good, 
If  this  be  not  a  dream  I  see  and  hear. 

Ang.  That  is  the  chain,  sir,  which  y.r  had  ^  /^a 

Ant.  S.  I  think  it  be,  sir ;  T  denr  it  not. 

A?ii.  E.  And  you,  sir,  for  this  cham  an-csted  mo. 

Ang.  1  think  I  did,  sir;  I  deny  it  not. 

Adr.  I  sent  you  money,  sir,  to  be  your  bail. 
By  Dromio  ;  but  I  think  he  brought  it  not. 

Bro.  E.  No,  none  b^  me. 

Ant.  S.  This  purse  of  ducats  I  recciv'd  from  you 
And  Dromio  my  man  did  bring  them  me : 
I  see,  we  still  did  meet  each  other's  man, 
And  I  was  ta'en  for  him,  anl  he  for  me ; 
And  thereupon  these  errors  are  arose. 

Ant.  E.  These  ducats  pawn  I  for  my  father  here. 

Duke.  It  shall  not  need;   thy  father  hath  hij; 
life. 

Cour.  Sir,  I  must  have  that  diamond  from  you. 

Ant.  E.  There,  take  it;  and  much  thanks  foi 
my  good  cheer. 

All.   llenowncd   duke,  vouchsafe  to  take  the 
p.iins 
To  go  with  us  into  the  abbey  here, 
And  he.ar  at  large  discoursed  all  our  fortunes : 

213 


COMEDY  OF  EEEOKS. 


And  all  that  are  assembled  ia  this  place, 
That  by  this  spnpathized  one  day's  error 
Have  suffer'd  wrong,  go,  keep  us  company, 
And  Ts  e  shiJl  make  full  satisfikjtion. 
Twenty-five  years  have  I  but  gone  in  travail 
Of  ^ou,  my  sons;  and,  till  tliis  present  hour. 
My  heavy  burdens  ne'er  delivered. 
The  duke,  my  husband,  and  my  children  both. 
And  you,  the  calendars  of  their  nativity,"' 
Oo  to  a  gossips'  feast,"  and  go  with  me ; 
After  so  long  grief,  such  nativity  ! 

Lul^e.  With  all  my  heart,  I  'U  gossip  at  this 
feast. 

\ Exeunt  Duke,  Abb.,  ^ge.,  Coue.,  Mee., 
AsG.,  and  Attexd. 
Bro.  S.  Master,  shall  I  fetch  your   stuff  from 

shipboard  ? 
Ant.  E.  Dromio,  what  stuff  of  mine  hast  thou 

embark' d  ? 
Dro.  S.  Tour  goods  that  lay  a',  host,  sir,  in  Iho 
Centauv. 
214 


Ant.  S.  He  speaks  to  me ;  I  am  your  master, 
Dromio : 
Come,  go  Tvith  us ;  we  'U  look  to  that  anon : 
Embrace  thy  brother  there,  rejoice  with  him. 

\_Exetmt  AjfT.  S.  and  E.,  Abk.,  and  Lur,. 
Bro.  E.  There  is  a  fat  friend  at  yoiu:  master's 
house. 
That  kitchen'd  me  for  you  to-day  at  dinner ; 
She  now  shall  be  my  sister,  not  my  wife. 

Bro.  E.  Methinks,  you  are  my  glass,   and  not 
my  brother : 
I  see,  by  you,  I  am  a  sweet-fac'd  youth. 
Wni  you  walk  in  to  see  their  gossiping  ? 
Bro.  S.  Not  I,  sir ;  j-ou  are  my  elder. 
Bro.  E.  That 's  a  question :  how  shall  we  try  it  ? 
Bro.  S.  We  'U  draw  cuts'°  for  the  senior:  till 
then,  lead  thou  first. 

Bro.  E.  Nay,  then,  thus : 
We  came  into  the  world  like  brother  and  brother : 
And  now  let 's  go  hand  in  hand,  not  one  before 
anotlior.  [Exmrnt,. 


I 


^ 


imrp  mb  'liho?  ^pianttf  M  tiii? 'tocircmin^, .  \ 


NOTES  TO  THE  COMEDY  OE  ERRORS. 


'  fVanlmg  gilders  to  redeem  their  lives. 
A  giklcr  was  a  coin,  according  to  StecTcns,  ■which  varied 
.a  value  from  one  shilling  and  sixpence  to  two  shillings. 
Dispose,  disposal. 

'  Was  wrought  by  nature. 

Not  by  any  criminrU  act,  but  by  natural  affection,  which 
prompted  me  to  seek  my  son  at  Ephcsus.     Malune. 

3  And  by  me. 

'  The  word  too  was  added  after  tliis  sentence  by  the  editor 
of  the  secona  folio,  and,  at  first  sight,  appears  very  appo- 
site ;  but  our  is  here  to  be  read  as  a  dissyllable. 

*  Gave  healthful  welcome. 
That  is,  d  kind  welcome,  wishing  health  to  their  giicsts. 
This  is  Boswell's  explanation.  "So  his  ease  was  like," 
his  case  was  so  similar.  He  is  understood  before  "  retain'd. " 
Clean,  quite.  "To  seek  thj"-  help  by  beneficial  help,"  i.e. 
to  seek  help  from  charitable  assistance.  If  no,  if  not.  No 
is  often  used  for  not  in  old  plays.  Wend,  go.  Liveless, 
lifeless.     To  buy  out,  to  ransom. 

^  A  trusty  villain,  sir. 

A  viUaiii,  i.e.  a  slave,  the  villanus  of  the  old  Latin  dra- 
matists. The  best  and  most  luminous  paper  on  the  term  is 
one  bj  Mr.  Wright,  in  a  I'ecent  volume  of  the  Archceoloyia. 
"Soon  at  five  o'clock,"  about  five  o'cloci.  Consort,  to 
keep  company  ^rith.  Consorted,  associated,  occurs  in  the 
Acts,  xvii.  4,—"  and  some  of  them  believed,  and  consorted 
with  Paul  and  Silas." 

®  Here  coines  (he  almanac  of  my  true  date. 

Droraio,  having  been  Ixmi  in  the  same  hour,  is  an  almanac 
that  can  always  give  his  aiastor's  age.  Penitent,  the  adjec- 
tive used  for  the  active  J  articiple.  Dromio  has  fasted  like 
a  penitent  in  missing  his  dinner. 

'  /  shall  be  post  indeed. 

.\(eording  to  Steevens,  before  writing  was  a  general  ac- 
ui  mplishment,  a  kind  of  rough  reckoning  concerning  wares 
issued  out  of  a  shop  was  kept  by  chalk  or  notches  on  a 
post,  till  it  could  be  entered  on  the  books  of  a  trader. 
Milk-scores  were,  till  lately,  made  on  door-posts  in  London; 
and  the  custom  may,  indeed,  still  prevail  in  some  places. 
"  Should  he  your  cooh ;"  so   the   old   copies,   altered   by 


Pojc  to  clock ;  hut,  as  Mr.  Collier  observes,  it  was  formcily 
the  custom  for  cooks  to  strike  on  the  dresser,  to  signify 
that  dinner  was  ready.  Bestow'd,  stowed,  lodged.  "  There 
will  I  bestow  all  ray  fruits  and  my  goods,"  Luke,  xii.  18. 

®  Is  o^er-raught. 

That  is,  over-reached.  The  term  is  used  by  Spenser, 
and  occurs  again  in  Shakespeare. 

'  Such  like  liberties  of  sin. 

This  phraseology  is  unquestionably  equivalent  to,  finful 
liherlies,  or,  sinful  actions.  The  passage  appears  somewhat 
harsh,  persons  and  things  being  included  without  system, 
but  there  are  several  instances  of  the  same  kind  of 
license  in  Shakespeare. 

^^  Head-strony  liberty  is  lasKd  with  woe. 

Mr.  Knight  explains  lash'd,  bound  together ;  and  perhaps 
rightly.  A  thong  for  fastening  cattle  to  stalls  was  called  a 
lash.  "  Some  otherwhere,"  i.e.  somewhere  else.  A'o  other 
cause,  no  cause  to  be  otherwise. 

"  With  like  weight  of  pain. 

The  same  thought  occurs  several  times  in  ShalccspeflTO. 
Compare  Ferrex  and  Porrex,  1571, — • 

Many  can  yield  right  sage  and  grave  advice 
Of  iwtient  sprite  to  others  "wrapp'd  in  wo  ; 
And  can  in  speech  both  rule  and  conquer  kind  , 
ASHio  if  by  proof  they  might  feel  natiu-e's  force, 
"Woidd  show  themselves  men  as  they  are  indeed, 
'WTiieh  now  will  needs  be  gods. 

'-  With  urging  helpless  patience. 

Helpless,  without  help,  affording  no  help. 

"  This  fool-begg'd  patience. 

Dr.  Johnscn  explains  this  phrase  as  "  that  paf/tTicc  which 
is  so  near  tc  idiotical  simplicity,  that  your  next  relation 
would  take  advantage  from  it  to  represent  you  as  a  fool, 
and  beg  the  guardianship  of  your  fortune."  Does  it  not 
rather  mean,  This  idiotic  patience,  which  you  have  begged, 
and  by  that  means  obtained  the  control  of,  will  be  forsaken  ? 
The  sovereign  was  formerly  the  legal  guardian  of  idiota, 
and  it  was  the  practice  to  give  the  wardship  to  some 
favomite,  who  thus  obtained  the  management  of  their 
property.  The  practice  was  ccarccly  so  inhuman  as  hai 
generally  been  represented ;  the  guardiai  having  only  the 

2if^ 


XOTES  TO  THE  COMEDY'  OF  EIUIOKS- 


iJiot's  life  interest  in  the  estate,  would  naturally  endeavour 
to  prolong  liis  existence  by  a  liberal  treatment.  The  fol- 
lowing cui'ious  anecdote,  illustrating  tbe  custom,  has  been 
frequently  quoted.  BladweU  was  of  a  Xorfolk  family.  It 
s  preserved  in  JIS.  Ilai'l.  639o  : — 

"  The  Lord  North  begged  old  Bladwcll  for  a  fool  (though 
he  coidd  never  prove  him  so),  and  having  hira  in  his 
custody  as  a  lunatic,  he  canied  him  to  a  gentleman's  house 
one  day,  that  was  a  neighbour.  The  Lord  North  and  the 
gentleman  retiied  a  while  to  private  discourse,  and  left 
BladweU  in  the  dining-room,  which  was  hung  with  a  fair 
hanging ;  BladweU  walked  up  and  down,  and  viewing  the 
imagery,  spied  a  fool  at  last  in  the  hanging,  and  without 
delay  di-aws  his  knife,  flies  at  the  fool,  cuts  him  clean  out, 
and  lays  him  on  the  floor ;  my  Lord  and  the  gentleman 
coming  in  again,  and  flnding  the  tapestry  thus  defaced,  he 
asks  BladweU  what  he  meant  by  such  a  rude  uncivil  act ; 
he  answered, — Sir,  be  content :  I  have  rather  done  you  a 
courtesy  than  a  wrong,  for  if  ever  my  Lord  North  had  seen 
the  fool  there,  he  would  have  begged  him,  and  so  you 
might  have  lost  your  whole  suit." 

^*  I  scarce  could  understand  it. 

This  absurd  quibble  between  understand  and  stand  under, 
hjia  already  occuiTcd  in  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  act 
ii.  Horn-mad,  excessively  mad.  117//  I'ou  come,  gcueraUy 
read,  but  without  necessity,  will  you  come  home,  an  alteration 
Buggostud  by  Ilanmer.  Arrant,  errand,  a  form  of  the  word 
atUl  used  in  the  provinces.  "  Am  I  so  round'  with  you, " 
am  I  sa  candid  oi  plain  with  you.  Dromio  here  plays  upon 
the  word.  A  footbaU  is  eased  in  leather,  to  which  he 
ijludes  when  he  carries  on  the  quibble. 

"  The  ground  of  my  defeatures. 

Sco  note  70.  Fair,  beauty.  "Fair  of  aUfaiis,"  Tom 
(I  Linrolne,  p.  7.  Shakespeare  again  quibbles  on  deer  and 
dear  in  Venus  and  Adonis,  and  in  the  llcrry  'Wives  of 
Windsor. 

"^  Poor  I  am  but  his  stale. 

The  word  stale  had  anciently  numerous  meanings.  I 
have  collected  no  less  than  thirteen  of  them  in  my  '  Dic- 
tionary of  Archaisms, '  p.  794.  It  seems  in  this  passage  to 
b?  equivalent  to  laughing-stock,  the  subject  of  laughter. 
'  A  subject  fit  to  be  the  stale  of  laughter,"  Ford's  Love's 
Bacrifice,  ii.  1. 

^^  Would  that  alone  alone  he  icould  detain. 

Would  that  alone  the  chain  was  the  only  circumstance 
that  detained  him !  Jewel  is  here  applied  to  a  trinket  or 
ornament,  not  merely  to  a  gem,  as  the  term  is  now  limited 
in  its  application.  The  sense  of  the  passage  seems  to  be 
this.  "  I  see  that  c-en  the  ornament  that  is  best  enamcUed 
wiU  lose  its  beauty  yet  the  gold  remains  though  touched 
by  others ;  and  often  touching  will  wear  even  gold  (i.e.  too 
many  provocations  will  prijve  too  much  for  the  most  dura- 
ble qualities) ;  and  no  man,  with  a  reputation,  shames  it  by 
falsehood  and  corruption."  Adriana,  in  her  rage,  of  course 
implies  by  this  that  her  husband  has  not  a  reputation  or 
good  name.  The  old  editions  read  where,  hero  altered  Ui 
wear,  the  oiUy  delation  from  the  original  I  have  ventured 
to  adopt.  Other  editors  have  made  far  bolder  emendations, 
216 


^^  And  make  a  common  of  my  serious  hours. 
And  use  my  serious  hours,  as  if  they  were  a  common  foi 
your  amusements.    Know  my  aspect,  regard  my  (x)untenance. 

1^  In  your  sconce. 
Sconce,  an  old  term  for  the  head,  generaUy  used  con- 
temptuously. "  Cdpo,  a  head,  a  pate,  a  nole,  a  skonee,' 
Florio's  World  of  Words,  Kill.  Dromio  afterwards  plays 
upon  the  word,  a  sconce  being  also  a  blockhouse  or  small 
fort. 

Except  thy  head,  which,  like  a  skonce  or  firl, 
Is  bairicado'd  strong,  lest  wits  resort. 

Taylor  s  Worhes,  fob  Lond.  16,30, 
nis  beard's  not  starcht,  he  has  no  subtUe  scon:e. 
Nor  Janus-like  lookcs  he  ten  waies  at  once. 

Srathwait's  Strappado  for  the  Divell,  1G15, 

'^  That  he  spends  in  trimming. 
The  old  copies  read  trying,  the  consonant,  or  perha]is  the 
mark  of  contraction,  ha^^g  been  accidentaUy  omitted.  All 
modern  editors  read  tiring  for  attiring;  but  the  one  reason 
that  he  loses  his  hair  is  to  save  the  expence  of  a  barber,  not 
that  of  a  tailor.  Just  pre\iously,  the  falsing  of  the  old 
editions  is  altered  to  falling,  which  is  Heath'  s  judicioua 
emendation.  In  no  time,  alluding  to  the  substitution  cf  n 
wig,  v.'hich  restores  hair  instantaneously.      Wafts,  beckons. 

-'  Tlie  stain'd  shin  off  my  harlot  brow. 

Mr.  Dyce,  with  laborious  learning,  and  at  the  cost  of 
nearly  a  page  of  examples,  has  proved  what  all  tjTos  ir 
these  matters  know,  that  off  was  constantly  interchanged 
with  of  in  old  English  books.  Off  is  evidently  the  true 
reading  in  this  passage,  being  determined  by  the  elision  in 
the  verb.  Had  of  been  intended,  v.'c  should  of  course 
have  read  stained.  In  the  same  speech,  I  foUow  Mr.  Dyce 
in  reading  unstained  for  disstain*d,  as  it  stands  in  the  old 
copies. 

--  You  are  from  me  exempt. 

Mr.  M.  JIason  thinks  Adriana  means  to  say,  that,  as  ho 
was  her  husband,  she  had  no  power  over  him,  and  that  he 
was  privileged  to  do  her  wi'ong.  Idle,  useless,  sterile, 
barren.     Forced  fallacy ;  the  old  copies  read,  freed  failary. 

23  Goblins,  oivls,  and  elvish  sprites. 
The  commentators  send  Shakespeare  to  Ovid  for  the 
ancient  superstition  that  the  screech-owl,  or  strix,  sucked 
the  blood  of  infants ;  but  the  information  might  probably 
have  been  contained  in  many  a  popular  book  of  the  day. 
In  the  triinslation  of  a  work  on  ghosts  and  spirits,  by  Lewis 
Lavater,  4to.  Lond.  1572,  we  are  told,  "  Lamia-  are  things 
that  make  cliiklren  afrayde.  Lamia:  are  also  caUed  striges. 
Striges,  as  they  saye,  are  unluckic  birds,  whiche  sucke  out 
the  blood  of  infants  lying  in  their  cradles."  Elyot,  15.59, 
translates  strii,  "  a  shrichc-oule,  a  witche  that  chaui'.gett 
the  favour  of  chUdren." 

Sunt  avida)  volucrcs  ;  non  qua;  rhincTa  mensis 

Guttm'a  fraudabant;  sed  genus  inde  Irnhunt. 
Grande  cajjut ;  stantes  oculi ;  rostra  apta  rapinie; 

Canities  pennis,  iniguibus  hanius  ineat. 
Noeto  vt)lant.,  puerosijuc  pctunt  nutrieis  egentea, 

Et  vitiant  cunis  corpora  rapta  suis. 
Caq)ere  dicuntur  luctantia  viscera  rnstris, 

Et  plenum  poto  sanguine  gnttur  habent. 
Est  ilUs  strigibus  nomen. — Fast.  lib.  vi. 


d 


NOTES  TO  TKE  COiLEDY  OF  EKEOKS. 


I 


Compare  Pliny, — "Fabulosum  juto  do  strigibus,  ubcra 
iufantium  caa  lobiia  immulgerc."  Ilormann,  in  his  Vul- 
garia,  1-')19,  makes  strix  synonymous  vnth  lamia  ani/airy. 
"And  shrive  you  of  a  thousand  idle  pranks,"  i.e.  and  make 
you  confess  them. 

'*  And  persever  so. 

Perscvct,  to  poraevere,  the  aceent  being  laid  on  the  second 
syllable.  At  all  adventures, — "  To  buy  at  all  adventure, 
or  to  buy  a  pigge  in  a  puke,  ernere  aleam,  hoc  est  incertum 
i-erum  invcntum,"  Baret's  Alvcarie,  1580. 

^^  To  see  the  inahing  of  her  carkanet. 

A  carkanet  was  a  necldace.  Sometimes  a  bracelet  was  so 
called ;  but  the  term  is  here  evidently  applied  to  a  chain  or 
necklace  around  the  neck,  as  appears  from  the  context. 
^^  Carkanet,  a  smal  chaine,"  Cockeram's  English  Dic- 
tionarie,  1626.  "  Carcan,  a  cai'kanct,  or  coUar  of  gold,  &c., 
wome  about  the  nceke,"  Cotgrave.  Harrington  in  a  trans- 
lation of  an  epigram  of  James  I.  on  Sir  Philip  Sidney's 
death,  mentions  Venus s  "rings  and  carknet  cleeno  ;"  and 
Eandolph, — 

I  '11  clasp  thy  nock,  where  should  be  set 
A  rich  and  orient  carcanet. 

^  Though  my  cates  be  mean. 

Cdtes,  provisions.  "  To  lay  out  money  for  cates,  opsone, " 
Baret's  Alvearie,  15S0. 

''  Mome,  malt-horse,  capon. 

These  sre  all  terms  of  contempt.  Mome,  a  fool,  said  to 
be  from  the  Greek.  Malt-horse,  a  slow  heavy  horse ; 
hence,  a  dull  person.  Patch,  a  fooL  ""SVhy,  doating 
patch,  didst  thou  not  come  with  me  this  morning  from  the 
ship?"  Menachmi,  1593.  Ou-'c,  own, possess.  Coz7, tumult. 
Part  with,  depart  with. 

And  if  that  slie  do  take  me  from  home. 

My  bones,  alas  !  shee  wyU  make  to  crackell, 

And  me,  her  husbande,  as  a  starke  mome, 
With  knock^Tig  and  mockjmge  she  wyll  handell. 
The  Disobedient  Child,  lo60. 

28  To  be  so  bouaht  and  sold. 

That  is,  to  be  so  deluded  or  defeated.  The  phrase  occurs 
in  Eichard  III. — 

Jocky  of  Norfolk,  be  not  so  bold ; 
Diccon,  tljy  master,  is  bought  and  sold. 

Break  any  breaking,  a  common  kind  of  repetition,  similar 
to,  "Grace  me  no  grace,"  in  Richard  II.  "Tinkers,  quod 
you,  tinke  me  no  tinkes,  I  '11  meddle  with  them  no  more, " 
Common  Conditions,  1.570.  Pluck  a  crow,  to  complain  or 
quarrel  "with  any  one.  This  proverbial  phrase  is  still  in  use. 

2^  Within  the  compass  of  suspect. 

Suspect,  suspicion.  "They  enjoyed  each  other's  com- 
pany without  suspect  of  any,  onely  two  of  her  trusty 
servants  knowing  of  it,"  Westward  for  Smelts,  1620. 
Or.ce  this,  once  for  all,  it  is  this.  "The  doors  are  made 
against  you, "  i.e.  they  are  fastened.  The  phrase  is  still  in 
nee  in  the  North  of  England. 
28 


'»  In  despight  of  Mirth. 

I  intend  to  be  merry,  whether  Mirth  will  porrait  mo  or 

not. 

''  Shall  love,  in  building,  grow  so  ruinous. 

Our  poet  meant  no  more  than  tliis- — Shall  thy  love- 
springs  rot,  even  in  the  spring  of  love?  Shall  thy  love 
grow  ruinous,  even  while  'tia  but  building  up  ?  Theobald. 
Love-springs  are  the  young  shoots  of  love.  Become  disloy- 
alty, make  inconstancy  becoming.     Attaint,  taint. 

'-  Being  compact  of  credit. 

Compact  of,  i.e.  entirely  composed  of.  "  Love  is  a  spirit, 
all  compact  of  fire,"  Yen.  Aden.  "To  compacte,  to  set 
and  joyue  certayne  things  handsomely  togither  one  to 
another;  to  make  fast  togither,"  Baret's  Alvearie,  1580 
Vain,  according  to  Johnson,  is  light  of  tongue,  not  veracious. 
Decline,  incline  or  lower.  Mated,  amazed;  a  quibble 
between  this  and  our  ordinary  sense  of  the  word. 

'^  My  sole  earth's  heaven,  and  my  heaven's  claim. 

My  sole  heaven  on  earth,  and  all  that  I  claim  from 
heaven.     Aim,  aim  at. 

^  Without  he  say,  sir-reverence. 

Sir-reverence  is  a  corruption  of  the  phrase,  save  reverence, 
which  was  said  as  a  kind  of  apology  before  the  utterance  of 
anything  that  might  be  considered  objectionable,  but  often 
simply  as  an  apology  in  spealdng  to  a  superior.  "  Sa-revc- 
rence,  salva  reverentia,  saving  regard  or  respect;  an  usua 
word,  but  miscalled  sir-reverence  by  the  vulgar,"  Bloimt's 
Glossographia,  1681,  p.  572. 

If  to  a  foule  discourse  thou  hast  pretence. 
Before  thy  foule  words  name  Sir  Reverence. 

Workes  of  Taylor,  the  Water-Poet,  1630. 

'*  That  's,  an  ell. 

A  Flemish  ell  is  three  quarters  of  a  yard.  This  speech 
is  generally  altered  from  the  original,  but  has  been  properly 
restored  by  Mr.  Collier.  In  the  palm  of  her  hand,  alluding 
to  a  diy  hf.nd  being  anciently  considered  a  sign  of  barren- 
ness. The  allusion  to  France,  "  arm'd  and  reverted, 
making  war  against  her  heir,"  -will  be  found  explained  in 
the  Introduction. 

^''  WJiole  armadoes  of  carracks. 

Carracks,  Spanish  galeons.  Sometimes  English  vessels  of 
great  size  and  Vidue  were  so  called.  Ballast,  for  ballasted, 
explained  in  Baret's  Alvearie,  ISSO,  "loded  with  gravell 
or  other  lil;e  y earth."     Assured,  affianced. 

"  Made  me  turn  i  the  wheel. 

Dogs  called  turnspits,  now  extinct,  were  employed  to 
work  machinery  for  roasting  meat,  which  they  effected  by 
running  in  a  wheel  like  a  squirrel  in  his  cage.  Mr.  Mor<rau 
says  that  instances  of  the  practice  have  been  met  with  in 
Wales  witliin  the  last  few  years.  TcpsoU,  in  his  Historic 
of  Four-footed  Beasts,  1607,  says  :^"  There  is  compre- 
hended, under  the  curres  of  the  courscst  kinde,  a  ecrtaice 
dog  in  kitien  service  excellent ;  for  when  any  moat  is  to 
be  roasted,  they  j ;o  into  a  wheel,  which  they,  turning  roiind 

■217 


NOTES  TO  THE  COMEDY  OF  EllROKS. 


ibout  w-ith  the  -waight  of  their  bodies,  so  dilligently  looke 
to  thiir  businesse,  that  no  drudge  nor  scullion  can  do  the 
feate  more  cunningly:  whom  the  popular  sort  hereupon 
trail  tximcspits." 

''  Al  the  Porpentine. 

Porpentine,  i.e.  porcupine.  This  is  an  archaic  form  of 
the  word,  and  should  be  preserved.  So  in  a  collection  of 
epigrams,  entitled  the  "  Mous-trap, "  1606, — 

Gallus,  that  greatest  roost-cock  in  the  rout, 
Swclleth  as  big  as  Bacchus  did  with  wine : 

Like  to  a  hulke  he  bearcs  himselfe  about. 
And  bristels  as  a  boare  or  porpentine. 

3'  Glowing,  i.e.  accruing.  So,  afterwards,  "knjwing 
Qow  the  debt  grows. " 

^0  You  use  this  dalliance. 

Dalliance,  i.e.  hesitation,  tiifling.  Gifford  notes  its  usa 
in  the  sense  of  delay  in  Massinger,  i.  81.  "  Send  me  by 
some  token,"  give  some  token  to  me  by  which  it  may 
appear  I  am  sent  by  you.  This  practice  was  formerly  very 
common, 

"  TTiou  peevish  sheep. 

Peevish,  an  old  word  for  foolish,  as  has  been  before 
remarked.  The  play  on  the  words  sheep  and  ship  has 
already  occurred  in  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona- 

'-  irAcffi  Dousahel  did  claim  me. 

Duusabcl  is  a  compound  name,  derived  from  douce  ei 
heUe.  This  generic  name  is  frequently  used  by  our  old 
pastoral  poets.     So  Drayton, — 

He  had,  as  antique  stories  tell, 
A  daughter  cleaped  Dousabel. 

"  He  denied  you  had  in  him  no  right. 

A  double  negative,  strengthening  instead  of  neutralizing 
it,  is  common  in  old  books. 

*'  Old  and  sere. 

Old  and  sere,  i.e.  old  and  withered.  Stigmatical  in 
making,  i.e.  deformed  in  body. 

^'  In  an  everlasting  garment. 

Alluding  to  the  baUiff,  who  wore  buff,  a  robe  of  durance, 
Ml  everlasting  garment.  Narrow  lands  is  apparently  equi- 
valent to,  narrow  lanes.     A  shoulder-clapper  is  a  baiiitf. 

*''  And  yet  draws  dry-foot  well. 

That  is,  to  follow  by  the  scent  of  the  foot.  "  Nay,  if  he 
t  mell  nothing  but  papers,  I  care  not  for  his  dry-foot  hunt- 
miT,"  Dumb  Knight,  1608.  llarrison,  in  his  'Description 
if  England,'  p.  230,  mentions  "a  bloudhound,  whose  office 
i-i  to  follow  the  fierce,  and  now  and  tlien  to  pursue  a  theofo 
>r  beast  by  bis  drie  foot."  Hounds  were  said  to  run  counter, 
ivlicn  tbcy  mistook  tlie  direction  of  their  game.  The  hell 
was  a  common  cant  term  for  a  dark  or  obscure  diingcon  in 
a  pri8f>n,  and  most  prisons  formerly  had  a  particular  ono  so 
■ailed. 

218 


*'  Arrested  on  a  hand. 

An^'sted  on  a  legal  bond.  There  is,  of  course,  a  plaj 
upon  words.  A  bond  was  formerly  spelt  band.  BanArout, 
a  bankrupt. 

*'  The  picture  of  old  Adam. 

Mr.  Collier  says,  "  What  have  you  got .'"  is  still  a  vulgai 
plirase  for,  "WTiat  have  you  done  with?"  The  "picture  oi 
old  Adam  new  apparcll'd, "  is,  of  course,  the  man  in  buff. 

*'  Gives  them  a  fob. 

The  old  copies  reads  sob,  which  is  unintelligible ;  but  1 
scarcely  think /oA  suits  the  context.  Can  it  be  sop  f  A  MS. 
note  in  Mr.  Tunno's  copy  reads  bob.  "  Suits  of  durance,' 
a  play  upon  words.  There  was  a  kind  of  durable  stufiF. 
made  with  thread  or  sUk,  called  durance. 

Not  in  a  durance  suite  remainf'  I  here. 

Yet  in  a  suite  like  durance  heram'd  mth  feare. 

Urathwait^s  Strappado  fur  the  Divell,  1615, 

^  Than  a  morris-pike. 

Sets  up  his  rest,  i.e.  determines,  a  proverbial  pbjase. 
The  morris-pike  was  a  large  pike,  a  formidable  weapcn. 

"  Wdlpay  them  all. 

Another  quibble.     Pay,  to  boat. 

'-  Beware  the  rope's  end. 

It  was  formerly  the  custom  to  teach  parrots  to  say  imper- 
tinent words,  for  the  rather  coarse  joke  of  their  applying 
them  on  ludicrous  occasions.     So  Ealpho,  in  'Uudilins,    ' 
was  so  learned  that  he, 

Co\dd  tell  what  subtlest  parrots  mean. 
That  speak,  and  think  contrary  clean  ; 
What  member  'tis  of  whom  they  talk, 
^\'lien  they  cry  'rope,'  and,  'wallc,  knaves,  walk,' 

Compare  Lilly's  Midas,  1592, — "Tush,  it  is  not  for  tno 
blackness,  but  for  the  babbling,  for  every  hour  phc  will 
cry,  '  waUt,  knave,  wallc. ' — Pet.  Then  will  I  mutter,  '  a 
rope  for  parrot,  a  rope. '  " 

^•^  Are  tliese  your  Customers  ? 

Customers,  i.e.  friends,  sometimes,  but  not  always,  used 
in  a  bad  sense.  Companion  was  formerly  a  term  of  con- 
tempt, equivalent  to  the  modom  fellviv. 

5*  Both  man  and  master  are  possessed. 

That  is,  possessed  with  a  spirit ;  mad.  Jlad  people  were 
formerly  confined  in  a  dark  room.  Malvolio,  in  Twelfth 
Night,  is  shut  up  in  a  "  dark  house." 

*^  Whenas  your  husband, 
Whenas,  formed  in  a  similar  nifnner  to  whc-eas,  is  equi 
Talent  to  when. 

M  Stuff,  i.e.  baggage. 

*'  Some  get  within  him. 
That  is,  close  with  liim.     Take  a  house,  go  into  a  house. 

^  77ie  copy  of  our  conference. 
Copy,  theme.     So,  as  Stcevcns  observes,  we  still  talk  of 


NOTES  TO  THE  COMEDY  OE  ERKORS. 


eettmg  copies  for  boys.  Ben  Jonson  uses  the  tenn  in  a 
^cnso  derived  from  the  Latin  copia,  but  this  meaning  would 
scai'cely  suit  the  construction  of  the  present  passage. 

"  A  formal  man  again. 

J'ormal,  in  hia  right  senses  and  character.  "  Like  a  fury 
eiown'd  with  snakes,  not  lilco  a  formal  man."  Anth.  Cluop. 

*  ""  The  place  of  depth. 

So  the"  original,  usually  altered  to  death.  If  the  old 
reading  is  coiTect,  it  refers  most  probably  to  a  BapaOpovy 
similar  to  that  at  Athens,  a  deep  cavern  into  which  crimi- 
nal" capitally  condemned  were  precipitatea.  The  story 
belongs  to  Grecian  customs  ar.d  manners.  Sorry,  dismal. 
So.  in  an  old  romance  of  the  fourteenth  centur)-, — • 

It  was  done  at  the  kingo  commauude  ; 

His  soulo  was  fot  to  helle, 
To  daunse  in  that  sort/  lande, 

"With  develcs  that  wer  ful  fulle. 

Headsman,  i.e.  executioner. 

"''  At  your  important  letters. 

Mr.  Hunter  says  there  is  an  allusion  here  to  the  custom 
cf  royal  letters  being  sometimes  addressed  to  ladies  witli 
great  fortunes  in  behalf  of  certain  persons  who  had  the 
means  of  obtaining  them.  The  writer  of  a  letter  of  the 
time  of  Henry  VIII.  says,  "  Sir  William  Compton  shewed 
unto  me  my  Lord  Cai'dinal  wrote  unto  Mrs.  Vernon,  if  she 
would  aitmix  the  king's  favour,  to  bear  her  good  mind  unto 
his  servant  Tyrwhit. " 

^-  To  take  order. 

That  is,  to  take  measures.  Stcovens  explains  strong 
escape,  "  an  escape  effected  by  strength  or  violence." 

^  Beaten  the  maids  a-row. 

A-row^  successively,  one  after  another.  "For  thre 
lyghtes  a-  roioe  ho  seyghe  that  same  syght, "  Chrou. 
Vilodun,  p.  68. 

"^  Nicks  him  like  a  fool. 

Malone  quotes  the  following  passage  from  the  '  Choice  of 
Change,'  1598, — "  Three  things  used  by  monks,  which 
provoke  other  men  to  laugh  at  their  folUcs,  ].  They  are 
shaven  and  notched  on  the  head,  likefooles. "  The  follow- 
ing extract  from  the  romance  of  '  Ipomydon '  may  explain 
this  passage  still  further, — 

Righte  unsemcly,  on  queynte  manere, 

lie  hjTn  dight,  as  ye  shall  here. 

A  bai'bor  he  callyd,  withouten  more. 

And  shove  (shaved)  hym  bothe  byhynd  and  before, 

Queyntly  endentyd  oute  and  in  ; 

And  also  he  shove  halfe  his  chynne : 

He  scmyd  a  fole,  that  queynte  syre, 

Both  by  hede  and  by  atyre. 

**  When  I  bestrid  thee  in  the  wais. 

Saved  you  by  placing  myself  before  you,  and  receiving 
the  woimds  that  would  otherwise  have  been  inflicted  on 
you.  So  in  1  Henry  IV. — "  Hal,  if  thou  see  me  down  in 
the  battle  and  bustride  mc,  so :  it  is  an  act  of  friendsliip." 


*'  While  she  unlh  harlots  feasted. 

The  term  harlot  was  originally  applied  to  a  low  depraved 
class  of  socielj',  the  ribalds,  and  having  no  relation  to  sex. 
In  Shakespeare's  time,  the  tenn  was  frequently  one  of  men' 
contempt,  applied  cither  to  men  or  women. 

He  was  unhardy  that  harlot, 
And  hidde  hym  in  Inferno. 

Piers  Ploughman,  ed.  Wright,  p.  3-5 1. 
Chaucer  translates  roy  dcs  rihaulx,  by  king  of  harlots.  Ie 
the  Covcntiy  Mystery  of  the  AVoman  taken  in  Adultery, 
the  young  man  who  is  detected  with  her  is  called  a  harlot 
See  Mr.  Wright's  Gloss,  ad.  ibid. 

"  Of  vild  confederates. 

So  the  old  copies ;  vild,  as  1  have  before  remarked,  beuig 
tlie  ancient  form  of  vile.  It  should  be  retained,  for  some- 
times it  is  occasionally  required  for  the  metre.  CoUier  ane- 
Knight  sometimes  use  the  old  word,  and  sometimes  alter  it. 
It  is  as  well  to  follow  an  imiform  rnle.  Anatomy,  a 
skeleton.  Danhish,  damp.  As  this  is  false,  an  emendation 
made  by  Mr.  Dyce.  The  same  critic's  conjee  lure,  neer  de- 
livered, a  very  good  emendation,  has  also  been  adopted. 

^  I  think  you  are  all  mated. 

Mated,  i.e.  puzzled,  confounded.  So  Skelton,  in  '  Wto 
come  ye  nat  to  Courte, ' — 

The  Frenchmen  he  hathe  so  mated. 
And  theyr  courage  abated. 
That  they  are  but  halfe  men. 

^'  And  careful  hours. 

Tiiat  is,  horns  fuU  of  care.  "  Tliou  art  careful  and 
ti'oublcd  about  many  things,"  Luke,  x.  41.  Deformed  foi 
deforming,  the  passive  participle  used  for  the  active. 

'"  Strange  defeatures  in  my  Jace. 
Defeatures,  a  common  old  word  for  defeats,  discomfitures. 
The  word  oceiu-sin  act  ii.  sc.  1,  and  in  Venus  and  Adonis. 
Mr.  Knight  explains  it,  "  want  of  beauty,  defect  of  fea- 
tures;" but  although  Gifford  has  ridicided  this  interpreta 
tion,  I  am  not  prepared  to  deny  that  Shakespeare  does  not  use 
the  word  in  a  peculiar  sense,  certainly  in  an  allegorical  one 

■"  This  grained  face  of  mine. 

Grained,  says  Steevens,  is  furrowed,  like  the  grain  oi 
wood.  A  traditional  tale  relating  to  Shakespeare  was  cur- 
rent at  Stratford  about  a  century  ago,  and  was  related  to 
Malone  by  Macklin.  A  blacksmith  accosted  the  poet,  as  he 
was  leaning  ever  a  mercer's  door,  with  the  following  lines, — 

Now,  Jlr.  Shakespeare,  tell  me,  if  you  can. 

The  diii'erence  between  a  youth  and  a  young  man. 

To  which  Shakespeare  is  said  to  have  replied. — 

Thou  son  of  fire,  with  thy  face  tike  i  maple. 
The  same  dift'erence  as  between  a  scalded  and  a  coddled 
apple. 

■'-  If  I  dream  not,  thou  art  Emi.ia, 

Thomas  Hull  wrote  an  alteration  of  this  play  which  was 
produced  al  Covcnt  Garden  Theatie  In  1779,  and  printed 
in  1793.     In  a  JIS.  of  his  in  my  possession,  he  says, — "  1 

219 


NOTES  TO  THE  COMEDY  OF  ERKOKS. 


hoTO  fdwava  thought  that  eome  part  of  the  original  play 
has  been  lost:  neither  iEjjeon  nor  Emilia  express  the 
smallest  surpiize  or  joy  at  such  an  unespceted  meeting, 
after  a  eeparation  of  twenty-five  years.  My  opinion  has 
been  sufficiently  proved  by  the  alteration  I  presumed  to 
make  of  this  comedy,  from  which  I  claim  no  merit,  but 
that  of  having  reproduced  a  neglected  piece  of  our  great 
bard,  after  it  had  lain  hid  for  a  number  of  years,  to 
frequent  exhibition  and  universal  approbation."  Hull 
forgets  the  presumption  of  by-play  so  necessary  in  almost 
every  one  of  Shakespeare's  dramas. 

'3  Her  urging  of  her  wreck  at  sea. 

The  celebrated  Blackstone  says,  "  J5niilia  may  be  sup- 
posed, at  her  first  coming  to  Ephesus,  to  have  urged  her 
wreck  at  sea,  in  order  to  move  compassion:  the  Duke 
(comparing  this,  JEgeon's  raoi-ning  story  and  the  likeness  of 
the  twins  together)  pronounced,  these  plainly  are  the 
parents  of  these  ehildi-en,  which  how  she  has  proved  herself 
to  be.  uiuess  by  some  former  story,  'm  difficult  to  say."  Mr. 
22^ 


CoUier  appears  to  adopt  this  explanation;  but  butoIj  the 
Duke  merely  means  to  say,  "  Eesides  her  mentioning  or 
introducing  her  wreck  at  sea,"  which  is  an  additional 
proof  of  the  correctness  of  his  conjecture.  Mason  says 
the  abbess  does  not  hint  at  her  shipwreck ;  but,  what 
amounts  to  the  same  thing,  she  confesses  to  have  been 
saved  on  the  raft. 

"  And  you  the  calendars  of  their  nativity, 
k  similar  allusion  to  that  we  have  had  previously.    "  Ileie 
comes  the  almanac  of  my  true  date."     See  uote  6. 

"5  Go  to  a  gossips'  feast. 
The  gossips'  feast  was   formerly  celebrated  with  great 
hospitaUty.    Cotgrave  mentions  it  under  the  word  caqwiuirt. 

"^  We  *ll  draw  cuts. 
Cuts,  lots.     Cuts  were  generally  drawn  in  the  fcUowirg 
manner.     Slips  of  unequal  length  were  held  in  the  hand  ox 
one  of  the  party,  with  the  ends  peeping  out,  and  ho  wKt 
drew  the  Icngest  one  waa  the  winiior. 


Jliiirlj  liiii  nluiiit  lliilljing. 


fp.KE  serious  incidents  of  this  admirable  comedy  are  to  be  traced  in  a  novel  of  Bandello ;  thus  analyzed 
by  Mr.  Skottowe.  Fenicia,  the  daughter  of  Lionato,  a  gentleman  of  Messina,  is  betrothed  to  Timbreo 
de  Cai'dona.  Girondo,  a  disappointed  lover  of  the  young  lady,  resolves,  if  possible,  to  prevent  the 
marriage.  He  insinuates  to  Timbreo  that  his  mistress  is  disloyal,  and  offers  to  show  him  a  stranger 
scnKng  her  chamber  -nindow.  Timbreo  accepts  the  invitation,  and  witnesses  the  hired  servant  of 
Giroudo,  in  the  dress  of  a  gentleman,  ascending  a  ladder,  and  entering  the  house  of  Lionato.  Stung 
vil:h  rage  and  jealousy,  Timbreo,  the  next  morning,  accuses  his  innocent  mistress  to  her  father,  and 
rejects  the  aUitmce.  Fenicia  sinks  into  a  swoon;  a  dangerous  illness  succeeds,  and  to  stifle  all  reports 
injurious  to  her  fame,  Lionato  proclaims  that  she  is  dead.  Her  funeral  rites  are  performed  in  Messina, 
while  in  truth  she  lies  concealed  in  the  obscurity  of  a  country  residence.  The  thought  of  having 
accasioned  the  death  of  an  innocent  and  lovely  woman,  strikes  Girondo  with  horror.  In  the  fcgony  oi 
remorse,  he  confesses  liis  %'iUainy  to  Timbreo,  and  they  both  throw  tliemselres  on  the  mercy,  and  ask 
forgiveness  of  the  insulted  family  of  Fenicia.  On  Timbreo  is  merely  imposed  the  penance  ok  espousing 
a  ladj',  whose  face  he  should  not  see  previous  to  his  marriage ;  but  instead  of  a  new  bride,  he  m  presented 
at  the  nuptial  altar  -with  liis  injured  and  beloved  Fenicia. 

This  simple  love-tale  is,  as  £;r  as  we  linow  at  present,  the  sole  origin  of  tlie  comedy.  4.  story  of  a 
similai-  cluiractor,  but  not  containing  so  many  incidents  used  by  Shakespeare,  is  related  in  t  le  fifth  book 
of  the  Orlando  Furioso,  which  was  translated  into  English  by  Harrington  in  1591,  containing  the  talc 
of  Genevra  and  jVriodant.  Ariosto's  story  was  also  versified  in  English  by  Eevcrlcy,*  a/id  published 
in  1565;  and  we  learn  from  Mr.  Collier  the  curious  infomiation  that  a  play  on  tlie  subject,  entitled  a 
'History  of  Ariodante  and  Genevora,'  was  exhibited  by  'Mulcaster's  childi'en'  in  15S2-3.  No 
English  translation  of  BandeUo's  tale  has  yet  been  discovered. 

Aiiosto's  tale,  was  regarded  by  Pope,  but  I  think  eiToneously,  as  the  real  source  of  Shakespeare's  play. 
It  ^^'ill  bo  seen,  from  the  follo-ndng  analysis,  that  it  has  far  inferior  claims  to  Bandello  for  that  honour. 
Rinaldo,  sailing  to  England,  was  driven  by  a  violent  stomi  on  the  coast  of  Scotland;  and,  joiu-neying 
by  himself  in  that  country,  was  entertained  at  an  abbey,  where  he  heard  that  Genevra,  the  king's 
daughter,  was  accused  of  incontinence  by  Liu-canio,  the  brother  of  Ariodant.  It  was  the  law  that  thej 
who  were  charged  with  that  crime,  nothwithstanding  theu'  rank,  should  be  burned  to  death,  unless  a 
champion  imdertook  their  defence  in  combat  against  the  accuser  ^vithin  the  space  of  a  month.     Binaldo 

*  It  was  entered  on  the  registers  of  the  Stationers'  Company,  1565-6,  to  Henry  Wekes,  under  the  corrupted  title, 
"A  boke  intituled  trageeall  and  pleasante  histoiy  Arrounde  Jcnevor,  the  doughter  unto  the  kynge  of  Skottes,  by  Peter 
Beverley;"  and  republished  in  1600.  The  late  Duke  of  Roxburghe  had  a  copy  printed  by  Thomas  East  It  is  ot 
eitronio  rarity,  a»d  a  copy  sold  at  the  Gordonstoun  sale  for  £31  10s. 

221 


MUCH  ADO  AEOUT  NOTHING. 


undertakes  the  combat ;  and  finds  by  accident  the  servant  by  whose  connivance  Genevra's  guJlt  had 
been  established,  to  the  satisfaction  of  Ariodant,  by  the  ascent  of  a  sUken  ladder.  The  remainder  of  the 
tale  has  nothing  in  common  with  the  Jjlay.  The  ladder,  and  nothing  hut  the  ladder,  is  Shakcspeai-iiin  ; 
unless,  perhaps,  vre  except  the  incident  of  the  maid  personating  the  mistress  at  the  ^vindow,  which  also 
occurs  in  a  variation  of  the  tale  in  Spenser ;  and  if  borrowed,  an  unnecessary  supposition,  was  probably 
derived  from  the  latter  source.  Harrington,  at  the  end  of  the  translation  of  the  fifth  book,  seems  to 
think  the  story  of  Genevra  had  an  historical  origin.  "  Some  others  affirme,"  he  says,  "that  this  very 
matter,  though  set  down  here  by  other  names,  happened  in  Ferrara  to  a  kinsewoman  of  the  Dukes, 
which  is  here  figured  under  the  name  of  Genevra,  and  that  indeede  such  a  practise  was  used  against  hei 
by  a  great  lord,  and  discovered  by  a  damsel,  as  is  here  set  down  :  howsoever  it  was,  sure  the  tale  is  a 
pretie  comicaU  matter,  and  hath  bin  written  in  English  verse  some  few  years  past,  learnedly  and  -nith 
good  grace,  though  in  verse  of  another  kind,  by  il.  George  Turborvil."  The  ti-anslation  here  alluded 
to,  is  not  now  known  to  exist. 

"We  have  no  certain  infonnation  respecting  the  date  of  the  composition  of  'Much  Ado  about  Nothing," 
but  as  it  is  not  mentioned  by  Meres  in  1598,  and  was  published  in  ^600,  the  probability  is  that  it  was 
written  in  or  between  those  yeai's.  The  first  edition  is  entitled,  "  Much  Adoe  about  Nothing,  as  it  hath 
been  sundrie  times  pubHkely  acted  by  the  Eight  Honourable  the  Lord  Chamberlaine  his  Servants, 
written  by  William  Shake.'peare :  London,  Printed  by  V.  S.  for  Andrew  "Wise  and  W^iUiam  Aspley, 
1600,"  4to.  It  was  entered  on  the  registers  of  the  Stationers'  Company  on  August  23rd,*  and  was  not 
republished  till  it  appeared  in  the  folio  of  1623.  Both  editions  appear  to  have  been  printed  from  one 
manuscript,  for,  w  one  place,  the  same  error.  Keeper  for  Kemp,  is  repeated  in  both  copies ;  but  the  folio 
was  not  reprinted  from  the  quarto,  for  "Jack  WUson,"  the  singer,  is  introduced  in  a  stage  direction,  a 
peculiarity  not  foimd  in  the  latter.  This  being  the  case,  there  can  be  little  hesitation  in  accepting  both 
copies  as  of  etjual  authority,  and  adopting  the  readings  in  either  which  appear  most  likely  to  be  the  genuine 
language  used  by  the  poet.  Adopting  this  view  of  the  state  of  the  text,  it  was  considered  scarcely 
necessary  to  perplex  the  reader  by  mentioning  in  the  notes  the  numerous  differences  between  the 
quarto  and  folio.  In  cases  of  doubt,  where  both  copies  have  plausible  readings,  the  longer  one  has 
usually  been  adopted,  old  printers  having  generally  erred  in  omissions  rather  than  in  additions. 

This  play  was  performed  at  Court  in  May,  1613,  as  we  learn  from  the  accounts  of  Lord  Harrington, 
a  manuscript  in  the  Bodleian  Library;  and  in  the  same  volume  is  also  noticed  a  play  entitled 
'  Benedicite  and  Bcttrise,'  acted  in  the  same  year,  and  probably  Shakespeare's  drama.  It  was,  in  all 
probability,  a  popidar  play;  and  in  Heywood's  'Fair  Maid  of  the  Exchange,'  1607,  several  sentences 
are  imitated  from  it,  apparently  as  familiar  to  the  writer  as  "household  words."  Middleton  is  open  to 
a  similar  imputation.  Some  critics  suppose  that  Ben  Jonson  also  alludes  to  'Much  Ado  about  Nothing,' 
in  the  induction  to  'Bartholomew  Fair,' — "and  then  a  substantial  watch  to  have  stolen  in  upon  them, 
and  taken  them  away  with  mistaking  words,  as  the  fasliion  is  in  stage  practice."  But  blundering 
constables  were  famUiar  to  the  stage  before  Shakespeare's  comedy  was  written.  According  to  the 
excellent  authority  of  Gilford,  the  guardians  of  the  night  had  been  proverbial  for  their  blundering 
simplicity  before  Shakespeare  was  bom ;  and  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  look  into  an  old  play  without 
Beeuig  how  deeply  this  opinion  was  rooted  in  the  minds  of  the  people.  We  have  akcady  had,  in 
'  Measure  for  Measure, '  a  character  bearing  some  general  similarity  to  Dogberry. 

Sir  W.  D'Avenant,  in  his  'Law  against  Lovers,'  1673,  introduced  a  small  portion  of  the  present 
oomedy,  interwoven  with  '  Measure  for  Measure, '  fonning  a  play  of  the  two  dramas  very  inferior  to 
either  of  the  great  oi-iginals.     There  is  nothing  in  it  worthy  a  quotation. 

The  characters  of  Benedick  and  Beatrice  attract  tlie  principal  attention  both  of  the  reader  and 
spectator  of  'Much  Ado  about  Nothing.'  The  portion  of  the  comedy  devoted  to  them  may  be 
considered  as  an  elaborate  representation  of  the  recognized  principle  that  affection  is  often  cngendersd 
by  the  discovery  of  mutual  esteem ;  but  the  moral  foundation  of  the  play  is  probably  from  a  nobler 

•  It  was  entered  to  the  piiblishers  "Wise  and  Aspley,  the  snme  who  pulHslu'd  the  quarto ;  and  it  would  seem  from  an 
obsciu-e  notice  in  the  registers,  in  which  it  is  entered  oa  amongst  other  plays  "  to  be  staled, "  that  a  piratical  edition  had 
been  attempted  to  be  licensed  for  publication. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


mould.  One  of  the  worst  phases  of  society  in  Shakespeare's  time  was  the  prevalence  of  corjugal 
infidelity,  to  wVilch  the  general  want  of  faith  in  female  virtue  greatly  contributed.  No  writer  of  the 
duy  combated  tliis  unreasonable  tendency  so  powerfully  as  our  great  dramatist.  His  pages  are  retiletf 
with  the  discovery  of  futile  suspicion,  and  tlie  ridicule  or  disgrace  of  those  who  were  toi-raentcd  bv 
ealousy.  lienediok  has  improperly  been  described  as  a  woman-hater;  but  if  we  examine  his  charactfr 
cksely,  we  shall  find  that  his  objection  to  matrimony  chiefly  arises  from  another  source.  "  liccauGc, " 
cays  he,  talking  of  women,  "  I  will  not  do  them  the  wrong  to  mistrust  any,  I  \\ill  do  myself  the 
right  to  trust  none."  We  receive  a  powerful  lesson  of  the  wickedness  of  this  inclination  to  mistnist 
in  tlie  story  of  Hero.  The  comical  scenes  are  beyond  all  praise ;  the  blunders  of  the  constables  nn- 
iri'esistiblo  ;  and  aU  are  interwoven  with  infinite  dramatic  skill :  but  the  moral  of  the  tiile,  to  wfiicfi 
these  are  artistic  accessories,  teaches  us  that  suspicion  of  woman's  virtue,  founded  on  circumstantial 
evidence,  very  Irecpiontly  realizes  the  title  of  the  comedy,  and  is,  indeed,  'iluch  Ado  about  Nothing.' 

228 


PERSONS     REPEESENTED. 


Don  Pebbo,  Prince  of  Arragon. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.    Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  ec.  3.    Act  III.  so.  2. 

Act  IV.  sc.  1.     Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  S ;  sc.  4. 

Don  Jonx,  iastard  brother  to  Pon  Pedro. 

dppears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3.    Act  II.  sc.  1;  sc.  2.  Act  III. 

6C  2.     Act  IV.  EC.  J, 

Clattbio,  a  young  lord  of  Florence,  favourite  of  Dou 

Pedro. 

Appears,  Act  I.  6o.  1.  Act  11.  sc.  1;  sc.  3.      Act  III.  bo.  2. 

Act  IV.  sc.  1.     A  jt  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3 ;  bc.  4. 

Bknediok,  a  young  lord  of  Padua,  fmourite  lih/wise 

of  Don  Pedro. 

Appears,  Act  I.    sc.  1.  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3.  Act  III.  ec  2. 

Act  IV.  ec.  1.     Act  V.  sc.  I ;  sc.  2  ;  sc.  4. 

Lbonato,  Governor  of  Messina. 

ApjKars,  Act   I.   BC.    1 ;  sc.    2.      Act   II.    sc.  1 ,    so.   3. 

.■Vet  III.  sc.  2;  BO.  6.   Act  IV.  sc.  1.   ActV.  sc.  1;  sc.  4. 

AsTONio,  brother  to  Leonato. 
Appears,  Act  1.  sc.  2.    Act  II.  sc.  1.     Act  V.  sc.  1;  sc.  i. 

B-iLTHAZAE,  attendant  to  Don  Pedro. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.     Act  II.  so.  1 ;  ec.  3. 

BoBAcnio,  follower  of  Don  John. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  3.    Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Aci  III.  so.  3. 
Act  IV.  sc.  2.    Act  V.  sc.  1. 

CoxRADE,  follower  of  Don  Jolm. 

Appears  Act  I.  sc.  3.     Act  IT  I.   sc.  3.     Act  IV.  ec.  2. 
Act  V.  sc.  1. 
224 


DooBEEBT,  the  chief  constable. 
Appeart,  Act  Ul.ac.  3;  su.  5.     ActlV.  sc.  2.     ActV.  EO.  1 

Veeges,  the  headborough,  or  petty  constable. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  3;  sc.  5.   Act  IV.  sc.  2.  Act  V.  EC.  1 

A  Sexton. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  2.    Act  V.  sc.  1. 

A  Friar. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  1.    Act  V.  so.  4. 

A  Boy,  attendant  on  Bcyiediok. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  3. 

IxxooEX,  icifc  to  Lecnato. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.     Act  II.  sc.  x. 

Hero,  daughter  to  Leonato. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.    Act  II.  sc.  1.  Act  III.  sc.  1 ,  60.  i 
Act  IV.  sc.  1.     Act  V.  sc.  4. 

Beateice,  niece  to  Leonato. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.   Act  II.  sc.  I ;  sc.  3.   Act  III.  so.  1  ■ 

sc.  4.     Act  IV.  sc.  I.     Act  V'  so.  2 ;  sc.  4. 

Maegaret,  a  gentlewoman  attending  on  Hero 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1.    Act  III.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  4.    Act  V.  sc.  3, 

XJEStncA,  a  gentlewoman  attending  on  Hero. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1.      Act  III.  sc.   1;  sc.  4.      Act  V 
sc.  2  ;  sc.  4. 

Metsengers,  Watch,  and  Attmdanis. 
SCEI^E,— ME8SIU.V. 


M^tlj  Mn  iiliiuit  liotijiiifl. 


ACT   I. 


SOEKE  L— Street  in  Messina. 

?'«-  Leiwato,  -Nxogen^,'  ITeko,  Beatbice,  and 

others,  with  a  Messenger. 

Leon.  I  loam  iu  this  letter  that  Don  Pedro  of 
irrngon  comes  this  night  to  Messina. 

3£ess.  He  is  veiy  near  by  this ;  he  was  not  three 
leagues  otT  -when  I  left  him. 

Leon.  How  many  gentlemen  have  you  lost  in 
this  action  ? 

Mess.  But  few  cf  any  sort,  and  none  of  name. 

Leon.  A  victory  is  twice  itself  when  the  achiever 
brings  home  full  numbers.  I  find  here,  that  Don 
Pedro  hath  bestowed  much  honour  on  a  young 
Florentine,  called  CLiudio. 

Mess.  Much  descrv'd  on  his  part,  and  equally 
remembered  by  Don  Pedro.  He  hath  borne  him- 
self beyond  the  promise  of  his  age  ;  doing,  in  the 
flgiu-e  of  a  lamb,  the  feats  of  a  lion  :  ho  hath,  in- 
deed, better  bettered  expectation  than  you  must 
expect  of  me  to  tcU  you  how. 

Leon.  He  Lath  an  untie  here  in  Messina  will 
be  very  much  glad  of  it. 

Msss.  I  have  already  delivered  him  letters,  and 
there  appears  much  joy  in  him;  even  so  much 
that  Joy  could  not  show  itself  modest  enough  ■svith- 
3ut  a  bad^^e  of  bitterness. 

Lion    Did  he  break  out  into  tears  ? 

MiSii.   Li  g."cat  measure. 

Li</n.  A  kind  overflow  of  kindness.     There  arc 

29 


no  feces  truer  than  those  that  are  so  wasL'd.  IIow 
much  better  is  it  to  weep  at  joy,  than  to  joy  at 
weeping ! 

Beat.  I  pray  you,  is  signior  Montanto^  retuili'd 
from  the  wars,  or  no  ? 

Mess.  I  know  none  of  that  name,  lady  :  there 
was  none  such  in  the  army  of  any  sort.* 

Inn.  "Wliat  is  he  that  you  ask  for,  niece  ? 

iZero.  My  cousin  means  signior  Benedick  of  Padua. 

Mess.  0,  he  's  return'd,  and  as  pleasant  as  ever 
he  was. 

Beat.  He  set  up  his  bills'  here  in  Messina,  and 
chaUeng'd  Cupid  at  the  flight:  and  my  uncle's 
fool,  reading  the  challenge,  subscrib'd  for  Cupid, 
and  challcng'd  him  at  the  oird-bolt.  I  pray  you, 
how  many  hatli  ho  kiU'd  and  eaten  in  these  wara? 
But  how  many  hath  he  kill'd  ?  for,  indeed,  I  pro- 
mis'd  to  eat  aU  of  his  kiUing. 

Lin.  Faith,  niece,  you  tax  signior  Benedick  too 
much ;  but  he  '11  be  meet  with  you,  I  doubt  it  not. 

Mess.  He  hath  done  good  seiwice,  lady,  in  these 
wars. 

Beat.  Ton  had  musty  victual,  and  he  hath  holp 
to  eat  it:  he 's  a  very  valiant  trencherman;  he  hath 
an  excellent  stomach. 

Mess.  And  a  good  soldier  too,  lady. 

Beat.  And  a  good  soldier  to  a  lady  ; — but  what 
is  he  to  a  lord  ? 

Mess.  A  lord  to  a  lord,  a  man  to  a  ULin  ;  stuff 'd 
with  all  honourable  virtues.* 

225 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHIISU. 


BCENK   J. 


Beat.  It  is  so,  indeed:  he  is  no  less  than  a 
stuff 'd  man  :  but  for  the  stuffing! — Well,  we  arc 
aU  mortal. 

Leon.  Toil  must  not,  sir,  mistake  my  niece : 
there  is  a  kind  of  merry  war  betwixt  signior  Bene- 
dick and  her :  they  never  meet  but  there  's  a  sldr- 
raish  of  wit  between  them. 

Scat.  Alas !  he  gets  nothing  by  that.  In  our 
last  conflict,  four  of  his  five  wits'  went  halting  off, 
and  now  is  the  whole  man  govem'd  with  one :  so 
that  if  he  have  wit  enough  to  keep  himself  warm,^ 
let  him  boar  it  for  a  difference  between  himself 
and  his  horse ;  for  it  is  all  the  wealth  that  he  hath 
left,  to  be  known  a  reasonable  creature.  Who  is  his 
companion  now  ?  He  hath  every  month  a  new 
sworn  brother. 

llesi.  Is  't  possible  ? 

Beat.  Teiy  easily  possible.  He  wears  his  faith 
but  as  the  fashion  of  his  hat ;  it  ever  changes  with 
the  next  block. 

Mess.  I  see,  lady,  the  gentleman  is  not  in  your 
books.' 

B'Xit.  No,  an  he  were,  I  would  burn  my  study. 
Ifut,  I  pray  you,  who  is  his  companion  ?  Is  there 
no  young  squarer  now,  that  will  make  a  voyage 
with  him  to  the  devil? 

Mess.  He  is  most  in  the  company  of  the  right 
noble  Claudio. 

Beat.  0  Lord !  he  wUl  hang  upon  him  like  a 
disease :  he  is  sooner  caught  than  the  pestilence, 
and  the  taker  runs  presently  mad.  God  help  the 
coble  Claudio  !  if  he  have  caught  the  Benedick,  it 
will  cost  him  a  thousand  pound  ere  he  be  cur'd. 

Mess.  I  will  hold  friends  with  you,  lady. 

Beat.  Do,  good  fi-icnd. 

Imi.  You  "11  ne'er  run  mad,  niece. 

Beat.  No,  not  till  a  hot  January. 

Mess.  Don  Pedro  is  approach'd. 

Enter  Dos  Pedro,   attended  hj  Balthazae   ani 
otliers,  Don  John,  Claudio,  and  BeiVedick. 

Jj  Tedro.  Good  signior  Leonato,  are  you  come 
to  meet  your  trouble  ?  The  fashion  of  the  world 
is  to  a\  oid  cost,  and  you  encounter  it. 

Leon.  Never  came  trouble  to  my  house  in  the 
likeness  of  your  grace;  for,  trouble  being  gone, 
comfort  should  remain ;  but,  when  you  depart  from 
me,  sorrow  abides,  and  happiness  takes  his  leave. 

B.  Pedro.  You  embrace  your  charge  too  wil- 
lingly.    I  think  tliis  is  your  dauglitcr. 

Leon.  Her  motber  hath  many  times  told  me  so. 

Bene.  Were  you  in  doubt,  tliat  you  ask'd  her  ? 
23Q 


Leon.  Signior  Benedick,  no ;  for  then  wr  re  yoii 
a  child. 

B.  Pedro.  You  have  it  fuU,  Benedick  :  we  inav 
guess  by  this  what  you  are,  being  a  man.  Trulv. 
the  lady  fathers  herself:'" — Be  happy,  lady  I  I'oi 
you  are  like  an  honourable  father. 

Bene.  If  signior  Leonato  be  her  father,  she 
would  not  have  his  head  on  her  shoulders  for  all 
Messina,  as  like  him  as  she  is. 

Beat.  I  wonder  that  you  will  stiU  be  taLkirg, 
signior  Benedick ;  nobody  marks  you. 

Bene.  "\^1iat,  my  dear  lady  Disdain  !  are  you  j  et 
living? 

Beat.  Is  it  possible  Disdain  should  die,  whiiP 
she  hath  such  meet  food  to  feed  it  as  signior  Ecdp- 
dick  ?  Courtesy  itself  must  convert  to  disdain,*-  it' 
you  come  in  her  presence. 

Bene.  Then  is  courtesy  a  turncoat : — But  :t  is 
certain  I  am  loved  of  all  ladies,  onlj-  you  excepted : 
and  I  would  I  could  find  in  my  heart  that  I  had 
not  a  hard  heart :  for,  truly,  I  love  none. 

Beat.  A  dear  happiness  to  women !  they  wo'ild 
else  have  been  troubled  with  a  pernicious  suitor. 
I  thank  God,  and  my  oold  blood,  I  am  of  vnur- 
humour  for  that :  I  had  rather  hear  my  dog  hari 
at  a  crow,  than  a  man  swear  he  loves  mo. 

Bene.  God  keep  your  ladyship  stiU  in  that  min(3 
so  some  gentleman  or  other  shall  'scape  a  predosti  ■ 
nate  scratoh'd  face ! 

Beat.  Scratching  could  not  make  it  worse,  an  't 
were  such  a  face  as  yours  were. 

Bene.  Well,  you  are  a  rare  parrot-teacher. 

Beat.  A  bird  of  my  tongue  is  better  than  a  beast 
of  yours. 

Beyie.  I  would  my  horse  had  the  speed  of  your 
tongue,  and  so  good  a  continuer :  But  keep  youi 
way,  a'  God's  name  !   I  have  done. 

Beat.  You  always  end  with  a  jade's  trick  ;  I 
know  you  of  old. 

B.  Pedro.  This  is  the  sum  of  all :  Leonato, — 
signior  Claudio,  and  signior  Bcnediclc, — my  dear 
fi-iend  Leonato  hath  invited  you  aU.  I  tell  him  we 
shall  stay  here  at  the  least  a  month ;  and  he  heartily 
prays  some  occasion  may  detain  us  longer :  I  dare 
8wc;ir  he  is  no  hypocrite,  but  prays  from  his  heart. 

Leon.  If  you  swear,  my  lord,  you  shall  not  be 
forsworn.  — Let  me  bid  you  welcome,  my  lord : 
being  reconciled  to  the  prince  your  brother,  I  owe 
you  all  duty. 

B.  John.  I  thank  you  :  I  am  not  of  many  words. 
but  I  thank  you. 

Leon.  Please  it  youi  grace  lead  ou  : 


ACT  1. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHIJ^G. 


KENH    1 


D.  Pedro.  Your  hand,  Leoaato;  we  will  go 
together.  \_E.reunt  all  but  Bene,  aiid  Claud. 

Clauil.  Beneilick,  didst  thou  note  the  daughter 
of  signior  Leonato ' 

Bene.  I  noted  lier  not :  but  I  loolc'd  on  her. 
Claud.  Is  she  not  a  modest  young  lady  ? 
Bene.  Do  j'ou  question  me  as  an  honest  man 
ohould  do,  for  my  simple  true  judgment :  or  would 
you  havo  me  speak  after  my  custom,  as  being  a 
professed  tyrant  to  their  sex? 

Cflaud.  No,  I  pray  thee,  speak  in  sober  judg- 
ment. 

Bene.  Why,  i'  faith,  methinks  she  's  too  low  for 
a  high  praise,  too  brown  for  a  fair  praise,  and  too 
little  for  a  great  praise :  only  this  commendation  I 
can  afford  her, — that  wore  she  other  than  she  is, 
she  were  unhandsome ;  and  being  no  other  but  as 
she  is,  I  do  not  like  her. 

Claud.  Thou  think' st  I  am  in  sport;  I  pray 
thee,  tell  me  truly  how  thou  lik'st  her. 

Bene.  "Would  you  buy  her,  that  you  inrpiire 
after  her  ? 

Claud.  Can  tli^e  world  buy  such  a  jewel? 
Bene.  Vea,  and  a  ease  to  put  it  into !  But  speak 
you  this  with  a  sad  brow?  or  do  5'ou  play  the 
louting  Jack,"  to  teU  us  Cupid  is  a  good  harc- 
ftnder,"  and  Vulcan,  a  rare  carpenter?  Come,  in 
That  key  shall  a  man  take  5-011,  to  go  in  the  song  ? 
Clattd.  In  mine  eye  she  is  the  sweetest  lad)'  that 
ever  I  look'd  on. 

Bene.  I  can  see  yet  without  spectacles,  and  I 
ee  no  such  matter:  there  's  her  cousin,  an  she 
were  not  possess'd  with  a  fury,  exceeds  her  as 
much  in  beauty  as  the  first  of  May  doth  the  last  of 
December.  But  I  hope  you  have  no  intent  to 
turn  husband ;  have  you  ? 

Claud.  I  would  scarce  trust  myself,  though  I 
had  sworn  the  contrary,  if  Hero  would  be  my 
wife. 

Bene.  Is  't  come  to  this,  in  faith?  Hath  not 
the  world  one  man  but  he  will  wear  his  cap  with 
suspicion  ? "  ShaU  I  never  see  a  bachelor  of  tliree- 
score  again  ?  Go  to,  i'  faith :  an  thou  wilt  needs 
thrust  thy  neck  into  a  yoke,  wear  the  print  of  it, 
and  sigh  away  Sundays.  Look,  Don  Pedro  is 
returned  to  seek  you. 

Re-enter  Don  Pedro. 

B.  Pedro.  Wliat  secret  hath  held  you  here,  that 
you  followed  not  to  Leonato's  ? 

Bene.  I  would  ycir  grace  would  constrain  me 
to  tell. 


D.  Pedro.  I  charge  thee  on  thy  allegiance. 
Bene.  You  hear,  coimt  Claudio  :  I  can  be  scerci 
as  a  dumb  man;  I  would  have  you  think  so;  bul 
on  my  allegiance,- -mark  you  this,  on  my  alh;- 
giance  : — He  is  in  love.     With  who  ? — now  thai 
is  your  grace's  part. — Mark,  how  short  his  answer 
is  : — With  Hero,  Leonato's  short  daughter. 
Claud.  If  tliis  were  so,  so  were  it  uttered. 
Bene.  Like  the  old  tale,  my  lord :   "  it  is  not  so, 
nor  't  was  not  so:    but    indeed,   God  forbid  it 
should  bo  so." ' 

Claud.  If  my  passion  change  not  sliorth-,  God 
forbid  it  sliould  be  otherwise. 

B.  Pedro.  Amen,  if  you  love  her ;  for  the  lady 
is  very  well  worthy. 

Claud.  You  speak  this  to  fetch  me  in,  my  lord. 
D.  Pedro.  By  my  troth,  I  speak  my  thought. 
Claud.  And  in  faith,  my  lord,  I  spoke  mine. 
Bene.  And  by  my  two  faiths  and  troths,  nij 
lord,  I  spoke  mine. 

Claud.  That  I  love  her,  I  feel. 
D.  Pedro.  That  she  is  worthy,  I  know. 
Bene.  That  I  neither  feel  how  she  shovdd  be 
loved,  nor  Itnow  how  she  should  be  wortliy,  is  tlie 
opinion  tliat  fii'e  cannot  melt  out  of  me  ;  1  will  di' 
in  it  at  the  stake. 

B.  Pedro.  Thou  wast  ever  an  obstinate  hen  tk 
in  the  despite  of  beauty. 

Claud.  And  never  cuuld  maintain  his  jiort,  1  ul 
in  the  force  of  his  will. 

Bene.  That  a  woman  conceived  me,  I  thank  lier ; 
that  she  brought  me  up,  I  likewise  give  her  most 
humble  thanks :  but  that  I  wiU  have  a  recheaf 
winded  in  my  forehead,  or  hang  my  bugle  in  an 
invisible  baldriok,  all  women  shall  pardon  me. 
Because  1  will  not  do  them  the  wrong  to  mistrust 
any,  I  will  do  myself  the  right  to  trust  none ;  and 
the  fine  is,  (for  the  which  I  may  go  the  finer),  I 
wiU  live  a  bachelor. 

D.  Pedro.  I  shall  see  thee,  ere  I  die,  look  pale 
with  love. 

Betie.  With  anger,  with  sickness,  or  witli  hun- 
ger, my  lord ;  not  with  love.  Prove  that  ever  1 
lose  more  blood  with  love  than  I  ■wUl  get  again 
with  drinking,  pick  out  mine  eyes  ■with  a  ballad- 
maker's  pen,  and  hang  me  up  at  the  door  of  a 
brothel-house  for  the  sign  of  blind  Cupid. 

B.  Pedro.  WeU,  if  ever  thou  dost  faU  fi.ira  this 
faith,  thou  wilt  prove  a  notable  argument. 

Bene.  If  I  do,  hang  me  in  a  bottle  like  a  cat,'' 
and  shoot  at  me;  and  he  that  hits  me,  let  him  be 
clapped  on  the  shoulder,  and  call'd  Adam. 

227 


A.CI   1. 


MUCH  ABO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


B.  Pfdro.  "Well,  as  time  shall  try : 
"In  time  the  savage  bull  doth  boar  the  yoke."'* 

Bene.  The  savage  bull  may;  but  if  ever  this 
sensible  Benedick  bear  it,  pluck  off  the  bull's  horns 
uiid  set  them  in  my  forehead :  and  let  me  be 
viJ;il)'  painted,  and  in  such  great  letters  as  they 
write,  "Here  is  good  horse  to  hire,"  let  them 
signify  imder  my  sign, — "Here  you  may  see 
\jenedick,  the  married  man." 

Claud.  If  this  should  ever  happen,  thou  woiddst 
36  horn-mad. 

B.  Pedro.  Nay,  if  Cupid  have  not  spent  all  his 
quiver  in  Venice,  thou  ^vilt  quake  for  this  shortlj*. 

Bev.c.  Look  for  an  earthquake  too  then. 

B.  Pedro.  Well,  you  will  temporize  with  the 
hours.  In  the  mean  time,  good  signior  Benedick, 
repair  to  Leonato's ;  commend  me  to  him,  and  tell 
hira  I  will  not  fail  liim  at  supper;  for,  indeed,  he 
hath  made  great  preparation. 

Bene.  I  have  almost  matter  enough  in  me  for 
such  am  embassage ;  and  so  I  commit  yoii — 

Claud.  To  the  tuition  of  God  :  From  my  house, 
(if  I  had  it)— 

B.  Pedro.  The  sLxth  of  July, 

Your  lo-i-ing  friend,  Bexedick. 

Bene.  Nay,  mock  not,  mock  not.  The  body  of 
your  discourse  is  sometime  guarded  \rith  frag- 
ments, and  the  guards  are  but  slightly  basted  on 
neither :  ere  you  flout  old  ends  any  further," 
examine  your  conscience;  and  so  I  leave  you. 

lExit  Bene. 

Claud.  My  liege,  your  highness  now  may  do 
mc  good. 

B.  Pedro.  My  love  is  thine  to  teach ;  teach  it 
but  how, 
And  thou  shalt  see  how  apt  it  is  to  learn 
Any  hard  lesson  that  may  do  thee  good. 

Claud.  Hath  Leonato  any  son,  my  lord  ? 

B.  Pedro.  No  child  but  Hero;   she  's  his  only 
heir : 
Dost  thou  affect  her,  Claudio  ? 

Chud.  0  my  lord. 

When  you  went  onward  on  this  ended  action, 
I  look'd  upon  her  with  a  soldier's  eye. 
That  lik'd,  but  had  a  rougher  task  in  hand 
Than  to  drive  liking  to  the  name  of  love  : 
I5ut  now  I  am  return'd,  and  that  war-thoughts 
Have  left  their  jjlaces  vacant,  in  their  rooms 
Come  thronging  soft  and  delicate  desires, 
All  prompting  me  how  fair  young  Hero  is. 
Saying, — I  lik'd  her  ero  I  went  to  wars. 

B.  Pulro.  Thou  wilt  be  like  a  lovor  presently, 

228 


And  tire  the  hearer  with  a  book  of  words ; 

K  thou  dost  love  fiiir  Hero,  cherish  it ; 

And  I  will  break  with  her,'"  and  with  her  father 

And  thou  shalt  have  her.     "Was  't  not  to  this  end 

That  thou  begann'st  to  twist  so  fine  a  story  ? 

Claud.  How  sweetly  do  you  minister  to  love, 
That  know  love's  grief  by  his  complexion ! 
But  lest  my  liking  might  too  sudden  seem, 
I  would  have  salv'd  it  with  a  longer  treatise. 
B.  Pedro.  "VATiat  need  the  bridge  much  broadoi 

than  the  flood  ? 
The  fairest  grant  is  the  necessity : 
Look,  what  will  serve  is  fit :    't  is  once,"  thou 

lovest ; 
And  I  will  fit  thee  with  the  remedy. 
I  know  we  shall  have  revelling  to-night ; 
I  will  assume  thy  part  in  some  disguise. 
And  teU  fair  Hero  I  am  Claudio ; 
And  in  her  bosom  I  'U  unclasp  my  heart, 
And  take  her  hearing  prisoner  with  the  force 
And  strong  encounter  of  my  amorous  tale. 
Then,  after,  to  her  father  will  I  break ; 
And,  the  conclusion  is,  she  shall  be  thine. 
In  practice  let  us  put  it  presently.  \ Exomtt 

SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  Leonato'«  Houu, 
Enter  Leonato  and  Aictojuo. 

Leon.  How  now,  brother  ?  Where  is  my  cousin, 
your  son  ?     Hatli  he  provided  this  music  ? 

Ant.  He  is  veiy  busy  about  it.  But,  brother, 
I  can  tell  you  strange  news  that  you  yet  dreamt 
not  of. 

Leon.  Are  they  good  ? 

Ant.  As  the  event  stamps  them  ;  but  they  have 
a  good  cover;  they  show  well  outward.  The 
prince  and  count  Claudio,  walking  in  a  thick- 
jdeaohed  alley"  in  my  orchard,  wore  thus  much 
overheard  by  a  man  of  mine.  The  prince  dis- 
covered to  Claudio  that  he  loved  my  niece,  your 
daughter,  and  meant  to  acknowledge  it  this  night 
in  a  dance;  and,  if  he  fouud  lier  accordant,  he 
meant  to  take  the  present  time  by  the  top,  and 
instantly  break  with  you  of  it. 

Leon.  Hath  the  fellow  any  wit  that  told  you 
this? 

Ant.  A  good  sharp  fellow ;  I  will  send  for  him, 
and  question  him  yourself. 

Loon.  No,  no ;  we  will  hold  it  as  a  dream,  till 
it  ajipcar  itself: — but  I  will  acquaint  my  daughtci 
withal,  tliat  she  may  be  the  better  prepared  for  an 
answer,  if  pcradveuturo  tliis  bo  true.  Go  you, 
and  tell  her  of  it.   {^Several persons  cross  the  staffe.l 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 


SCJtNE    Ol 


Cousius,  j'ou  know  what  you  have  to  do. — 0,  I 
cry  you  mercy,  friend :  go  you  with  mo,  and  I 
will  use  your  skill: — Good  cousin,  have  a  rare 
this  busy  time.  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — AnotJier  Room  in  Leonato'*  House. 
Enter  Don  John  and  CofTRADE. 

Con.  "What  the  good-jer,  my  lord !  why  are  you 
thus  oiit  of  measure  sad  ? 

D.  John.  Tliere  is  no  measure  in  the  occasion 
tliat  breeds ;  therefore  the  sadness  is  without  limit. 

Co7i.  You  should  licar  reason. 

B.  John.  And  when  I  have  heard  it,  what  bles- 
sing bringeth  it  ? 

Con.  If  not  a  present  remedy,  at  least  a  patient 
suiTerance. 

D.  John.  I  wonder  that  thou,  being  (as  thou 
say'st  thou  art)  born  under  Saturn,  goest  about  to 
apply  a  mortal  medicine  to  a  mortif3'ing  mischief.^ 
1  cannot  hide  what  I  am :  I  must  be  sad  when  I 
nave  cause,  and  smile  at  no  man's  jests ;  eat  when 
I  have  stomach,  and  wait  for  no  man's  leisure ; 
sleep  when  I  am  drowsy,  and  tend  on  no  man's 
business  ;  laugh  when  I  am  merry,  and  claw  no 
man  in  his  humour. 

Con.  Yea,  but  you  must  not  make  the  fiiU  show 
of  this,  till  you  may  do  it  without  controlment. 
You  have  of  late  stood  out  against  your  brother, 
and  he  Iiath  ta'en  you  newly  into  his  grace ;  where 
it  is  impossible  you  should  take  true  root,  but  by 
the  fair  weather  that  you  make  yourself:  it  is 
needful  that  you  fi-ame  the  season  for  your  own 
harvest. 

D.  John.  I  had  rather  be  a  canker"  in  a  hedge 
than  a  rose  in  his  grace;  and  it  bettor  fits  my  | 
blood  to  be  disdain'd  of  all,  than  to  fashion  a 
carriage  to  rob  love  from  any.  In  this,  though  I 
cannot  be  said  to  be  a  flattering  honest  man,  it 
must  not  be  denied  but  I  am  a  pLdu-dealing 
villain.  I  am'  trusted  with  a  muzzle,  and  enfran- 
chised with  a  clog ;  therefore  I  have  decreed  not 
to  sing  in  my  cage.     If  I  had  my  mouth  I  would 


bite ;  if  I  liad  my  liberty  I  would  do  my  liking 
in  tlie  mean  time,  let  me  be  that  I  am,  and  sneli 
not  to  alter  me. 

Con.  Can  you  make  no  use  of  your  discontent  ? 

]}.  John.  I  make  all  use  of  it,  for  I  use  it  only." 
Wlio  comes  here  ?    What  news,  Boraohio  ? 

Enter  Boeaciuo. 

Bora.  I  came  yonder  from  a  great  supper ;  the 
prince,  your  brother,  is  royally  entertained  by 
Leonato ;  and  I  can  give  you  intelligence  of  an 
intended  marriage. 

B.  John.  WUl  it  serve  for  any  model  to  build 
mischief  on  ?  What  is  he  for  a  fool  that  betroth.? 
himself  to  imquiotness  ? 

Bora.  Marry,  it  is  your  brother's  right  lumd. 

B.  John.  Who  ?  the  most  exquisite  Claudio  ? 

Bora.  Even  he. 

B.  John.  A  proper  squire!  And  who,  and  who? 
Which  way  looks  lie  ? 

Bora.  Marry,  on  Hero,  the  daughter  and  heir  oi 
Leonato. 

B.  John.  A  very  forwai-d  ilarch-chiok !  How 
came  you  to  this  ? 

Bora.  Being  entertain'd  for  a  perfumer,  as  I 
was  smoking  a  musty  room,™  comes  me  the  prince 
and  Claudio,  hand  in  hand,  in  sad  conference :  1 
whipt  me  behind  the  arras ;"'  and  there  heard  it 
agreed  upon,  that  the  prince  should  woo  Hero  foi 
himself,  and  having  obtain'd  her,  give  her  to  coun 
Claudio. 

B.  John.  Come,  come,  let  us  thither ;  this  may 
prove  food  to  my  displeasure :  that  young  start-up 
hath  all  the  glory  of  my  overthrow.  If  I  cau 
cross  him  any  wa}',  I  bless  myself  every  way 
You  are  botli  sure,  and  wiU  assist  me  ? 

Con.  To  the  death,  my  lord. 

B.  John.  Let  us  to  the  great  supper:  their  cheei 
is  the  greater,  that  I  am  subdued.  Would  the 
cook  were  of  my  mind  ! — Shall  we  go  prove  what's 
to  be  done  ? 

Bora.  We  '11  wait  upon  your  lordship.  [  Exn,>:t 


ACT    11. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


SCCNB  I. 


ACT  IL 


scent;  I.—A  Hall  in  Leonato'«  Eoim. 

Enter  Leonato,  Antonio,  IiwoGEif,  Heeo, 
Beateice,  and  others. 

Leon.  "Wag  not  count  John  here  at  supper  ? 

Ant.  I  saw  him  not. 

Beat.  How  tartly  that  gentleman  looks !  I 
never  can  see  him  but  I  am  heartburn'd  an  hour 
after. 

Hero.  He  is  of  a  very  melancholy  disposition. 

Beat.  He  were  an  excellent  man  that  were  made 
just  in  the  mid- way  between  him  and  Benedick; 
die  one  is  too  like  an  image,  and  says  nothing; 
and  the  other  too  like  my  lady's  eldest  son,  ever- 
more tattling. 

Leo7i.  Then  half  signior  Benedick's  tongue  in 
count  John's  mouth,  and  half  count  John's  melan- 
choly in  signior  Benedick's  face, — 

Beat.  With  a  good  leg,  and  a  good  foot,  uncle, 
and  money  enough  in  his  purse,  such  a  man  would 
•ndn  any  woman  in  the  world, — if  he  could  get  her 
good  will. 

Inn.  By  my  troth,  niece,  thou  wilt  never  get 
thee  a  husband,  if  thou  be  so  shrewd  of  thy  tongue. 

Ant.  In  faith,  she  's  too  curst. 

Beat.  Too  curst  is  more  than  curst :  I  shall 
lessen  God's  sending  that  way:  for  it  is  said, 
"God  sends  a  curst  cow  short  horns;"  but  to  a 
cow  too  curst  he  sends  none. 

Leon.  So,  by  being  too  curst,  God  will  send  you 
no  horns. 

Beat.  Just,  if  he  send  me  no  husband ;  for  the 
which  blessing,  I  am  at  him  upon  my  knees  every 
morning  and  evening.  Lord !  I  could  not  endure 
a  husband  with  a  beard  on  his  face :  I  had  rather 
fie  in  the  woollen. 

Leon.  You  may  light  upon  a  husband  that  hath 
no  beard. 

Beat.  "VVTiat  should  I  do  with  him  r  dress  him 
m  my  apparel,  and  make  him  my  wniting-gentle- 
woman?  Ho  that  hath  a  board  is  more  than  a 
youth  ;  and  he  that  liath  no  board  is  less  than  a 
man :  and  ho  that  is  more  than  a  youth  is  not  for  me; 
230 


and  he  that  is  less  than  a  man  I  am  not  for  him  : 
Therefore  I  will  even  take  sixpence  in  earnest  of 
the  bear-herd,**  and  lead  his  apes  into  hell. 

Leon.  "Well,  then,  go  you  into  hcU  ? 

Beat.  No,  but  to  the  gate;  and  there  wOl  the 
devil  meet  me,  like  an  old  cuckold,  with  horns  on 
his  head,  and  say,  "Get  you  to  heaven,  Beatrice,  get 
you  to  heaven  ;  here  's  no  place  for  you  maids :"  so 
deliver  I  up  my  apes,  and  away  to  saint  Peter  foi 
the  heavens ;  he  shows  mo  where  the  bachelors  sit, 
and  there  live  we  as  merry  as  the  day  is  long. 

Ant.  "Well,  niece,  [to  Heiio]  I  trust  you  ■ndll  be 
rul'd  by  your  father. 

Beat.  Yes,  faith;  it  is  my  cousin's  duty  to 
make  cursy,  and  say,  "As  it  please  you :" — but  yet^ 
for  all  that,  cousin,  let  him  be  a  handsome  fellow, 
or  else  make  another  cursy,-'  and  say,  "Father,  as 
it  please  me." 

■Leon.  Well,  niece,  I  hope  to  see  you  one  day 
fitted  with  a  husband. 

Beat.  Not  till  God  make  men  of  some  other 
metal  than  earth.  "Would  it  not  grieve  a  woman 
to  be  ovor-mast'red  with  a  piece  of  valiant  dust  ? 
to  make  account  of  her  life  to  a  clod  of  wayward 
marl  ?  No,  uncle,  I  'U  none.  Adam's  sons  are 
my  bretteen,  and  truly  I  hold  it  a  sin  to  match  in 
my  kindred. 

Leon.  Daughter,  remember  what  I  told  you :  it 
the  prince  do  solicit  you  in  that  kind,  you  know 
your  answer. 

Beat.  The  fault  wiU  bo  in  the  music,  cousin,  if 
you  be  not  wooed  in  good  time  :  if  the  prince  be 
too  important,  tell  him  there  's  measure  iu  every- 
thing, and  so  dance  out  the  answer.  For  hear  me. 
Hero;  "Wooing,  wedding,  and  repenting,  is  as  a 
Scotch  jig,  a  measure,  and  a  cinque-pace :  tlio  first 
suit  is  hot  and  hast)',  like  a  Scotch  jig,  and  full  as 
fantastical;  the  wedding,  manncrly-uiodcst,  as  a 
measure  full  of  state  and  ancientry;  and  then  comes 
repentance,  and,  with  his  bad  legs,  falls  into  the 
cinque-pace  faster  and  faster,  till  ho  sinks  into  his 
grave. 

ioort.  Cousin,  you  apprehend  passing  slirewdly. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


SCENE    I. 


£eat.  I  have  a  good  eye,  uncle;  I  can  sec  a 
;liurch  by  da3-light. 

Leon.  The  revellers  are  ent'ring,  brother ;  make 
good  room. 

Enter  Don  Pedko,  Clattdio,  Benedick,  Baltiiaxae  ; 
Don  Joiry,  Boraorio,  M.uioaeet,  Ursula,  and 
others,  masked.     Tlieij  converse  in  groxqis. 

T).  Pedro.  Iviidy,  will  you  walk  about  with  your 
frieiid  ? 

JTero.  So  you  walk  softh',  and  look  sweetly,  and 
Bay  nothing,  I  am  yours  for  the  walk ;  and,  espe- 
cially, when  I  walk  away. 

D.  Pedro.  With  me  in  your  company  ? 

Hero.  I  may  say  so  when  I  please. 

D.  Pedro.  And  when  please  you  to  say  so  ? 

ITero.  "When  I  like  your  favour;  for  God  defend'" 
Ihe  lute  should  be  like  the  case  ! 

D.  Pedro,  ily  visor  is  Philemon's  roof;  within 
the  house  is  Jove. 

ITero.  Wliy,  then  your  visor  should  be  thatoh'd. 

J).  Pedro.  Speak  low,  if  you  speak  love. 

[_TaJccs  Iter  aside. 

Bene.  Well,  I  would  you  did  like  me. 

Marff.  So  would  not  I,  for  your  own  sake,  for  I 
nave  many  ill  qualities. 

Bene.  "Wliich  is  one? 

Ifarff.  I  say  my  prayers  aloud. 

Bene.  I  love  you  the  better ;  the  hearers  may 
cry,  Amen!  [_Goes  aside. 

Marg.  God  match  me  with  a  good  dancer ! 

BaUli.  Amen! 

Marg.  And  God  keep  him  out  of  my  sight  when 
the  dance  is  done! — Answer,  clerk. 

Balth.  No  more  words;  the  clerk  is  answered. 
\_TIiey  part  differetit  ways. 

Urs.  I  know  you  well  cnoilgh  ;  you  are  signior 
.Antonio. 

Ant.  At  a  word,  I  am  not. 

Urs.  I  know  you  by  the  waggling  of  your  head. 

Ant.  To  tell  you  true,  I  counterfeit  him. 

Urs.  You  could  never  do  him  so  ill-wcU,  unless 
you  were  the  very  man.  Here  's  his  dry  hand'' 
np  and  down ;  you  are  he,  you  are  ho. 

Ant.  At  a  word,  I  am  not. 

Urs.  Come,  come;  do  you  think  I  do  not  know 
you  by  your  excellent  wit?  Can  virtue  hide  itself? 
Go  to,  mum,  you  are  he :  graces  will  appear,  and 
there  's  an  end. 

\_Mixing  witli  the  company. 

Beat.  "Will  you  not  tcU  me  who  told  you  so  ? 

Bene.  K  o,  you  shall  pardon  me. 


Beat.  Nor  will  you  not  tell  me  who  you  are? 

Bene.  Not  now. 

Beat.  That  I  was  disdainful, — and  that  I  iiad 
my  good  wit  out  of  the  'Hundred  Merry  Talcs;'''— 
WeU,  tliis  was  signior  Benedick  that  said  so. 

Bene.  What's  he? 

Beat.  I  am  sure  you  know  him  well  enough. 

Bene.  Not  I,  believe  me. 

Beat.  Did  ho  never  make  you  laugh  ? 

Bene.  I  pray  you,  what  is  he  ? 

Beat.  Why,  he  's  the  prince's  jester, — a  very 
dull  fool ;  only  his  gift  is  in  devising  impossible 
slanders :  none  but  libertines  deliglit  in  him  ;  and 
the  commendation  is  not  in  his  wit,  but  in  his  vil- 
lainy ;  for  he  both  pleasoth  men  and  angers  them, 
and  then  they  laugh  at  him  and  beat  him.  I  am 
sure  he  is  in  the  fleet ;  I  would  he  had  boarded  mo. 

Bene.  When  I  know  the  gentleman,  1  '11  tell 
him  what  you  sa}-. 

Beat.  Do,  do:  he  '11  but  break  a  comparison  or 
two  on  me;  wliich,  pcradventure  not  marked,  or 
not  laugh'd  at,  sti'ikes  him  into  melancholy ;  and 
then  there 's  a  partiidge'  wing  saved,''  for  the  fool 
•nill  eat  no  supper  that  night.  \_Mmic  within. 
We  must  follow  the  leaders. 

Bene.  In  every  good  thing. 

Beat.  Nay,  if  they  lead  to  any  ill,  I  wiU  leave 

them  at  the  next  turning.        \_Danee.   Then  exeunt 

all  lut  Don  Zows,  Bora.,  and  Cliud. 

B.  John.  Sm-o,  my  brother  is  amorous  on  Hero 
and  hath  withdrawn  her  father  to  break  with  nim 
about  it :  The  ladies  follow  her,  and  but  one  visor 
remains. 

Bora.  And  that  is  Claudio  :  I  know  him  by  his 
bearing. 

B.  John.  Are  not  you  signior  Benedick  ? 

Claud.  You  know  me  well ;  I  am  he. 

B.  John.  Signior,  you  are  verj-  near  my  brothel 
in  his  love :  he  is  enamour'd  on  Hero.  1  pray 
you  dissuade  him  from  her;  she  is  no  cjuul  for 
his  birth  :  you  may  do  the  part  of  an  honest  man 
in  it. 

Claud.  How  know  you  he  loves  her  ? 

B.  John.  I  heard  him  swear  his  affection. 

Bora.  So  did  I  too ;  and  he  swore  he  would 
marry  her  to-night. 

B.  John.  Come,  let  us  to  the  banquet. 

\_Exeunt  Don  John  and  Bora, 

Claud.  Thus  answer  I  in  name  of  Benedick, 
But  hear  these  iU  news  with  the  ears  of  Claudio. 
'Tis  certain  so ; — the  prince  woes  fo7  himself ; 
Friendship  is  cmatant  in  aU  other  things. 


I — 


MUCH  ADO   UJOUT  NOTHING. 


Save  in  tlie  office  and  affairs  of  love  : 

Therefore,  all  hearts  m  love  use  their  own  tongues  ; 

Let  every  eye  negotiate  for  itself, 

And  trast  no  agent :  for  beauty  is  a  witch, 

Against  whose  charms  faith  melteth  into  blood. " 

This  is  an  accident  of  hom-ly  proof, 

Which  I  mistrusted  not.  Farewell,  therefore.  Hero ! 

Re-enter  Benedick. 

Bene.  CoTint  Claudio  ? 

Claud.  Yea,  the  same. 

Bene.  Come,  will  you  go  with  me  ? 

Claud.  Whither? 

Bene.  Even  to  the  next  wiUow,  about  your  own 
business,  count.  What  fashion  wiU  you  wear  the 
garland  of  ?^'  About  your  neck,  like  an  usurer's 
chain,''  or  under  your  arm,  like  a  lieutenant's 
scan  r  You  must  wear  it  one  way,  for  the  prince 
hath  got  your  Hero. 

Claud.  I  wish  him  joy  of  lier. 

Hene.  Wliy,  that 's  spoken  like  an  honest  drover. 
So  they  sell  bullocks !  But  did  you  think  the  prince 
would  have  served  you  thus  ? 

Claud.  I  pray  you  leave  me. 

Bene.  Ho  !  now  you  strike  like  the  blind  man ; 
t  was  the  boy  that  stole  your  meat,  and  you  'U 
beat  the  post. 

Claud.  If  it  will  not  be,  I  '11  leave  you.   \_Exit. 

Bene.  Alas !  poor  hurt  fowl !  Now  will  he  creep 
Lato  sedges.  But  that  my  lady  Beatrice  should 
know  me,  and  not  Imow  me!  The  prince's  fool! — 
Ha,  it  may  bo  I  go  under  that  title,  because  I  am 
merry. — Yea;  but  so;  I  am  apt  to  do  myself 
wrong:  I  am  not  so  reputed.  It  is  the  base 
though  bitter  disposition  of  Beatiioe,  that  puts  the 
world  into  her  person,  and  so  gives  me  out.  Well, 
I  '11  be  revenged  as  I  may. 

Re-enter  Dos  Pedeo. 

B.  Pedro.  Now,  signior,  where  's  the  count  ? 
Did  you  see  him  ? 

Bene.  Troth,  my  lord,  I  have  played  the  part  of 
lady  Fame.  I  found  him  here  as  melancholy  as  a 
lodge  in  a  warren  ;"  I  told  him,  and  I  think  told 
him  true,  that  your  grace  had  got  the  wiU  of  this 
young  lady ;  and  I  offered  him  my  company  to  a 
wiUow-trec,  either  to  make  him  a  garland,  as 
being  forsaken,  or  to  bind  him  a  rod,  as  being 
nrorthy  to  be  whipped. 

J).  Pedro.  To  be  whipped  !  what  's  his  fault  ? 

Bene.  The  flat  transgression  of   a  schoolboy ; 
who,  being  overjoyed  with  finding  a  bird's  nest, 
shows  it  his  companion,  and  he  steals  it. 
232 


B.  Pedro.  Wilt  thou  make  a  trust  a  transgres- 
sion ?   The  transgression  is  in  the  stealer. 

Bene.  Yet  it  had  not  been  amiss  the  wd  bar. 
been  made,  and  the  garland  too ;  for  the  garlan'^ 
he  might  have  worn  himself;  and  the  roi  ic 
might  have  bestowed  on  you,  who,  as  1  tstku  it 
have  stol'n  his  bird's  nest. 

B.  Pedro.  I  wiU  but  teach  them  to  sing,  and 
restore  them  to  the  owner. 

Bene.  If  their  singing  answer  your  saying,  oy 
my  faith,  you  say  honestly. 

B.  Pedro.  The  lady  Beatiice  hath  a  quarrel  to 
you;  the  gentleman  that  danced  -n-ith  lier  told  her 
she  is  much  vsTong'd  by  you. 

Bene.  0,  she  misus'd  me  past  the  endurance  of 
a  block :  an  oak,  but  with  one  green  leaf  on  it, 
would  have  answered  her;  my  very  visor  began  to 
assume  life  and  scold  with  her.  She  told  me,  not 
thinking  I  had  been  myself,  that  I  was  the  piince's 
jester,  and  that  I  was  duller  than  a  gTcat  thaw; 
huddling  jest  upon  jest,  with  such  impossible  c>>n- 
veyance  upon  me,  that  I  stood  like  a  man  at  .-i 
mark,  with  a  whole  army  shooting  at  me.  Sht 
speaks  poniards,  and  every  word  stabs !  If  !ici 
breath  were  as  tenible  as  her  tenninations,  l!iir: 
were  no  living  near  her:  she  would  infect  to  tii, 
North  star.  I  would  not  marry  her,  though  '-lu 
were  endowed  with  all  that  Adam  liad  left  liir.i 
before  he  transgressed :  she  would  hav(;  inadc 
Hercules  have  tum'd  spit :  yea,  and  have  cleft  liis 
club  to  make  the  fire  too.  Come,  talk  not  of  her : 
you  shall  find  her  the  infernal  Ate  in  good  ap- 
parel.'°  I  would  to  God  some  scholar  would  con- 
jure her;  for,  certainly,  while  she  is  here,  a  mai: 
may  live  as  quiet  in  hell  as  in  a  sauctuaiy :  and 
people  sin  upon  purpose,  because  they  would  gc 
thither ;  so,  indeed,  all  disquiet,  horror,  and  \  er- 
turbation  foUow  her. 

Re-enter  CiiAtidio,  Beaieice,  Leoxato,  and 
Hero. 

D.  Pedro.  Look,  here  she  comes. 

Bene.  WUl  your  grace  command  me  any  service 
to  the  world's  end?  I  will  go  on  the  slightest 
arrand  now  to  the  antipodes,  that  you  can  d»  vis< 
to  send  mo  on ;  I  wUl  fetch  you  a  toothpicker  now 
fi-om  the  farthest  inch  of  Asia;  bring  you  the 
length  of  Prcstcr  John's  foot;  fetch  you  a  hair  o, 
the  great  Cham's  beard;'"  do  )-o\i  any  embassage 
to  the  Pigmies, — rather  than  hold  tlirco  words 
conference  with  this  harpy.  You  Lavo  no  emjiloj 
moat  for  me  ? 


ATDCH  ADO  ABOUT  Is^OTHING. 


SCKNB   1. 


D.  Pidrc.  None,  but  to  desire  your  good  com- 
pany. 

Bine.  O  God,  sir,  here  'a  a  dish  I  love  not ;  I 
cannot  endure  my  lady  Tongue.  \^&it. 

D.  Pedro.  Come,  lady,  come ;  you  have  lost  the 
heart  of  sigiiior  Benedick. 

Beat.  Indeed,  my  lord,  he  lent  it  me  awhile ; 
and  I  gave  liim  use  for  it — a  double  heart  for  a 
single  one :  marry,  once  before  he  won  it  of  me 
with  false  dice ;  therefore,  your  grace  may  weU 
say  I  have  lost  it. 

B.  Pedro.  You  have  put  him  down,  lady ;  you 
have  put  him  down. 

Beat.  So  I  would  not  he  should  do  me,  my 
lord,  lest  I  should  prove  the  mother  of  fools. 
I  have  brought  count  Claudio,  whom  you  sent  me 
to  seek. 

D.  Pedro.  AVliy,  how  now,  count?  wherefore 
are  you  sad  ? 

Claud.  Not  sad,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.  How  then  ?  Sick  ? 

Claud.  Neither,  my  lord. 

Beat.  The  count  is  neither  sad,  nor  sick,  nor 
racny,  nor  well :  but  ci\'il,  count ;  ci^ol  as  an 
orange,*"  and  something  of  that  jealous  eomplssion. 

B.  Pedro.  V  faith,  lady,  I  think  your  blazon  to 
be  true ;  though  I  'U  be  sworn,  if  he  be  so,  his 
conceit  is  false.  Here,  Claudio,  I  have  wooed  in 
thy  name,  and  fair  Hero  is  won;  I  have  broke 
with  her  father,  and  his  good  wOl  obtained : 
name  the  day   of  marriage,   and  God  give  thee 

Leon.  Count,  take  of  me  my  daughter,  and  with 
her  my  fortunes ;  his  grace  hath  made  the  match, 
and  aU  grace  say  '  Amen '  to  it ! 

Beat.  Speak,  count ;  't  is  your  cue. 

Claud.  Silence  is  the  perfcctcst  herald  of  joy :  I 
were  but  little  happy,  if  I  could  say  how  much. 
Lady,  as  you  are  mine,  I  am  yours :  I  give  away 
myself  for  you,  and  dote  upon  the  exchange. 

Beat.  Speak,  cousin ;  or,  if  you  cannot,  stop  his 
mouth  with  a  kiss,  and  let  not  him  speak  neither. 

B.  Pedro.  In  faith,  lady,  you  have  a  meriy 
heart. 

Beat.  Yea,  my  lord,  I  thank  it;  poor  fool,  it 
keeps  on  the  windy  side  of  care.  My  cousin  tells 
him  in  liis  ear  that  he  is  in  her  heart. 

Clmtd.  And  so  she  doth,  cousin. 

Beat.  Good  lord,  for  alliance!" — Thus  goes 
every  one  to  the  world  but  I,  and  I  am  sun- 
buni'd;"  I  may  sit  in  a  comer,  and  cry,  heigh-ho 
for  a  husband ! 

80 


B.  Pedro.  Lady  Beatrice,  I  wiU  get  you  :ne. 

Beat.  I  would  rather  have  ono  of  your  father' 
getting.  Hath  your  grace  ne'er  a  brotlicT  like 
you  ?  Your  father  got  excellent  husbands,  if  a 
maid  could  come  by  them. 

B.  Pedro.  Will  you  have  me,  lady  ? 

Beat.  No,  my  lord,  unless  I  might  have  another 
for  working-days ;  your  gi'ace  is  too  costly  to  wear 
every  day.  But,  I  beseech  your  grace,  pardon 
me;  I  was  born  to  speak  all  mirth,  and  no 
matter. 

B.  Pedro.  Your  silence  most  offends  me,  and  to 
be  merry  best  becomes  you  ;  for,  out  of  question, 
you  were  born  in  a  merry  hour. 

Beat.  No,  sure,  my  lord,  ni}-  motlicr  cried ;  but 
then  there  was  a  star  danced,  and  under  that  waa 
I  boni. — Cousins,  God  give  you  joy  ! 

Leon.  Niece,  ^vill  you  look  to  those  things  I 
told  you  of  ? 

Beat.  I  ciy  you  mere)',  uncle. — By  your  grace's 
pardon.  \_Exit  Rkat. 

B.  Pedro.  By  my  troth,  a  pleasant-spirited  lady. 

Leon.  There  's  little  of  the  melancholy  element 
in  her,  my  lord :  she  is  never  sad,  but  when  she 
sleeps ;  and  not  ever  sad  then,  for  I  have  heard 
my  daughter  say  she  hath  often  dreamt  of  unliap- 
piness,  and  wak'd  herself  with  laughing. 

B.  Pedro.  She  cannot  endure  to  hear  toll  of  a 
husband. 

Leon.  0,  by  no  means;  she  mocks  all  her 
wooers  out  of  suit. 

B.  Pedro.  She  were  an  excellent  wife  for  Bene- 
dick. 

Leon.  0  Lord,  my  lord,  if  they  were  but  a  week 
married,  they  would  talk  themselves  mad. 

B.  Pedro.  Count  Claudio,  when  mean  you  to 
go  to  chm-ch  r 

Claud.  To-morrow,  my  lord :  Time  goes  on 
crutches,  till  Love  have  all  his  rites. 

Ljcon.  Not  till  Monday,  my  dear  son,  which  ia 
hence  a  just  seven-night ;  and  a  time  too  brief  too. 
to  have  all  things  answer  my  mind. 

B.  Pedro.  Come,  you  shake  the  head  at  so  long 
a  breathing;  but  I  warrant  thee,  Claudio,  the 
time  shall  not  go  dully  by  us.  I  will,  in  the 
interim,  undertake  one  of  Hercules'  labours; 
which  is,  to  bring  signior  Benedick  and  the  Lidy 
Beatrice  into  a  mountain  of  affection,  the  one 
witli  the  other.  1  woidd  fain  have  it  a  match ; 
and  I  doubt  not  but  to  fashion  it,  if  you  three 
will  but  minister  such  assistance  la  I  shall  givf 
you  direction. 

.:,33 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


BCEiTK  n. — m. 


Lewi.  My  lord,  I  am  for  you,  though  it  cost  me 
ieu  nights'  watchings. 

Claud.  And  I,  my  lord. 

B.  Pedro.  And  you  too,  gentle  Hero  ? 

Hero.  I  -wiU  do  any  modest  ofBce,  my  lord,  to 
help  my  cousin  to  a  good  hushand. 

_D.  Pedro.  And  Eenedick  is  not  the  unhope- 
fuUest  husband  that  I  know.  Thus  far  can  I 
praise  him  :  he  is  of  a  noble  strain,  of  approved 
ralour,  and  confirm'd  honesty.  I  will  teach  you 
how  to  humour  your  cousin,  that  she  shall  fall  in 
love  with  Benedick : — and  I,  with  your  two  helps, 
will  so  practice  on  Benedick,  that,  in  despite  of 
his  quick  wit  and  his  queasy  stomach,"  he  shall 
fall  in  love  with  Beatrice.  If  we  can  do  this, 
Cupid  is  no  longer  an  archer;  his  glory  shall  be 
ours,  for  we  are  the  only  love-gods.  Go  in  with 
me,  and  I  will  tell  you  my  drift.  \_Excunt. 

SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  Leonato's  Uome. 
Enter  Don  John  and  BoH.icnio. 

D.  John.  It  is  so ;  the  coimt  Claudio  shall  marry 
Ihe  daughter  of  Leonato 

Bora.  Tea,  my  lord,  but  I  can  cross  it. 

Z>.  Jolin.  Any  bar,  any  cross,  any  impediment 
wiU  be  medioinable  to  me.  I  am  sick  in  dis- 
pleasure to  him ;  and  whatsoever  comes  athwart 
his  affection,  ranges  evenly  ■ndth  mine.  How 
canst  thou  cross  this  marriage  ? 

Bora.  Not  honestly,  my  lord ;  but  so  covertly, 
that  no  dishonesty  shall  appear  in  me. 

T).  John.  Show  mo  briefly  liow. 

Bora.  I  think  I  told  your  lordship,  a  year  since, 
how  much  I  am  in  the  favour  of  Margaret,  the 
waiting-gentlewoman  to  Hero. 

B.  John.  I  remember. 

Bora.  I  can,  at  any  unseasonable  instant  of  the 
night,  appoint  her  to  look  out  at  her  lady's 
chamber- window. 

B.  John.  AVIiat  life  is  in  that,  to  be  the  death 
of  this  marriage  ? 

Bora.  The  poison  of  that  Ues  in  you  to  temper. 
Go  you  to  the  prince  your  brotlier ;  spare  not  to 
tell  him,  that  lie  hath  wronged  his  lionour  in 
nianying  the  renowned  Claudio  (whose  estimation 
do  you  mightily  hold  uj))  to  a  contaminated  stale, 
such  a  one  as  Hero. 

B.  John.  Wliat  proof  shall  I  make  of  that  ? 

Bora.  Proof  enough  to    misuse  the  prince,   to 
-ex  Claudio,   to   undo  Hero,   and  kill  Leonato. 
Look  you  fcr  aii)  other  issue 
2at 


B.  John.  Only  to  despite  them  I  will  endea- 
vour anything. 

Bora.  Go,  then ;  find  me  a  meet  hour  to  draw 
don  Pedro  and  the  count  Claudio  alone :  tell  them 
tliat  you  know  that  Hero  loves  me ;  intend  a  kind 
of  zeal  both  to  the  prince  and  Claudio,  as  in  a  love  oi 
your  brother's  honour,  who  hatli  made  this  match, 
and  his  friend's  reputation,  wlio  is  thus  like  to  be 
cozen'd  with  the  semblance  of  a  maid, — that  you 
have  discover'd  thus.  They  will  scarcely  believe 
this  without  trial :  offer  them  instances ;  which 
shall  bear  no  less  HkelOiood,  than  to  see  me  at  her 
chamber- window  ;  hear  me  call  Margaret,  Hero ; 
hear  Margaret  term  mo  Claudio ;  and  bring  them 
to  see  this,  the  very  niglit  before  the  intended 
wedding :  for,  in.  the  mean  time,  I  wUl  so  fashion 
the  matter,  that  Hero  shaU  be  absent ;  and  there 
shall  appear  such  seeming  truths  of  Hero's  dis- 
loyalty, that  jealousy  shall  be  call'd  assurance, 
and  all  tlio  preparation  overthrown. 

B.  John.  Grow  this  to  what  adverse  issue  it 
can,  I  will  put  it  in  practice.  Be  cunning  in  the 
working  this,  and  thy  fee  is  a  thousand  ducats. 

Bora.  Be  thou  constant  in  the  accusation,  and 
my  cunning  shall  not  shame  me. 

B.  John.  I  will  presently  go  learn  their  day  of 
marriage.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Leonato's  Garden. 
Enter  Benedick  and  a  Boy. 

Be7!C.  Boy ! 

Boi/.  Signior. 

Bene.  In  my  chamber- window  lies  a  book- 
bring  it  hither  to  me  in  the  orchard." 

Boi/.  I  am  here  already,  sir. 

Bene.  I  know  that ; — but  I  woidd  have  thee 
hence,  and  here  again.  \_Ej:it  Boy.] — I  do  much 
wonder  that  one  man,  seeing  how  mucli  miother 
man  is  a  fool  when  lie  dedicates  his  behaviours  to 
love,  win,  after  he  liatli  laughed  at  such  sludlow 
follies  in  others,  become  tlie  argument  of  his  o\vn 
scorn  by  falling  in  love : — and  sucli  a  man  is 
Claudio.  I  have  known  when  tliere  was  no  music 
with  him  but  llie  drum  and  the  life ;  and  now 
had  ho  rather  hear  the  tabor  and  the  pipe  :  1  have 
known  when  ho  would  have  walked  ten  mile 
afoot,  to  see  a  good  armour ;  and  now  will  he  lie 
ten  nights  awake,  carving  the  fashion  of  a  new 
doublet.  He  was  wont  to  speak  plain,  and  to  the 
purpose,  like  an  honest  man  an  1  a  soldier ;  and 
now  he  is  turn'd  orthographcr ;  liis  waids  are  a 


A.in  u. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


SCKNE  m. 


rcry  fantastical  banquet,  jast  so  many  strange 
dielica.  May  I  be  so  converted,  and  see  with 
those  eyes?  I  cannot  tell;  I  think  not.  I  will 
not  lie  s\\-orn  but  love  may  transform  me  to  an 
oyster ;  but  I  '11  take  my  oath  on  it,  till  he  hath 
made  an  oyster  of  me,  he  shall  never  make  me 
Buoh  a  fool.  One  woman  is  fair ;  yet  I  am  well : 
another  is  wise ;  yet  I  am  well :  another  virtuous, 
yet  I  am  well :  but  till  all  graces  be  in  one 
woman,  one  woman  sliaU  not  come  in  my  grace. 
Rich  she  shall  be,  that  's  certain ;  wise,  or  I  '11 
Qono ;  vii'tuous,  or  I  'U  never  cheapen  her ;  fair, 
or  I  '11  never  look  on  her;  nuld,  or  come  not  near 
me ;  noble,  or  not  I  for  an  angel ;  of  good  discourse, 
an  excellent  musician,  and  her  hair  shall  be  of 
what  colour  it  please  God.  Ha !  the  prince  and 
monsifiiir  T.ove !     J.  "ill  hiie  me  in  tlie  arbour. 

[  Withdraws. 

Enter  Don  Pedeo,  Leoxaio,  and  CL.iUDio. 

I).  Pedro.  Come,  shall  we  hear  this  music  ? 

Claud.  Yea,   my   good  lord : — How   stiU   the 
evening  is, 
k%  hush'd  on  purpose  to  grace  harmony  ! 

D.  Pedro.  See  you  where   Benedick  hath  hid 
'•'.imsclf  ? 

Claud.  0,  very  well,  m)'  lord :  the  music  ended, 
wo  '11  fit  the  kid-fox  with  a  pennyworth.''* 

Enter  Baltil\2ae,  loith  music. 

D.  Pedro.  Come,   Balthazar,   we   '11  hoar  that 
song  again. 

Bal'.h.  0,  good  m}'  lord,  tax  not  so  bad  a  voice 
To  slander  music  any  more  than  once. 

B.  Pedro.  It  is  the  witness  still  of  excellency. 
To  put  a  strange  face  on  his  own  perfection  : — 
I  pray  thee,  sing,  and  let  me  woo  no  more. 

Balth.  Because  you  talk  of  wooing,  I  vnYL  sing : 
Since  many  a  wooer  doth  commence  his  suit 
To  her  he  thinks  not  worthy ;  yet  he  woos ; 
Yet  will  he  swear,  he  loves. 

B.  Pedro.  Nay,  pray  thee,  come : 

(_)r,  if  thou  wilt  hold  longer  argument, 
Do  it  in  notes. 

Balth.  Note  this  before  my  notes. 

There  's  not  a  note  of  mine  that 's  worth  the  noting. 

B.  Pedro.  Why,  these  are  very  crotchets  that 
he  speaks; 
Ifote,  notes,  forsooth,  and  nothing!"  \Music. 

Bene.    Now,   ''Divine  air!"    now  is  his  soul 
ravished ! — Is   it  not  strange  that  sheep's  guts 


should  hale  souls  out  of  men's  bodies  ? — TTcll,  a 
horn  for  my  money,  when  all 's  done. 
Balih.  [Sinffs.2 

Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more; 

Men  were  deceivers  ever ; 
One  foot  in  sea,  and  one  on  shore, — 
To  ono  thing  constant  never : 
Then  sigh  not  so, 
But  let  them  go. 
And  ho  you  blithe  and  bonny , 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woo 
Into,  '  llcy  nonny,  nonny. ' 

Sing  no  more  ditties,  sing  no  mo 
Of  dumps  so  dull  and  heavy  ;*' 

The  frauds  of  men  were  ever  so. 
Since  summer  first  was  Icavy 
Then  sigh  not  so,  &c. 

B.  Pedro.  By  my  troth,  a  good  song. 

Balth.  And  an  iU  singer,  my  lord. 

B.  Pedro.  Ha  ?  no ;  no,  faith ;  thou  sing'st  well 
enough  for  a  shift. 

Bene.  [_As'ide.']  An  he  had  been  a  dog  that 
should  have  howl'd  thus,  they  would  have  hang'd 
him :  and  I  pray  God  his  bad  voice  bode  no  mis- 
chief! I  had  as  lief  have  heard  the  night-raven," 
come  what  plague  could  have  come  after  it. 

B.  Pedro.  Yea,  marry ;  [^o  Clabdio.] — ^Dost 
thou  hear,  Balthazar?  I  pray  thee,  get  us  some 
excellent  music;  for  to-morrow  night  we  would 
have  it  at  the  lady  Hero's  chamber- window. 

Balth.  The  best  I  can,  my  lord. 

B.  Pedro.  Do  so :  farewell.  l_Exit  Balth.] 
Come  hither,  Leonato.  'What  was  it  you  told  me 
of  to-day,  that  your  niece  Beatrice  was  in  love 
with  siguior  Benedick  ? 

Claud.  0,  ay:— Stalk  on,  stalk  on:"  the  fowl 
sits.  \_Aside  to  D.  Pedeo.]  I  did  never  think  that 
lady  would  have  loved  any  man. 

Beon.  No,  nor  I  neither;  but  most  wonderful 
that  she  should  so  dote  on  signior  Dcnodick,  whom 
she  hath  in  all  outward  behaviours  seemed  ever  to 
abhor. 

Bene.  Is  't  possible  ?  Sits  tlie  -n-ind  in  thai 
corner  ?  £Asid^;. 

Leon.  By  my  troth,  my  lord,  I  cannot  tell 
what  to  tlimk  of  it,  but  that  she  loves  bim  with 
an  enraged  affection;  it  is  past  the  infinite  of 
thought.™ 

B.  Pedro.  May  be,  she  doth  but  counterfeit. 

Claud.  'Paith,  like  enough. 

Leon.  0  God !  counterfeit  I  There  was  never 
counterfeit  of  pission  ame  f  j  near  the  life  of 
passion,  as  she  discovers  it. 

235 


AOT    11. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


D.  Pedro.  Why,  what  effects  of  passion  shows 
she  ? 

Claud.  Bait  the  hook  well ;  this  fish  will  bite. 

\_Aside. 

Leon.  What  effects,  my  lord  !  She  will  sit  you, 
—you  heard  my  daugh  ter  teU  you  how. 

Claud.  She  did,  indeed. 

D.  Pedro.  How,  how,  I  pray  you  ?  You  amaze 
m» :  I  would  have  thought  lier  spirit  had  been 
invincible  against  all  assaults  of  affection. 

Leon.  I  would  have  sworn  it  had,  my  lord; 
especially  against  Benedick. 

Bene.  \_Aside.']  I  should  think  this  a  gull,  but 
that  the  white-bearded  foUow  speaks  it ;  knavery 
cannot,  sure,  hide  himself  in  such  reverence. 

Claud.  He  hath  ta'en  th'  infection  ■  hold  it  up. 

\_Aside. 

D.  Pedro.  Hath  she  made  her  affection  known 
to  Benedick  ? 

Leon.  No ;  and  swears  she  never  will :  that  's  ! 
her  torment.  i 

Claud.  'T  is  true,  indeed ;    so  your  daughter  j 
says :    "  Shall  I,"  says  she,   "  that  have   so   oft 
encounterd  him  with  scorn,  write  to  him  that  I 
love  him  r 

Leon.  This  says  she  now,  when  she  is  beginning 
to  write  to  him  :  for  she  'U  be  up  twenty  times  a 
night ;  ani  there  will  she  sit  in  her  smock,  till 
she  have  ^^Tit  a  sheet  of  paper : — my  daughter 
tcUs  us  aU. 

Claud.  Now  you  talk  of  a  sheet  of  paper,  I 
remember  a  pretty  jest  your  daughter  told  us  of. 

Leoti.  0 ! — "When  she  had  -nTit  it,  and  was 
reading  it  over,  she  found  Benedick  and  Beatrice 
between  the  sheet  ? 

Claud.  That! 

Leon.  0  !  she  tore  the  letter  into  a  thousand 
halfpence ;"  raU'd  at  herself,  that  she  should  be  so 
immodest  to  write  to  one  that  she  knew  would 
flout  her.  "  I  measure  him,"  says  she,  "  by  my 
own  spirit ;  for  I  should  flout  him,  if  he  writ  to 
me;  yea,  though  I  love  him,  I  should." 

C'kud.  Then  down  upon  her  knees  she  falls, 
weeps,  sobs,  beats  her  heart,  tears  her  hair,  prays, 
cries; — "0  sweet  Benedick!  God  give  me  pa- 
tience ! " 

I^eon.  She  dotli,  indeed ;  my  danghtor  says  so  : 
and  the  ocslacy  hath  so  much  ovcrboi-ne  her,  that 
my  daughter  is  sometime  afeard  she  will  do  a 
desperate  outrage  to  herself.     It  is  very  ttuo. 

Z*.  Pedro.  It  were  good  that  Benedick  knew  of 
It  by  some  other,  if  she  wiU  not  discover  it. 
23  c 


Claud.  To  what  end?  He  woidd  tut  make  i; 
sport  of  it,  and  torment  the  poor  lady  irorse 

D.  Pedro.  An  he  should,  it  were  i»n  alms'"  to 
hang  him.  She  's  an  excellent  swert  lady;  au'l 
out  of  all  suspicion,  she  is  virtuous. 

Claud.  And  she  is  exceeding  wise. 

D.  Pedro.  In  everj-thing,  but  in  loving  Benciliek. 

Leon.  0  my  lord,  wisdom  and  blood  nombarin^ 
in  so  tender  a  body,  we  have  ten  proofs  to  ont 
that  blood  hath  the  victory.  I  am  sorr)'  for  hci. 
as  I  have  just  cause,  being  her  uncle  and  he. 
guardian. 

D.  Pedro.  I  would  she  had  bestowed  this  dotage 
on  me :  I  would  have  daff'd  all  othci  respects, '" 
and  made  her  half  myself.  I  pray  you  tell  Bene- 
dick of  it,  and  hear  what  he  will  say. 

Leon.  Were  it  good,  think  you  ? 

Claud.  Hero  thinks  sm'ely  she  wiL  die  ;  for  she 
gays  she  wiU  die  if  he  love  her  nut,  and  she  will 
die  ere  she  make  her  love  known;  and  she  will 
die  if  he  woo  her,  rather  than  she  will  'bate  one 
breath  of  her  accustomed  crossness. 

D.  Pedro.  She  doth  well :  if  she  should  make 
tender  of  her  love,  't  is  very  possible  he  'U  si:orr 
it ;  for  the  man,  as  you  know  all,  hath  a  coutempi' 
ble  spirit. 

Claud.  He  is  a  very  proper  man. 

P.  Pedro.  He   hath,    indeed,    a   good  outwan' 
happiness. 

Claud.  'Fore  God,  and  in  my  mind,  very  wise. 

D.  Pedro.  He  doth,  indeed,  show  some  sparle 
that  are  like  wit. 

Leon.  And  I  take  him  to  be  valiant. 

D.  Pedro.  As  Hector,  I  assure  you :  and  in  the 
managing  of  quarrels,  you  may  see  he  is  wise ; 
for  either  he  avoids  them  with  great  discretinn,  oi 
undertakes  them  with  a  Christian-like  fear. 

Leon.  If  he  do  fear  God,  he  must  necessarilj 
keep  peace :  if  ho  break  the  peace,  he  ought  Ir. 
enter  into  a  quarrel  with  fear  and  trembling. 

P.  Pedro.  And  so  will  he  do;  for  the  man  doth 
fear  God,  howsoever  it  seems  not  in  him,  by  somn 
large  jests  he  will  make.  Well,  I  am  sorrj'  for 
your  niece.  Shall  we  go  seek  Beicdick,  and  tell 
him  of  her  lo^•e  ? 

Claud.  Never  tell  him,  my  lord  let  iicr  wear  it 
out  with  good  counsel. 

Leon.  Na)-,  that  's  impossible ;  she  may  wool 
licr  heart  out  first. 

I>.  Pedro.  AVell,  wo  will  hear  further  of  it  by 
your  daughter.  Let  it  cool  the  while.  I  love 
Benedick  well :    and    I    coii^d    wish   he    \voiili! 


* 


•^"^fni^'&k'fx. 


aOT  HL 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


SCTNE    I. 


modestly  examine  himself  to  sec  how  much  ho  is 
unworthy  to  have  so  good  a  lady. 

Leon.  My  lord,  will  you  walk?  dinner  is  ready. 

Claud.  If  he  do  not  dote  on  her  upon  this,  I 
v'iU  never  trust  my  expectation.  \_Aside. 

I).  Pedro.  Let  there  bo  the  same  net  spread  for 
tier ;  and  that  must  your  daughter  and  her  gentle- 
women carry.  The  sport  will  be,  when  they  hold 
one  an  opinion  of  another's  dotage,  and  no  such 
Clatter ;  that  's  the  scene  that  I  would  see,  which 
ivill  be  merely  a  dumb- show.  Lot  us  send  her  to 
nail  liira  in  to  dinner.  \_Aside. 

\_Exeunt  D.  Pedeo,  Claud.,  and  Leon. 

Benedick  advances  from  tlm  arbour. 

Bene.  This  can  be  no  trick :  the  conference  was 
sadly  borne. — They  have  the  truth  of  this  from 
Hero.  They  seem  to  pity  the  lady ;  it  seems  her 
affections  have  their  full  bent.  Love  me  !  why,  it 
must  be  requited.  I  hear  how  I  am  cen«ur"d  : 
they  say  I  ^viU  bear  myself  proufllj-,  if  I  perceive 
the  love  come  from  her;  they  say,  too,  that  she 
will  rather  die  than  give  any  sign  of  affection. — 
I  did  never  think  to  marry — I  must  not  seem 
proud. — Happy  are  they  that  hear  their  detrac- 
tions, and  can  put  them  to  mending.  They  say 
the  lady  is  fair;  'tis  a  truth  I  can  bear  them 
witness :  and  virtuous — 't  is  so,  I  cannot  reprove 
it :  and  wise,  but  for  loving  me.  By  my  troth,  it 
IS  no  addition  to  her  wit, — n®r  no  great  argument 
of  her  folly,  for  I  will  be  honubly  in  love  with 
Ler.      I  may  chance  have  some  odd  quirks  and 


remnants  of  wit  broken  on  me,  because  I  have 
rail'd  so  long  against  marriage :  but  doth  not  the 
appetite  alter?  A  man  loves  the  meat  in  his 
youth,  that  he  cannot  endure  in  his  age.  Shall 
quips,  and  sentences,  and  these  paper  bullets  of 
the  brain,  awe  a  man  from  the  career  of  his 
humour?  No!  The  world  must  be  peopled. 
"When  I  said  I  would  die  a  bachelor,  I  did  not 
think  I  should  live  till  I  were  married. — Here 
comes  Beatrice.  By  this  day,  she  's  a  fuir  lady:  I 
do  spy  some  marks  of  love  in  her. 

Unter  Beatrice. 

Beat.  Again.st  my  will,  I  am  sent  to  bid  you 
come  in  to  dinner.^ 

Bene.  Fair  Beatrice,  I  thank  you  for  your  pains. 

Beat.  I  took  no  more  pains  for  those  thanks 
than  you  take  pains  to  thank  me.  If  it  had  been 
painful,  I  would  not  have  come. 

Bene.  Tou  take  pleasure,  then,  in  tlie  message : 

Beat.  Yea,  just  so  much  as  you  may  take  upon 
a  knife's  point,  and  choke  a  daw  withal.  You 
have  no  stomach,  signior  ?  fare  you  well.      \JExit. 

Bene.  Ha !  "  Against  my  will,  I  am  sent  to  bid 
you  come  in  to  dinner ; " — there  's  a  double  mean- 
ing in  that.  "I  took  no  more  pains  for  those 
thanks,  than  you  took  pains  to  thank  me  ; " — that 's 
as  much  as  to  say,  Any  pains  that  I  take  for  you 
is  as  easy  as  thanks.  If  I  do  not  take  pity  of  her, 
I  am  a  villain  ;  if  I  do  not  love  her,  I  am  a  Jew ! 
I  will  go  get  her  picture.  \Exit. 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I.— LEOifATo'«  Garden. 

Enter  Hebo,  Mabgabet,  and  Uesuxa. 

Hero.  Good  Margaret,  run  thee  to  the  parlour; 
There  shalt  thou  find  my  cousin  Beatrice 
Proposing  with  the  prince  and  Claudio:" 
Wiiisper  her  ear,  and  tell  her  I  and  Ursula 
S^'^alk  in  the  orchard,  and  our  whole  discourse 
[s  all  of  her ;  say,  that  thou  overheard'st  us ; 
And  bid  her  steal  into  the  pleached  bower 
Wliere  honeysuckles,  ripened  by  the  sim. 
Forbid  the  sun  to  enter, — Uke  favom-ites, 
Made  proud  by  princes,  that  advance  their  pride 


Against  that  power  that  bred  it: — there  will  she 

hide  her. 
To  listen  our  propose.     This  is  thy  oiSce  ; 
Bear  thee  well  in  it,  and  leave  us  alone. 

Marg.  I  '11  make  her  come,   I  warrant  you, 
presently.  \_Exit 

Hero.  Now,  Ursula,  when  Beatrice  doth  come. 
As  we  do  ti'ace  this  alley  up  and  down, 
Our  talk  must  only  be  of  Benedick : 
"When  I  do  name  him,  let  it  be  thy  part 
To  praise  him  more  tlian  ever  man  did  merit : 
My  talk  to  thee  must  De,  how  Benedick 
Is  sick  in  love  with  Beatrice.     Of  this  matter 

237 


MUCH  ADO  iUiOUT  KOTHIJS'G. 


Is  little  C'uj.id's  crafty  arrow  made, 

That  only  wouuds  by  heai'sa} .     !Jf ow  begin  ; 

Enter  Beateice,  behind. 
For  look  where  Beatrice,  like  a  lapwing,  runs 
Close  by  the  ground,  to  hear  our  conference. 

Urs.  Tlic  plcasantest  angling  is  to  see  the  fish 
Cut  with  her  golden  oars  the  silver  stream, 
And  greedily  devoiir  the  treacherous  bait : 
So  angle  we  for  Beatrice ;  who  even  now 
Is  couched  in  the  woodbine  coverture  : 
Fear  yoi  not  my  part  of  the  dialogue. 

Sero.   Then  go  we  near  her,  that  her  ear  lose 
nothing 
Of  the  false  sweet  bait  that  we  la}'  for  it. — 

\_Thty  adcance  to  the  lower. 
'Sio,  truly,  Ursula,  she  is  too  disdainful ; 
know,  her  spirits  are  as  coy  and  wild 
.is  haggards  of  the  rock.  * 

Urs.  But  are  you  sure 

Chat  Benedick  loves  Beatrice  so  entirely  ? 

Hero.  So  says  the  prince,  and  my  new-trothed 
lord. 

Urs.  And  did  they  bid  you  toll  her  of  it,  madam  ? 

Hero.  They  did  entreat  me  to  acquaint  her  of  it : 
But  I  persuaded  them,  if  they  lov'd  Benedick, 
To  wish  him  wrestle  ■with  affection, 
.ind  never  to  let  Beatrice  know  of  it. 

Urs.  Why  did  you  so?  Doth  not  the  gentleman 
Deserve  as  fuU  as  fortunate  a  bed, 
Ajs  ever  Beatrice  shall  couch  upon  ? 

Hero.  0  God  of  love  !  I  know  he  doth  deserve 
As  much  as  may  be  yielded  to  a  man : 
But  Nature  never  fram'd  a  woman's  heart 
Of  prouder  stuff  than  that  of  Beatrice : 
Disdain  and  scorn  ride  sparkling  in  her  eyes, 
Misprising  what  they  look  on  ;  and  her  wit 
Values  itself  so  highly,  that  to  her 
All  matter  else  seems  weak :  she  cannot  love, 
Nor  take  no  shape  nor  project  of  affection. 
She  is  so  self-cndearcd. 

Urs.  Sure,  I  tliink  so ; 

And  therefore,  certainly,  it  were  not  good 
She  knew  his  love,  lest  she  make  sport  at  it. 

Hero.  Wliy,  you  speak  truth  :    I  never  yet  saw 
man, 
How  wise,  how  noble,  young,  h  nv  rarely  fcatur'd, 
But  she  would  spell  him  backward  :  if  fair  fac'd, 
iSiie  would  swear  the  gentleman  should  be  her  sister; 
If  black,  why  Nature,  drawing  of  a:i  antic, 
Made  a  foul  blot :  if  tall,  a  lauce  ill-lieaded ; 
If  ItiW,  an  agate  vtry  vildly  cut :" 
238 


If  speaking,  why,  a  vane  blown  with  all  winds 
If  silent,  why,  a  block  moved  with  none. 
So  turns  she  every  man  the  wrong  side  out, 
And  never  gives  to  truth  and  virtue  that 
Which  simpleness  and  merit  purchaseth. 

Urs.  Sure,  sure,  such  carping  is  not  commcndabl' 

Hero.  No;  not  to  be  so  odd,  and  from  all  fashions, 
As  Beatrice  is,  cannot  be  commendable  : 
But  who  dare  teU  her  so  ?  K  I  should  speak. 
She  would  mock  me  into  air;  0,  she  would  laugh  mc 
Out  of  mj-self,  press  me  to  death  with  wit. 
Therefore  let  Benedick,  like  cover'd  fire. 
Consume  away  in  sighs,  waste  inwardly  : 
It  were  a  better  death  than  die  with  mocks,  ^' 
Which  is  as  bad  as  die  with  tickling. 

Urs.  Yet  tell  her  of  it;  hear  what  she  will  say. 

Hero.  No  ;  rather  I  wiU  go  to  Benedick, 
And  counsel  him  to  fight  against  his  passion : 
And,  truly,  I  '11  de\-i3e  some  honest  slanders 
To  stain  my  cousin  with.     One  doth  not  know 
How  much  an  ill  word  may  empoison  liking. 

Urs.  0,  do  not  do  your  cousin  sucli  a  -^vi'ong. 
She  cannot  be  so  much  without  true  judgment, 
(Having  so  swift  and  excellent  a  wit 
As  she  is  priz'd  to  have,)  as  to  refuse 
So  rare  a  gentleman  as  signior  Benedick. 

Hero.  He  is  the  only  man  of  Italy 
Always  excepted  my  dear  Claudio. 

Urs.  I  pray  you  he  not  angry  with  me,  madam 
Speaking  my  fancy.     Sig-nior  Benedick, 
For  shape,  for  bearing,  argument,  and  valour. 
Goes  foremost  in  report  through  Italy. 

Hero.  Indeed,  he  hath  an  excellent  good  name. 

Urs.  His  excellence  did  earn  it,  ere  he  liad  it. 
^Hien  are  you  married,  madam  ? 

Hero.  Why,    in    a    da)'; — to-morrow:    Come 
go  in 
I  'U  show  thee  some  attires ;  and  have  thy  counst-l 
Which  is  tlie  best  to  furnisli  nie  to-morrow. 

Urs.  She  's  lim'd,   I   warrant  you ;    we   liavi. 
caught  her,  madam. 

Hero.  If  it  prove  so,  then  loving  goes  by  haps: 
Some  Cupid  kills  with  arrows,  some  with  traps. 
[_Exeu7it  IIkko  and  UnsuL.i 

BiuTBicE  advatices. 

Beat.  "What  fire  is  in  mine  cars?  Can  this  bo  tni( : 

Stand  I  conilcmn'd  for  pride  and  scorn  so  r.iv.ch  ' 
Contempt,  farewell !  and  maiden  pride,  adieu ! 

No  glory  lives  behind  the  back  of  such. 
And,  Benedick,  love  on,  1  will  ri'ipiite  Ihco 

Taming  my  wHd  heart  to  thy  loving  hand; 


$'. 


» 


a;^ 


'H  ^.*^l,^ 


s»  JluliiiDftm  iB  iifditn're 


txji  m. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


sctirs  n. 


If  thou  dost  love,  my  kindness  shall  incite  thcc 

To  bind  our  loves  up  in  a  holy  band  : 
For  others  siiy  tliou  dost  deserve  ;  and  I 
Believe  it  better  than  reportingly.  \_Exit. 

SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  Leonato'«  Rouse. 
Enter   Don    Pedro,    Claudio,    Benedick,    and 

LSOXATO. 

B.  Pedro.  I  do  but  stay  till  your  marriage  be 
consummate,  and  then  go  I  toward  Arragon. 

Claud.  I  '11  bring  you  thither,  my  lord,  if  you  '11 
vouchsafe  mo. 

B.  Pedro.  Nay,  that  would  be  as  great  a  soil  in 
the  new  gloss  of  your  marriage,  as  to  show  a  child 
his  now  coat,  and  forbid  him  to  wear  it.  I  will 
only  be  bold  with  Benedick  for  his  company ;  for, 
from  tbo  crown  of  his  head  to  the  solo  of  his  foot, 
he  is  all  mirth;  he  hath  twice  or  thrice  cut 
Cupid's  bowstring,  and  the  little  hangman  dai-e  not 
shoot  at  him  :  ™  he  liath  a  heart  as  sound  as  a  bell, 
and  his  tongue  is  the  clapper ;  for  what  his  heart 
thinks,  his  tongue  speaks. 

Be7ie.  Gallants,  I  am  not  as  I  have  boon. 

Leon.  So  say  I  ;  methinks  you  are  sadder. 

Claud.  I  hope  he  be  in  love. 

B.  Pedro.  Hang  him,  truant ;  there  's  no  true 
drop  of  blood  in  him,  to  be  truly  toucli'd  with 
love :  if  he  be  sad,  he  wants  money. 

Bene.  I  have  the  tooth-ach. 

B.  Pedro.  Draw  it. 

Bene.  Hang  it ! 

Claud.  You  must  hang  it  first,  and  draw  it 
afterwards. 

B.  Pedro.  What?  sigh  for  the  tooth-ach ? 

Leon.  Where  is  but  a  humour,  or  a  worm ! 

Bene.  Well,  every  one  can  master  a  grief,  but 
he  that  has  it. 

Claud.  Yet,  say  I,  he  is  in  love. 

B-  Pedro.  There  is  no  appearance  of  fancy "'  in 
him,  unless  it  be  a  fancy  that  he  hath  to  strange 
disguises ;  as,  to  be  a  Dutchman  to-day ;  a  French- 
man to-morrow ;  or  in  the  shape  of  two  countries 
at  once,  as,  a  German  from  the  waist  downward,  °' 
bU  slops ;  and  a  Spaniard  li'om  the  hip  upward,  no 
doublet.  Unless  he  have  a  fancy  to  this  fooleiy, 
as  it  appears  he  hath,  he  is  no  fool  for  fancy,  as 
jou  would  have  it  to  appear  he  is. 

Claud.  If  he  be  not  in  love  ■\\'ith  some  woman, 
there  is  no  believing  old  signs :  'a  brushes  his  hat 
o'  mornings :  ^\^lat  should  that  bode  ? 

B.  Pedro  Hath  any  man  seen  him  at  the 
Larber's .'' 


Claud.  No,  but  the  barber's  man  hath  been  seen 
with  him ;  and  (he  old  ornament  of  his  cheek" 
hath  abcady  stuffed  tennis-balls. 

Leon.  Indeed,  ho  looks  younger  than  he  did  by 
the  loss  of  a  beard. 

B.  Pedro.  Nay,  'a  rubs  himself  with  civet ; 
Can  you  smell  him  out  by  that  ? 

Claud.  That 's  as  much  as  to  say,  The  Bwcel 
youth  's  in  love. 

B.  Pedro.  The  greatest  note  of  it  is  his  me- 
lancholy. 

Claud.  And  when  was  he  wont  to  wash  his  face  : 

B.  Pedro.  Yea,  or  to  paint  himself?  for  the 
which,  I  hear  what  they  say  of  him. 

Claud.  Nay,  but  his  jesting  spirit,  which  is 
now  crept  into  a  lutestiing,  and  now  governed  by 
stops. 

B.  Pedro.  Indeed,  that  tells  a  hca-s-y  tale  for 
him :   Conclude,  conclude,  he  is  in  love. 

Claud.  Nay,  but  I  know  who  loves  him. 

B.  Pedro.  That  would  I  luiow  too  ;  I  warrant, 
one  that  knows  him  not. 

Claud.  Yes,  and  his  iU  conditions;  and,  in 
despite  of  all,  dies  for  liim. 

B.  Pedro.  She  shall  bo  buried  with  lier  face 
upwards. 

Bene.  Yet  is  this  no  charm  for  the  tooth-ach. — 
Old  signior,  walk  aside  -with  me ;  I  have  studied 
eight  or  nine  wise  words  to  speak  to  you,  which 
these  hobby-horses  must  not  hear. 

\_Exeunt  Bene,  and  Leon. 

B.  Pedro.  For  my  life,  to  break  with  him  about 
Beatrice. 

Claud.  'T  is  even  so.  Hero  and  Margaret  have 
by  this  played  their  parts  with  Beatrice;  and  then 
the  two  bears  wiU  not  bite  one  another  when  they 
meet. 

Enter  Don  John. 

B.  John.  My  lord  and  brother,  God  save  you. 

B.  Pedro.  Good  den,*'  brother. 

B.  Mm.  If  your  leisure  serv'd,  I  would  speak 
with  you. 

B.  Pedro.  In  private  ? 

B.  John.  If  it  please  you  ; — yet  Count  Claudio 
may  hear;  for  what  I  would  speak  of  concern? 
him. 

B.  Pedro.  What  's  the  matter  ? 

B.  John.  Means  your  lordship  to  be  mamcd  to- 
morrow? \_To  Claudio. 

B.  Pedro.  You  know  he  does. 

B.  John.  I  know  not  that,  when  he  knows  what 
I  know. 


2S9 


MUCH  AUO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


SCEXE   111, 


Claud.  If  there  be  any  impediment,  I  pray 
)  ou  discover  it. 

D.  John.  You  may  think  I  love  you  not;  let 
that  appear  here;ifter,  and  aim  better  at  me  by 
that  I  now  will  manifsst.  For  my  brother,  I 
tliiiik,  he  holds  you  -n-ell ;  and,  in  deamess  of 
heart,  hath  holp  to  effect  your  ensuing  marriage  : 
surely,  suit  ill  spent,  and  labour  ill  bestowed ! 

D.  Pedro.  Wliy,  what  's  the  matter  ? 

D.  Julin.  I  came  hither  to  tell  you  :  and,  cir- 
cumstances short' ned,  (for  she  hath  been  too  long 
a  talking  of,)  the  lady  is  disloyal. 

Claud.  Who?  Hero? 

B.  John.  Even  she  ;  Lconato's  Hero,  your  Hero, 
every  man's  Hero ! 

Claud.  Disloyal? 

D.  John.  The  word  is  too  good  to  paint  out  her 
wickedness.  I  could  say  she  were  worse ;  think 
you  of  a  worse  title,  and  I  will  fit  her  to  it. 
Wonder  not  till  further  warrant:  go  but  with 
me  to-night,  you  shall  see  her  chamber-window 
entered ;  even  the  night  before  her  wedding-day. 
If  3-ou  love  her  then,  to-morrow  wed  her;  but  it 
would  better  fit  your  honour  to  change  j'our  mind. 

Claud.  May  this  be  so? 

B.  Pedro.  I  will  not  think  it. 

B.  John.  If  you  dare  not  trust  that  you  see, 
.confess  not  that  you  know:  if  you  will  follow  me, 
[  wUl  show  you  enough ;  and  when  you  have 
seen  more,  and  heard  more,  proceed  accordingly. 

Claud.  If  I  see  anything  to-night  why  I  should 
not  marry  her  to-morrow,  in  the  congregation, 
where  I  should  wed,  there  will  I  shame  her. 

B.  Pedro.  And,  as  I  wooed  for  thee  to  obtain 
her,  I  will  join  ■ndth  thee  to  disgrace  hsr. 

B.  John.  I  WT-U  disparage  her  no  farther,  till 
you  are  my  witnesses :  bear  it  coldly  but  till  mid- 
uight,  and  let  the  issue  show  itself 

B.  Pedro.  0  day  untowardJy  turned  ! 

Claud.  0  mischief  strangely  thwarted  ! 

B.  John.  0  plague  right  well  prevented ! 
So  will  you  say,  when  you  have  seen  the  sequel. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE   III.— ^  Street. 
Enter  DooBEnEY  and  Verges,  "  with  the  Watch. 

Dfxjl.  Are  you  good  men  and  true  ? 

Verg.  Yea,  or  else  it  were  pitj'  but  they  should 
mller  salvation,  body  and  soul. 

Dogh.  Nay,  that  were  a  pimishmcnt  too  good 
for  tliem,  if  they  sliould  have  any  allegiance  in 
them,  being  chosen  for  the  prince's  watoli. 
240 


Verg.  Well,  give  them  their  charge,  neighbour 
Dogberry. 

Bogh.  First,  who  think  you  the  mcst  dcsartloss 
man  to  be  constable? 

1  Watch.  Hugh  Oatcake,  sir,  or  George  Sea 
coal ;  for  they  can  write  and  read. 

Bogh.  Come  hither,  neighbour  Seacoal.  God 
hath  bless'd  you  with  a  good  name :  to  be  a  well- 
favoured  man  is  the  gift  of  fortune;  but  to  write 
and  read  comes  by  nature. 

2  Watch.  Both  which,  master  constable, — 
Bogl.  You  have;    I   knew  it   would  be  your 

answer.  Well,  for  your  favour,  sir,  why,  give 
God  thanks,  and  make  no  boast  of  it ;  and  for 
yoiir  writing  and  reading,  let  that  appear  when 
there  is  no  need  of  such  vanity.  You  are  thought 
here  to  be  the  most  senseless  and  fit  man  for  the 
constable  of  the  watch ;  therefore  bear  you  the 
lantern.  This  is  your  charge  :  You  shall  compre- 
hend all  vagrom  men  ;  you  are  to  bid  any  man 
stand,  in  the  prince's  name. 

2  Watch.  How  if  'a  wUl  not  stand  ? 

Bogl.  Why,  then  take  no  note  of  him,  but  lei 
him  go;  and  pi'esently  call  the  rest  of  the  watch 
together,  and  thank  God  you  are  rid  of  a  knave. 

Verg.  If  ho  wiU  not  stand  when  he  is  bidden, 
he  is  none  of  the  prince's  subjects. 

Bogh.  Ti-uo,  and  they  are  to  meddle  with  none 
but  the  prince's  subjects  :-.-You  shall  also  make 
no  noise  in  the  streets ;  for,  for  the  watch  to 
babble  and  talk,  is  most  tolerable  and  not  to 
be  endured. 

2  Watch.  Wo  will  rather  sleep  than  tallc ;  we 
know  Avhat  belongs  to  a  watch. 

Bogl.  Why,  you  speak  like  an  ancient  and 
most  quiet  watcliman ;  for  I  cannot  see  how 
sleeping  should  offend  :  only  have  a  care  that 
your  bUls  be  not  stol'n : "' — Well,  you  are  to  call 
at  aU  the  ale-houses,  and  bid  them  that  are  chunk 
get  them  to  bed. 

2  Watch.  How  if  they  wiU  not? 

Bogh.  Why,  then  let  them  alone  till  they  are 
sober;  if  they  make  you  not  then  the  bettei 
answer,  you  may  say  they  arc  not  Ihe  men  j'oii 
took  them  for. 

2  Watch.  WeU,  sir. 

Bogh.  If  you  meet  a  tliief,  you  may  suspect 
him,  by  virtue  of  your  oflicc,  to  be  no  true  man ; 
and,  for  such  kind  of  men,  tlie  less  jou  meddle  or 
make  with  them,  why,  the  more  is  for  your  honesty. 

2  Watch.  If  wo  luiow  him  to  be  a  thief,  sliall 
wo  not  Lry-  liauds  ou  him  ? 


ACT   IQ 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


8CENK   in 


Dngh.  Truly,  by  your  office,  you  may;  but  I 
think  tlicy  that  touch  pitch  will  bo  dofil'd:  the 
most  jieaceablo  way  for  you,  if  you  do  iako  a.  tliicf, 
jK  to  let  him  show  himself  what  ho  is,  and  steal 
'ut  of  5-our  company. 

ycrg.  You  have  been  always  call'd  a  merciful 
limn,  partner. 

Dogb.  Truly,  I  would  not  hang  a  dog  by  my 
will ;  much  more  a  man  who  hath  any  honesty  in 
hull. 

r«-y.  .If  you  hear  a  child  cry  in  the  night, 
you  must  call  to  the  nurse,  and  bid  her  still  it. 

2  Watch.  How  if  the  nurse  be  asleep,  and  will 
not  hear  us  ? 

Logh.  Why,  then  depart  in  peace,  and  let  the 
child  wake  her  with  crying:  for  the  ewe  that  will 
not  hear  her  lamb  when  it  bacs,  will  never  answer 
a  calf  when  it  bleats. 

Verg.  'T  is  very  true. 

Bogh.  This  is  the  end  of  the  charge.  You, 
constable,  are  to  present  the  prince's  own  person ; 
if  you  meet  the  prince  in  the  night,  you  may  stay 
him. 

Verg.  Tsixj,  by  'r  lady,  that,  I  thuik,  'a  cannot. 

Bogh.  Five  shillings  to  one  on  't,  with  any  man 
that  knows  the  statues,  he  may  stay  him:  marry, 
net  without  the  prince  be  willing:  for,  indeed, 
the  watch  ought  to  offend  no  man ;  and  it  is 
an  offence  to  stay  a  man  against  his  will. 

Verg.  By  'r  lady,  I  think  it  be  so. 

Dogh.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Well,  masters,  good  night: 
an  there  be  any  matter  of  weight  chances,  call  up 
me :  keep  your  fellows'  counsels  and  your  own, 
and  good  night. — Come,  neighbour. 

2  Watch.  Well,  masters,  we  hear  our  charge : 
let  us  go  sit  here  upon  the  church-benrh  till  two, 
and  then  all  to  bed. 

Dogh.  One  word  more,  honest  neighbours :  I 
pray  you,  watch  about  signior  Leonato's  door ;  for 
the  wedding  being  there  to-morrow,  there  is  a 
great  coil  to-night:  Adieu;  be  vigitant,  I  beseech 
you.'^  \JExeunt  Dogb.  and  Vero. 

Enter  Borachio  and  Coneade. 

B(/ra.  What!  Conrade, — 

IVatch.  Peace,  stir  not.  \_Aside 

Bora.  Conrade,  I  say ! 

Von.  Here,  man,  I  am  at  thy  elbow. 

Bun.  iTass,  and  my  elbow  itch'd ;  I  thought 
there  would  a  scab  follow.'" 

Con.  1  ^\-i!l  owe  thee  an  answer  for  that;  and 
now  fon\-ard  with  thy  tale. 

31 


Bora.  Stand  thee  close  then  under  this  pent- 
house, for  it  drizzles  rain  ;  and  I  will,  like  a  true 
drunkard,  utter  all  to  thee. 

Watch.  \ Aside.']  Some  treason,  masters ;  yet 
stand  close. 

Bora.  Therefore,  know  I  have  earned  of  Don 
John  a  thousand  ducats. 

Con.  Is  it  possible  that  any  %nllainy  sho'iild  bo 
so  dear  ? 

Bora.  Thou  shouldst  rather  ask,  if  it  were  pos- 
sible any  villainy  should  be  so  rich ;  for  wlicn  rich 
■villains  have  need  of  poor  ones,  poor  ones  may 
make  what  price  they  will. 

Con.  I  wonder  at  it. 

Bora.  That  shows  thou  art  imconfirm'd.  Thou 
knowest  that  the  fiishion  of  a  doublet,  or  a  hat,  or 
a  oloak,  is  nothing  to  a  man. 

Con.  Yes,  it  is  apparel. 

Bora.  I  mean,  the  fashion. 

Con.  Yes,  the  fashion  is  the  fashion. 

Bora.  Tush !  I  may  as  well  say,  the  fool 's  the 
fool.  But  seest  thou  not  what  a  deformed  thi?f 
this  fashion  is  ? 

Watch.  I  know  that  Deformed;  'a  has  been  a 
vile  thief  this  seven  year;  'a  goes  up  and  down 
like  a  gentleman  :  I  remember  his  name.     \_AmJe 

Bora.  Didst  thou  not  hear  somebody  r 

Con.  No ;  't  was  the  vane  on  the  house. 

Bora.  Seest  thou  not,  I  say,  what  a  deformed 
thief  this  fashion  is?  how  giddily  'a  turns  about 
all  the  hot  bloods,  between  fourteen  and  five-and- 
thirty?  sometime,  fashioning  them  lil^e  Pharaoh's 
soldiers  in  the  reechy  '*  painting ;  sometime,  like 
god  Bel's  priests  in  the  old  church-window;  some- 
time, like  the  shaven  Hercules  in  the  smirch'd 
worm-eaten  tapestrj-,  where  his  codpiece  seems  as 
massy  as  his  club  ? 

•  Con.  AU  this  I  see  ;  and  see  that  the  fashion 
wears  out  more  aj^parcl  than  the  man.  But  art 
not  thou  thyself  giddy  wth  the  fashion  too,  that 
thou  hast  shifted  out  of  thy  tale  into  telling  me  of 
the  fashion  ? 

Bora.  Not  so  neither:  tut  know,  that  1  have 
to-night  wooed  Margaret,  the  lady  Hero's  gentle- 
woman, by  the  name  of  Hero ;  she  leans  mo  out 
at  her  mistress'  chamber-'R'indow,  bids  me  a  thou- 
sand times  good  night, — I  tell  this  tale  vilely  : — 
I  should  first  teU  thee  how  the  prince,  Clauilic, 
and  my  master,  }  lanted  and  placed,  and,  possessed 
by  my  master  Don  John,  saw  afar  off  in  the  orchard 
this  amiable  encounter. 

Con.  And  thought  thy  Margaret  was  Hero  ? 

•211 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


ICESE   n 


Bora.  Two  of  them  did,  the  prince  and  Claudlo 
but  the  dc\Tl  m}'  master  knew  she  was  Margaret ; 
and  partly  by  his  oaths,  which  first  possess'd  them, 
partly  by  the  dark  night,  which  did  deceive  them, 
but  chiefly  by  my  villainy,  ■which  did  confirm 
any  slander  that  Don  John  had  made,  away  went 
Claudio  enraged;  swore  he  would  meet  her,  as  lie 
was  appointed,  next  morning  at  the  temple,  and 
there,  before  the  ■whole  congregation,  shame  her 
with  ■what  he  saw  o'er-night,  and  send  her  home 
again  ■without  a  husband. 

1  Watch.  Wo  cliarge  you  in  the  prince's  name, 
stand. 

2  Watch.  Call  up  the  right  master  constable  : 
we  have  here  recovered  the  most  dangerous  piece  of 
lechery  that  ever  was  luiown  in  the  commonwealth. 

1  Watch.  And  one  Defonncd  is  one  of  them  ;  I 
know  him,  'a  wears  a  lock. 

Con.  Masters,  masters. 

2  Watch.  You  '11  be  made  bring  Deformed  forth, 
I  ■warrant  you. 

Con.  Masters, — 

1  Watch.  Never  speak;  we  charge  you,  let  us 
obey  you  to  go  with  us. 

Bora.  We  are  like  to  prove  a  goodly  coramoditj',  ^'' 
being  taken  up  of  these  men's  bills. 

Con.  A  commodity  in  question,  I  warrant  you. 
Come,  wo  '11  obey  you.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — A  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 
Enter  Hero,  Margaret,  and  Ursula. 

Hero.  Good  Ursula,  wake  my  cousin  Beatrice, 
tnd  desire  her  to  rise. 

Urs.  I  wUl,  lady. 

Hero.  And  bid  her  come  hither. 

Ura.  AVcU.  [  Exit  Ursula. 

Marg.  Troth,  I  think  your  other  rabato  were 
better.™ 

Hero.  No,  pray  thee,  good  Meg,  I  '11  wear  this. 

Marg.  By  my  troth,  it  's  not  so  good;  and  I 
warrant  your  cousin  •ndll  say  so. 

Hero.  My  cousia  's  a  fool,  and  thou  art  another ; 
I  '11  wear  none  but  this. 

Marg.  I  like  the  new  tire  inthin  excellently,  if 
the  hair  were  a  thought  broxs-nor:  and  your  gown  's 
u  most  rare  fashion,  i'  faith.  I  saw  the  duchess  of 
Milan's  go^wn,  that  they  praise  so. 

Hero.  0,  that  exceeds,  they  say. 

Mar/j.  By  my  troth  it  's  but  a  night-gown  in 
respect  of  yours;  cloth  o'  gold,  and  cuts,  and 
bc'd  wi'h  silver;  set  with  pearls,  down-sleeves, 
.2-12 


side-sleeves,"  and  skirts,  round,  underbome  ■witli  f 
blueish  tinsel :  but  for  a  fine,  quaint,  graceful, 
and  excellent  fashion,  yours  is  ■worth  ten  on  't. 

Hero.  God  give  me  joy  to  ■wear  it,  for  my  lienf 
is  exceeding  hea-vy ! 

Marg.  'T  wlU  be  heavier  joon,  by  the  wei^lil  i. 
a  man. 

Hero.  Fie  upon  thee  I  art  not  asham'd  ? 

Marg.  Of  what,  lady?  of  speaking  honourably? 
Is  not  marriage  honourable  in  a  beggar  ?  Is  not 
your  lord  honourable  ■without  marriage  ?  ,  I  thiulc, 
you  woidd  have  me  say,  sa%ing  your  reverence,— 
"a  husband:"  an  bad  thinking  do  not  ■wi'est  true 
speaking,  I  '11  offend  nobody :  Is  there  any  harm 
in,  "the  hea^vier  for  a  husband"?  None,  I  thmk, 
an  it  be  the  right  husband,  and  the  right  wife ; 
otherwise  't  is  light,  and  not  heavy:  Ask  my  lady 
Beatrice  else ;  here  she  comes. 

Enter  Beateice. 

Hero.  Good  morrow,  coz. 

Beat.  Good  morrow,  sweet  Hero. 

Hero.  Why,  how  now!  do  you  speik  va  tiir 
sick  time  ? 

Beat.  T  am  out  of  all  other  rane,  methinks. 

Marg.  Clap's  into — "Light  o' love;"  that  goo? 
■without  a  burden;  do  you  sing  it,  and  1  'li 
dance  it. 

Beat.  Te  light  o'  love,  with  your  heels ; — then 
u  your  husband  have  stables  enough,  you  'U  look 
he  shall  lack  no  bams." 

Marg.  0  illegitimate  construction !  I  sooni  that 
v.'ith  my  heels. 

Beat.  'T  is  almost  five  o'clock,  cousin;  't  is 
time  you  ■were  ready.  By  my  troth  I  am  exceed- 
ing ill :  hey  ho  ! 

Marg.  For  a  ha'wk,  a  horse,  or  a  husband  ? 

Beat.  For  the  letter  that  begins  them  all,  H. " 

Marg.  WcU,  an  you  be  not  turn'd  Turk," 
there  's  no  more  sailing  by  the  star. 

Beat.  Wliat  means  tlie  fool,  trow  ? 

Marg.  Nothing  I ;  hut  God  send  cveiy  one 
their  heart's  desire  I 

Hero.  These  gloves  the  count  sent  me,  thoy  are 
an  excellent  perfume.'^ 

Beat.  I  am  stuffed,  cousin,  I  cannot  smell. 

Marg.  A  maid,  and  stuffed !  there  's  goocU} 
catcliing  of  cold. 

Beat.  0,  God  help  me !  God  help  mo !  how 
long  have  you  professed  apprehension  ? 

Marg.  Ever  bince  you  left  it:  doth  net  my  wit 
become  mc  rarely? 


MUCH  ADO  AEOUT  NOTHING. 


BCiairB  V. 


I 


Beat.  Tt  ia  not  seen  enough  ;  j-ou  should  wear 
It  in  Yorr  cap. — ]?y  my  trot.li,  I  am  sick. 

Mnr;!.  G-ii  j-ou  some  of  this  distill'd  Cardans 
lieiicdictus, "  ana  lay  it  to  your  heart;  it  is  the 
itdy  thing  for  a  (jualm. 

Uero.  Tlicro  thou  prick'st  her  with  a  thistle. 

Beat.  Benediotus !  -why  Benedictus  ?  you  have 
ujnio  moral  in  this  Bcnodiotus. 

M'imj.  Moral !  no,  by  my  troth,  I  have  no  moral 
meaning;  I  meant  plain  holy-thistle.  You  may 
think,  perchance,  that  I  tiiink  you  ai'e  in  love : 
n;iy,  hv  'r  lady,  I  am  not  such  a  fool  to  think 
what  I  list;  nor  I  list  not  to  think  what  I  can; 
nor,  indeed,  I  rannot  think,  if  I  would  tliink  my 
heart  out  of  thmking,  that  you  are  in  love,  or  that 
j'ou  ■^'ill  ho  in  love,  or  that  j'ou  can  ho  in  love  : 
yet  Benedick  was  such  another,  and  now  is  he 
become  a  man  :  he  swore  he  would  never  marry ; 
.ind  j'ct  now,  in  despite  of  his  heart,  ho  oats  his 
meat  without  gi'udging :  and  how  you  may  ho 
converted,  I  know  not;  hut,  mcthinks,  you  look 
with  your  eyes  as  other  women  do. 

Beat.  What  pace  is  this  that  thj'  tongue  keeps? 

Marg.  Not  a  false  gallop. 

Re-enter  TJksul.v. 

TTrs.  Madam,  withdraw;  tlie  prince,  the  count, 
signior  Benedick,  Don  John,  and  all  the  gallants 
of  the  town,  arc  come  to  fetch  you  to  church. 

Hero.  Help  to  dress  me,  good  coz,  good  Jlcg, 
good  Ursula.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — Another  Room  in  Leonato's  ITuuse. 

Enter  Leoxato,  loi'h  Doo  berry  and  Verges. 

Leon.  Yvliat  wonld  you  with  rac,  honest  neigh- 
bour ? 

Bogh.  M.^iTy,  sir,  I  would  have  some  confidence 
with  you  that  decerns  you  nearly. 

Leon.  Brief,  I  pray  you ;  for,  you  see,  it  is  a 
busy  time  with  me. 

Dogo.  Marry,  this  it  is,  sir. 

Verg,  Yes,  in  truth  it  is,  sir. 

Leon    "WTiat  is  it,  my  good  friends : 

Dogh.  Goodman  Verges,  sir,  speaks  a  little  off 
iJio  matter :  an  old  man,  sir,  and  his  wits  are  not 
50  blunt,  as,  God  help,  I  would  desire  they  were ; 
hut,  in  faith,  honest  as  the  skin  between  his  brows. 

Verg.  Yce,  I  thank  God,  I  am  as  honest  as  anj- 
man  living,  that  is  an  old  man,  and  no  honester 
than  1. 

Bogh.  Comparisons  are  odorous:  paJalras,  neigh- 
bour Verges. "' 


Leon.  Neighbours,  you  arc  tedious. 

Bogh.  It  pleases  3-our  worship  to  sav  so,  but  we 
.'ire  tlie  poor  duke's  officers ;  but,  tnd)',  for  mine 
own  part,  if  I  were  as  tedious  as  a  king,  I  coul) 
find  in  my  heart  to  bestow  it  all  of  your  worship. 

L^eon.  All  thy  tediousncss  on  me  !  ah  ! 

Bogh.  Yea,  and  't  were  a  thousand  pound  moi'e 
than  't  is:  for  I  hear  as  good  exclamation  on  your 
worship,  as  of  any  man  in  the  city;  and  though  I 
be  but  a  poor  man,  I  am  glad  to  hear  it. 

Verg.  And  so  am  I. 

Leon.  I  would  fain  know  \\'hat  you  have  to  say. 

Verg.  Marry,  sir,  our  watch  to-night,  except- 
ing your  worship's  presence,  have  ta'cn  a  couple 
of  as  an-ant  knaves  as  any  in  Messina. 

Bogh.  A  good  old  man,  sir ;  ho  will  be  talking ; 
as  they  say,  '  "When  the  age  is  in,  the  wit  is  out.' 
God  help  us!  it  is  a  worhl  to  see  !'* — Well  said,  i' 
faith,  neighbour  Verges: — well,  God  's  a  good 
man  ;"'  an  two  men  ride  of  a  horse,  one  must 
ride  behind : — An  honest  soul,  i"  faith,  sir, — by 
my  troth  he  is,  as  ever  broke  bread:  but  God  is  to 
be  worshipp'd  :  All  men  arc  not  alike ;  alas,  good 
neighbour! 

Leon.  Indeed,  neighbour,  he  comes  too  short  of 
yoi. 

Bogh.  Gifts  that  God  gives. — 

Leo7i.  I  must  leave  you. 

Bogh.  One  word,  sir :  our  watch,  sir,  have,  in- 
deed, comprehended  two  aspicious  persons,  and  we 
would  have  ttom  this  morning  examined  before 
your  worship. 

Leon.  Take  their  examination  yourself,  and 
bring  it  me ;  I  am  now  in  great  haste,  as  it  ma) 
appear  unto  you. 

Bogh.  It  shall  be  suffiganc'e. 

Zewi.  Drink  some  wine  ere  you  go :  fare  you 
weU. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

JWess.  My  lord,  they  stay  for  you  to  give  you! 
daughter  to  her  husband. 

Leon.  I  '11  ■n'ait  upon  them ;  I  am  readj-. 

\_Ezcunt  Leox.  und  Mess 

Bogh.  Go,  good  partner,  go;  get  you  to  Francis 
Seacoal;    bid  him  bring  his  pen  and  inkhom  tc 
the  gaol :  we  are  now  to  examination  (iicsc  men. 
Verg.  And  we  must  do  it  wisely. 

Bogh.  We  will  spai-e  for  no  w^t,  I  waiTant  you; 
here  's  that  [touching  his  forc]iead~\  shall  drive  some 
of  tliem  to  a  non  com  .■*° onh'  get  the  learned  v.ritei 
to  set  down  our  excommimication,  a;id  meet  me  a( 
the  gaol.  [Exeitnt. 

243 


iCI    IV. 


MUCH  ADO  AEOUT  KOTHIJ^li. 


ACT   IV 


SCEXE  I. — The  inside  of  a  Church. 

Enter   Dox  P^ideo,  Dox  Jonx,  Leoxato,  Friar, 
Claudio,  Benedick,  Heeo,  and  Beatrice,  ^t. 

Leon.  Come,  friar  Francis,  be  brief ;  only  to  the 
[)Iain  form  of  marriage,  and  you  sliall  recount  their 
particular  duties  afterwards. 

Friar.  You  come  hither,  my  lord,  to  marry  this 
lady? 

Claud.  No. 

Leon.  To  be  maniod  to  her :  friar,  you  come  to 
marry  her. 

Friar.  Lady,  you  come  hither  to  bo  manied  to 
ihis  ooiuit  ? 

Rero.  I  do. 

Fnar.  If  either  of  you  know  any  inward  im- 
pediment why  yoi  should  not  be  conjoined,  I 
chwge  you,  on  your  souls,  to  utter  it. 

Claud.  Know  you  any,  Hero  ? 

LIcro.  jVone,  my  lord. 

Friar.  Know  j'ou  any,  count  ? 

Leon.  I  dare  make  his  answer,  none. 

Claud.  0,  what  men  dare  do !  what  men  may 
do !  what  men  daily  do !  not  knowing  what  they  do ! 

Bene.  How  now !  Interjections  ?  \fhj,  then, 
Bome  bo  of  laughing,  as,  ha !  ha !  he  ! 

Claud.  Stand  thee  by,  friar : — Father,  by  your 
leave ; 
Win  you,  with  free  and  unconsti-aincd  soul. 
Give  me  this  maid,  your  daughter  ? 

Leon.  As  freely,  son,  as  God  did  give  her  me. 

Claud.   And  what  have  I  to  give  you  back, 
whose  worth 
Slay  counteiiioise  this  rich  and  precious  gift  ? 

L).  Pedro.  Nothing,  imlcss  you  render  her  again. 

Claud.  Sweet  prince,  you  learn  me  noble  thank- 
fulness. 
There,  Loonato,  take  her  back  again  ; 
Give  not  this  rotten  orange  to  your  friend ; 
She  's  but  the  sign  and  semblance  of  her  honour: 
Behold,  how  like  a  maid  she  blushes  here  ! 
0,  what  aufhorit)-  and  show  of  trutli 
Uaii  cunning  hin  cover  itself  withal  I 
■244 


Comes  not  that  blood,  as  modest  evidence. 

To  witness  simple  virtue  ?     Would  you  not  swear, 

All  you  that  see  her,  that  she  were  a  maid, 

By  these  exterior  shows  ?     But  she  is  none  ! 

She  knows  the  heat  of  a  luxurious  bed  : 

Her  blush  is  guiltiness,  not  modesty. 

Leon.  T\liat  do  you  mean,  my  lord  ? 

Claud.  Xot  to  be  marriea, — 

Not  to  knit  my  soul  to  an  approved  wanton. 

Leon.  Dear  my  lord,  if  you,  in  your  own  proof, 
Have  vanquished  the  resistance  of  her  youth. 
Have  made  defeat  of  her  ■^■irginity, — 

Claud.  I  know  what  you  would  say : — if  I  jiavc 
known  her. 
You  "11  say  she  did  embrace  me  as  a  husband, 
And  so  extenuate  the  'forehand  sin : 
No,  Leonato, 

I  never  tempted  her  with  word  too  large ; 
But,  as  a  brother  to  his  sister,  show'd 
Bashful  sincerity,  and  comely  love. 

Jlero.  And  seem'd  I  ever  otherwise  to  you  ? 

Claud.  Out  on  thy   seeming !      I   will   write 
against  it, — 
"  You  seem  to  me  as  Dian  in  her  orb  ; 
As  chaste  as  is  the  bud  ere  it  be  blown  ; 
But  }'ou  are  more  intemperate  in  your  blood 
Than  Venus,  or  those  pampcr'd  animals 
That  rage  in  savage  sensuality." 

Hero.  Is  my  lord  well,  that  he  doth  speak  so 
wide  : ''' 

Leon.  Sweet  prince,  wliy  speak  not  you  ? 

L).  Pedro.  Wliat  should  I  speak  } 

I  stand  dishonour'd,  that  have  gone  about 
To  link  ray  dear  friend  to  a  common  stale. 

Leo7i.  Are  these  tilings  spoken  ?    or  do  I  but 
dream  ? 

D.  John.  Sir,  they  arc  spoken,  and  these  things 
are  true. 

Bene.  This  looks  not  like  a  nuptiid. 

Hero.  True  !   0  God  ! 

Claud.  Leonato,  stand  I  here  ? 
Is  this  the  prince  ?     la  this  the  prince's  brother  i 
Is  this  face  Hero's  ?     Are  our  eyes  our  own  ? 


ACT  rv 


MUCH  ABO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


8C£NC   1. 


Leon.  All  this  is  so :  But  what  of  this,  my  lord  ? 

Claud.  Let  mo  but  move  one  question  to  your 
dauglifer; 
iiid,  by  that  fatherly  and  kindl}'  power'- 
rhat  you  have  in  her,  bid  her  answer  truly. 

Leon.  I  charge  thee  do  so,  as  thou  art  my  cliild. 

Hero.  0  God  defend  me  !  how  am  I  beset  I — 
What  kind  of  catechising  call  you  this  ? 

Claud.  To  make  you  answer  truly  \':  your  name. 

Hero.  Is   it   not   Hero  ?     Who    can  blot   that 
name 
With  any  just  reproach  ? 

Claud.  Marry,  that  can  Hero  ; 

Hero  itself  cau  blot  out  Hero's  virtue. 
What  man  was  ho  talk'd  with  you  yesternight 
Out  at  your  window,  betwixt  twelve  and  one  ? 
Now,  if  you  are  a  maid,  answer  to  this. 

Hero.  I  talk'd  with  no  man  at  that  hour,  my 
lord. 

D.  Pedro.   Wliy,  then   are  you  no  maiden. — 
Leonato, 
I  am  sorry  you  must  hoar  : — Upon  mine  honour. 
Myself,  my  brother,  and  this  grieved  count. 
Did  see  her,  hear  her,  at  that  hour  last  night. 
Talk  with  a  ruffian  at  her  chamber- window ; 
Who  hatJi,  indeed,  most  like  a  liberal  viUain, 
Confess' d  the  vile  encounters  they  have  had 
A  thousand  times  in  secret. 

D.  John,.  Fie,  fie  !  they  are 

Not  to  be  nam'd,  ray  lord,  not  to  be  spoken  of; 
There  is  not  chastity  enough  in  language. 
Without  offence  to  utter  them.     Thus,  pretty  ladj^, 
I  am  sorry  for  thy  much  misgovemment. 

Claud.  0  Hero  !  what  a  Hero  hadst  thou  been, 
If  half  thy  outward  graces  had  been  plac'd 
About  thy  thoughts,  and  counsels  of  thy  heart : 
But,  fare  thee  weU !  most  foul,  most  fair,  farewell ! 
Thou  pure  impiety,  and  impious  purity ; 
For  thee  I  'U  lock  up  all  the  gates  of  love. 
And  on  my  eyelids  shall  conjecture  hang. 
To  turn  aU  beauty  into  thoughts  of  harm, 
And  never  shall  it  more  be  gracious. 

Leon.  Hath  no  man's  dagger  here  a  point  for  me  ? 

[Hero  swoons. 

Beat.  Why,  how  now,  cousin  ?  wherefore  sink 
you  down  ? 

B.  John.  Come,  let  us  go:  these  things,  come 
thus  to  light. 
Smother  her  spirits  up. 

[Exeunt  D.  Pedro,  D.  Jonx,  and  Claud. 

£e7ie.  How  doth  the  lady? 

Beat,  Dead,  I  think  ; — help,  'ancle ! 


Hero!  why.  Hero! — Unclcl — Siguier  Benedick '— 

friar! 

Leon.  0  fate,  take  not  away  thy  neavy  hand  ? 
Death  is  the  fairest  cover  for  her  shame 
That  may  be  wsh'd  for. 

Beat.  How  now,  cousin  Hero  ? 

Friar.  Have  comfort,  lady 

Leon.  Dost  thou  look  up  ? 

Friar.  Yea.     Wherefore  should  she  not .' 

Leon.  Wherefore?  Why,  doth  not  every  earthlj 
thing 
Cry  shame  upon  her  ?    Could  she  here  deny 
The  story  that  is  printed  in  her  blood  ? 
Do  not  live.  Hero ;  do  not  ope  thine  eyes ; 
For  did  I  tliink  thou  wouldst  not  quickly  die 
Thought   I    thy  spirits  were   stronger   than    thy 

shames. 
Myself  would,  on  the  rearward  of  reproaches. 
Strike  at  thy  life.     Griev'd  I,  I  had  but  one? 
Chid  I  for  that  at  frugal  nature's  frame? 
0,  one  too  much  by  thee  !    Wlij  had  I  one  ? 
AVhy  ever  wast  thou  lovely  in  my  eyes  ? 
WTiy  had  I  not,  with  chaiitable  Iiand, 
Took  up  a  beggar's  issue  at  my  gates ; 
Who,  smirched  thus,  and  mir'd  with  infamy, 
I  might  have  said,  "No  part  of  it  is  mine; 
This  shame  derives  itself  from  unknown  loins"  : 
But  mine,  and  mine  I  lov'd,  and  mine  I  prais'd 
And  mine  that  I  was  proud  on ;  mine  so  much. 
That  I  myself  was  to  myself  not  mine. 
Valuing  of  her ;  why,  she — 0,  she  is  fall'n 
Into  a  pit  of  ink  !  that  the  wide  sea 
Hath  drops  too  few  to  wash  her  clean  again ; 
And  salt  too  little,  wliioh  may  season  give 
To  her  foul  tainted  fles'n  ! 

Ile?te.  Sir,  sir,  be  patient : 

For  my  part  I  am  so  attii''d  in  wonder, 
I  know  not  what  to  say. 

Beat.  0,  on  my  soul,  my  cousin  is  belied  ! 

Bene.  Lady,  were  you  her  bedfellow  last  night: 

Beat.  No,  truly  not;  although,  until  last  night 
I  have  this  twelvemonth  been  her  bedfellow. 

Leon.  Confii-m'd,  confinn'd!    0,  that  is  strongcl 
made, 
Which  was  before  barr'd  up  with  ribs  of  ix'on  I 
Would  the  two  princes  lie  ?  and  Claudio  lie  ? 
T\Tio  lov'd  her  so,  that,  speaking  of  her  foulness, 
Wash'd  it  with  tears  ?    Hence  from  her ;   let  hei 
die. 

Friar.  Hear  me  a  little  ; 
For  I  have  only  been  silent  so  long, 
And  given  way  unto  this  course  of  fortune, 

245 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


By  noting  of  the  lady.     J  have  mark'd 
A.  thousand  blushing  apparitions  start 
Into  her  face ;  a  thousraid  iunocent  shames 
[n  angel  whiteness  bear  away  those  blushes ; 
.^id  in  her  eye  there  hath  appear'd  a  fire, 
To  bum  the  errors  that  these  princes  hold 
Against  her  maiden  truth.     Call  me  a  fool ; 
Trust  not  my  reading,  nor  my  observations, 
\Miioh  mth  experimental  seal  doth  ■^'arrant 
The  tenour  of  my  book ;  trust  not  mj'  age, 
ily  reverence,  calling,  nor  divinit}-, 
If  this  sweet  lady  lie  not  guiltless  here 
Under  some  biting  error. 

Leon.  Friar,  it  cannot  be : 

Thou  seest  that  all  the  grace  that  she  hath  left 
Is,  that  she  wiU  not  add  to  her  damnation 
A  sin  of  perjury  ;  she  not  denies  it : 
ViTiy  seek'st  thou  then  to  cover  with  excuse 
"That  wliich  appears  in  proper  nakedness  ? 

Friar.  Ladj',  what  man  is  he  you  are  aocus"d  of? 

Hero.  They  know  that  do  accuse  me;  I  know 
none. 
If  I  know  more  of  any  man  alive 
Than  thai  which  maiden  modesty  doth  warrant. 
Let  all  my  sins  lack  mercy ! — 0  my  father. 
Prove  you  that  any  man  with  me  convers'd 
.It  hours  unmeet,  or  that  I  yesternight 
JIaintain'd  the  change  of  words  with  any  creature. 
Refuse  me,  hate  me,  torture  me  to  death. 

Friar.  There  is  some  strange  misprision  in  the 
princes. 

JJene.  Two    of   them    have   tlio    very    bent   of 
honour ; 
.■Vjid  if  their  ^risdoms  be  misled  in  this, 
The  practice  of  it  Hves  in  John  the  bastard, 
Whose  spirits  toil  in  frame  of  villainies. 

Zeo>i.  I  know  not.     If  they  speak  but  truth  of 
her. 
These  hands  sliall  tear  lier;    if  they  wrong  her 

honour. 
The  proudest  of  them  shall  well  hear  of  it. 
Time  hath  not  yet  so  dried  this  blood  of  mine, 
Xor  age  so  eat  up  my  invention, 
Xor  fortune  made  such  liavoc  of  my  means, 
Nor  my  bad  life  reft  me  so  much  of  friends, 
But  they  shall  find,  awak'd  in  such  a  kind. 
Both  strength  of  limb,  and  policy  of  mind, 
.Vbility  in  means,  and  clioicc  of  fiieuds. 
To  ([uit  me  of  them  throughly. 

Friar.  Pause  awhile, 

ird  let  my  counspl  sway  you  in  this  case, 
if  JUT  daughter  hero  the  jirinccs  left  for  dead ; 
246 


Let  her  awhile  be  secretly  kept  in, 
And  publish  it  that  she  is  dead  indeed ; 
Maintain  a  mourning  ostentation ; 
And  on  your  family's  old  monument 
Hang  moui'nful  epitaphs,  and  do  all  rites 
That  appertain  unto  a  burial. 

Zeon.  "What  shall  become  of  this?    What  ^\ill 
this  do  ? 

Friar.  Many,  this,  well  carried,  shall  on  hei 
behalf 
Change  slander  to  remorse ;  that  is  some  good  : 
But  not  for  that  dream  I  on  this  strange  course. 
But  on  this  travail  look  for  greater  birth. 
She  d)-ing,  as  it  must  be  so  maintain'd, 
Upon  the  instant  that  she  was  accis'd. 
Shall  be  lamented,  pitied,  and  excus'd. 
Of  every  hearer :  For  it  so  falls  out. 
That  what  we  have  we  prize  not  to  the  worth 
Wliiles  wo  enjoy  it ;  but  being  lack'd  and  lost, 
T^Tiy  then  we  rack™  the  value, — then  we  find 
The  vii'tue  that  possession  would  not  show  us 
"WTiiles  it  was  ours :   So  will  it  fare  with  Claudio  : 
When  he  shall  hear  she  died  upon  his  words, 
The  idea  of  her  life  shall  sweetly  creep 
Into  liis  study  of  imagination ; 
And  every  lovely  organ  of  her  life 
Shall  come  apparell'd  in  more  precious  habit, 
More  moving-delicate,  and  full  of  life, 
Into  the  eye  and  prospect  of  his  soul, 
Than  when  she  liv'd  indeed : — then  shall  he  mourn, 
(If  ever  love  had  interest  in  his  liver,) 
And  wish  he  had  not  so  accused  her ; 
No,  though  he  thought  his  accusation  true. 
Let  this  be  so,  and  doubt  not  but  success 
Will  fashion  the  event  in  better  shape 
Than  I  can  lay  it  down  in  KkclDioood. 
But  if  all  aim  but  this  bo  levoU'd  false. 
The  supposition  of  the  lady's  death 
Will  quench  the  wonder  of  her  infamy  : 
And,  if  it  sort  not  well,  you  may  conceal  her, 
As  best  befits  her  wounded  reputation, 
In  some  reclusive  and  religious  life, 
Out  of  all  eyes,  tongues,  minds,  and  injuries. 

Dene.  Siguier  Leonato,  let  the  friar  ad^nse  you 
And  though,  you  know,  my  inwardness  and  lovti 
Is  vcr}'  much  unto  the  prince  and  Claudio, 
Yet,  by  mine  honour,  I  will  deal  in  this 
As  secretly  and  justly  as  your  soul 
Should  with  your  body. 

Zeon.  Being  that  I  flow  in  grief, 

The  smallest  twine  may  lead  mc. 

Friar.  'T  is  well  consented ;  presently  away  • 


A'?T    IV. 


MUCH  AJ)0  AJiOUT  KOTIIING. 


BCEJns   JL 


Per  to  strange  sores  strangely  they  strain  the 
cure. — 
Pome,  lady,  die  to  live  :  this  wedding-day, 

Perhaps  is  but  prolong'd ;    luive  patience,  and 
endure. 

[_Exeu7it  Fbiae,  Hebo,  and  Ltion. 

Befw.  Lady   Beatrice,  have  you  wept  all  this 
while  ? 

Beat.  Yea,  and  I  will  weep  awhile  longer. 

Be:ic.  I  will  not  desire  that. 

Beat.  You  have  no  reason  ;   I  do  it  freely. 

Bene.  Siu-cly,  I   do  believe  your  fair  cousin  is 
wi'ong'd. 

Be<!i.  jWi,  Iiow  much  might  the  man  deserve  of 
QIC  that  would  right  her ! 

Bine.  Is  there  any  way  to  show  such  friend- 
ship ? 

Bent.  A  very  even  way,  but  no  such  friend. 

Bene.  May  a  man  do  it .' 

Beat.  It  is  a  man's  office,  but  not  yours. 

Bene.  I  do  love  nothing  in  the  world  so  wcU  as 
\'.m  :  Is  not  that  strange  r 

Beat.  As  strange  as  the  thing  I  know  not :  It 
were  as  possible  for  me  to  say  I  loved  nothing  so 
Well  as  you :  but  believe  me  not ;  and  yet  I  lie 
not ;  I  confess  nothing,  nor  I  deny  nothing : — I 
am  sorry  for  my  cousin. 

Bene.  By  my  sword,  Beatrice,  thou  lov'st  me. 

Beat.  Do  not  swear  by  it,  and  cat  it. 

Bene,  1  wiU  swear  by  it  that  you  love  me ;  and 
[  will  make  liim  eat  it  that  sa3-s  I  love  not  you. 

Beat.  Will  you  not  cat  your  word  ? 

Bene.  With  no  sauce  that  can  be  devised  to  it : 
I  protest  I  love  thee. 

Beat.  Why,  then  God  forgive  mo  ! 

Bene.  What  offence,  sweet  Beatrice  ? 

Beat.  Y''ou  have  stayed  me  in  a  happy  hour  ;  I 
was  about  to  protest  I  loved  you. 

Bene.  And  do  it  with  all  thy  heart. 

Beat.  I  love  you  with  so  much  of  my  heart, 
that  none  is  left  to  protest. 

Bene.  Come,  bid  me  do  anything  for  thee. 

Beat.  Kill  Chmdio. 

Bene.  Ha  !  not  for  the  wide  world. 

Beat.  You  kill  me  to  deny  it :  Farewell. 

Bene.  Tarry,  sweet  Beatrice. 

Bouc.  I  am  gone,  though  I  am  here  :  ** — There 
is  no  love  in  you : — !Xay,   I  pray  you,  let  me 

?"■ 

Bene.  Beatrice, — 

Beat.  In  faith,  I  wiU  go. 

Bene.  We  'U  be  friends  first. 


Beat.  You  dare  easier  be  friends  with  me  than 
fight  with  mine  enemy. 

Bene.  Is  Claudio  thine  enemy  ? 

Beat.  Is  he  not  approved  in  the  height  a  villain, 
that  liath  slandered,  scorned,  dishonoured  my 
kinswoman  r — 0,  that  I  were  a  man  ! — "What  J 
bear  her  in  hand  until  they  come  to  take  hands; 
and  then,  witli  public  accusation,  uncovered  slan- 
der," unmitigated  rancour, — 0  God,  that  I  were  a 
man  !  I  would  cat  his  heart  Ln  the  market-place. 

Be}ie.  Hear  me,  Beatrice  ; — 

Beat.  Talk  with  a  man  out  at  a  window  ? — a 
proper  saj-ing. 

Bene.  Nay,  but,  Beatrice  ; — 

Beat.  Sweet  Hero  ! — she  is  wrong'd,  she  is 
slandered,  she  is  undone. 

Bene.  Beat 

Beat.  Princes,  and  counties !  Surely,  a  princely 
testimony,  a  goodly  count — Count  Confect !  A 
sweet  gallant,  surely  !  0  that  I  were  a  man  for 
his  sake  !  or  that  I  had  any  friend  would  be  a  mojj 
for  mj'  sake  !  But  manhood  is  melted  into  cur- 
sics,  valour  into  compliment,  and  men  are  only 
turned  into  tongue,  and  trim  ones  too  :  he  is  now 
as  valiant  as  Hercules  that  only  tells  a  lie,  and 
swears  it.  I  cannot  be  a  man  with,  wishing 
therefore  I  will  die  a  woman  with  grie'\"ing. 

Bene.  TaiTj",  good  Beatrice  :  By  this  hand,  I 
love  thee. 

Beat.  Use  it  for  my  love  some  other  way  than 
swearing  by  it. 

Bene.  Think  you  in  your  soul  the  count  Claudia 
hath  wrong'd  Hero  ? 

Beat.  Yea,  as  sure  as  I  have  a  thought,  or  a 
soul. 

Bene.  Enough !  I  am  engaged,  I  will  challenge 
him ;  I  will  kiss  your  hand,  and  so  leave  yoxi. 
By  this  hand,  Claudio  shall  render  me  a  dear 
account !  As  you  hear  of  me,  so  think  of  me. 
Go,  comfort  your  cousin :  I  must  say  she  is  dead  ; 
and  so,  flirewcU.  [_Sxeunl. 

SCENE  11.—^  Prison 

Enter  Dogbeekv,  Yeeges,  and  Scxtoh,  in  gowns  ; 
and  the  ATatch,  icith  Conkade  and  BoKiCHio. 

Bogh.  Is  oui'  whole  dissembly  appear'd  ? 
Verg.  0,  a  stool  and  a  cushion  for  the  seston 
Sexton.  Which  be  the  malefactors  ? 
Bogh.  llany,  that  am  I  and  my  partnei. 
Verg.  Nay,  that  "s  certain  ;  we  have  the  exhibi 
tiou  to  examine. 

247 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


Sexton.  But  wliich  are  the  offenders  that  are  to 
be  examined  ?  let  them  come  before  master  con- 
stable. 

Do(fb.  Tea,  marry,  let  them  come  before  me. — 
\Miat  is  yoiir  name,  friend  ? 

Bora.  Boraohio. 

Doffb.  Pray  vrite  doTvn  Boraehio. — Yours, 
sirrah  ? 

Con.  I  am  a  gentleman,  sii',  and  my  name  is 
Conrade. 

Ihffb.  Write  do\\Ti,  master  gentleman  Conrade. 
-—Masters,  do  you  seiTe  God  ? 

Con.,  Bora.  Yea,  sir,  ■we  hope. 

Doffb.  "Write  down  that  they  hope  they  serve 
God  : — and  write  God  iirst ;  for  God  defend  but 
God  should  go  before  such  villains  1 — llasters,  it 
is  proved  akeady  that  you  are  little  better  than 
false  knaves  ;  and  it  wiU  go  near  to  be  thought  so 
shortly.     How  answer  you  for  yourselves  ? 

Con.  Marry,  sir,  we  say  we  are  none. 

Doffb.  A  man-eUous  witty  fellow:,  I  assure  you; 
but  I  wiU  go  about  with  him. — Come  you  hither, 
sirrah  ;  a  word  in  your  ear,  sir ;  I  say  to  you,  it 
is  thought  you  are  false  knaves. 

Bora.  Sir,  I  say  to  you,  we  are  none. 

Doffb.  "Well,  stand  aside. — 'Fore  God,  they  are 
both  in  a  tale  !  Have  you  writ  down  that  they 
are  none : 

Sexton.  Master  constable,  you  go  not  the  way  to 
examine  ;  you  must  call  forth  the  watch  that  are 
their  accusers. 

Doffb.  Y^ea,  marry,  that 's  the  eftest*"  way  : — 
Let  the  watch  come  forth : — Masters,  I  charge 
you,  in  the  prince's  name,  accuse  these  men. 

1  Watch.  This  man  said,  sir,  that  Don  John,  the 
prince's  brother,  was  a  villain. 

Bogb.  "Write  down  prince  John  a  villain  : — 
Why,  this  is  flat  perjury,  to  call  a  prince's  brother 
'  villain.' 

Bora.  Master  constable, — 

iJogb.  Pray  thee,  fellow,  peace ;  I  do  not  like 
thy  look,  I  promise  thee. 

Sexton.  "What  heard  you  him  say  clsf  t 

248 


2  Watch.  Marry,  that  he  had  received  a  thou- 
sand ducats  of  Don  John,  for  accusing  the  1  id>' 
Hero  wrongfully. 

Bogb.  Flat  burglary  as  ever  was  committed ! 

Verg.  Y^ca,  by  the  mass!  tliat  it  is. 

Sexton.  "What  else,  fellow  ? 

1  Watch.  And  that  count  Claudio  did  mcyn, 
upon  his  words,  to  disgrace  Hero  before  the  w  hole 
assembly,  and  not  marry  her. 

Bogb.  0  villain,   thou  wilt  be  condemn'd  intu 
everlasting  redemption  for  this ! 
Sexton.  "WTiat  else  r 

2  Watch.  This  is  all. 

Sexton.  And  this  is  more,  masters,  than  you 
can  deny.  Prince  John  is  this  morning  secretly 
stol'n  away :  Hero  was  in  this  manner  accus'd,  in 
tliis  very  manner  refus'd,  and  upon  the  gritf  of 
this  suddenly  died. — Master  constable,  let  those 
men  be  bound,  and  brouglit  to  Leonato ;  I  ■ndll  go 
before,  and  show  him  their  examination.       \_Exit. 

Bogb.  Come,  let  them  be  opinion'd. 

Verg.  Let  them  be  in  the  hands — 

Con.  Off,  coxcomb  I 

Bogb.  God  's  my  life  i  where  's  the  sexton  ?  let 
him  write  down,  the  prince's  officer,  coxcomb. 
Come,  bind  them : — Thou  naughty  varlet ! 

Con.  Away !  you  are  an  ass  !  you  are  an  ass  ! 

Bogl.  Dost  thou  not  suspect  my  place  ?  Dost 
thou  not  suspect  my  years  ? — 0  that  he  were  liere 
to  write  me  down  an  ass !  but,  masters,  remember 
that  I  am  an  ass ;  though  it  be  not  written  down, 
yet  forget  not  that  I  am  an  ass : — No,  thou  villain, 
thou  art  full  of  piety,  as  shall  be  prov'd  upon 
thee,  by  good  witness.  I  am  a  wise  fellow ;  and, 
which  is  more,  an  officer;  and,  which  is  more,  a 
householder;  and,  which  is  more,  as  preity  a  jiioce 
of  flesh  as  any  is  in  Messina ;  and  one  that  knows 
the  law,  go  to ;  and  a  rich  fcUow  enough,  go  to ; 
and  a  fcUow  that  hath  had  losses ;  and  one  that 
hath  two  gowns  and  everything  handsome  about 
him  : — Bring  him  away.  0,  that  I  had  been 
writ  down  an  ass !  [Exeunt 


f 


f 


MlMn^^^nib^xi    '.13  S^^i^m. 


.,/.,.!,;,.'  ,^;r.,' 


ACT      V. 


MUCH  ADO  iJJOUT  NOTKIJiO. 


6CENK    I. 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.—  Before  Le;:iato'«  House. 
Enter  Leonato  and  Antonio. 

Ant.  If  you  go  on  thus,  you  will  kill  yourself; 
A.nd  't  is  not  wisdom  thus  to  second  grief 
Against  j-ourself. 

Leon.  I  pray  thee  cease  thy  counsel, 

Wliiuh  f;iLIs  into  mine  ears  as  profitless 
A.S  water  in  a  sieve.     Give  not  me  counsel ; 
Nor  let  no  comforter  delight  mine  ear. 
But  such  a  one  whose  wrongs  do  suit  with  mine. 
Bring  me  a  father  that  so  lov'd  his  child, 
Wlioso  joy  of  her  is  overwhelm'd  like  mine. 
And  bid  him  speak  of  patience ; 
Measure  his  woe  the  length  and  breadth  of  mine, 
And  let  it  answer  every  strain  for  strain, — 
As  thus  for  thus,  and  such  a  grief  for  such. 
In  every  lineament,  branch,  shape,  and  form  : 
[f  such  a  one  will  smile,  and  stroke  his  beard ; 
And,  sorrowing,  cry  '  hem'  when  he  should  groan; " 
Patch  grief  with  proverbs ;  make  misfortime  drunk 
With  candle-wasters;**  bring  him  yet  to  me. 
And  I  of  him  will  gather  patience  : — 
But  there  is  no  such  man : — For,  brother,  men 
Can  counsel,  and  speak  comfort  to  that  grief 
Wliich  they  themselves  not  feel;  but,  tasting  it, 
Theii-  counsel  turns  to  passion,  which  before 
Would  give  preccptial  medicine  to  rage. 
Fetter  strong  madness  in  a  sOjien  thread, 
Chai-m  ach  -w-ith  air,  and  agony  with  words  : 
No,  no;  't  is  all  men's  office  to  speak  patience 
To  those  that  wring  under  the  load  of  sorrow ; 
But  no  man's  virtue,  nor  sufficiency. 
To  be  so  moral,  when  he  shall  endui'e 
The  like  himself:  therefore  give  me  no  counsel: 
My  griefs  cry  louder  than  advertisement. 

Ant.  Therein  do  men  from  children  nothing  differ. 

Leon.  I  pray  thee,  peace;    I  will  be  flesh  and 
blood ; 
For  there  was  never  yet  philosopher 
That  could  endure  the  tooth-ach  patiently. 
However  they  have  writ  the  style  of  gods. 
And  mac'e  a  push*"  at  chance  and  sufferance. 


Ant.  Yet  bend  not  all  the  harm  upon  yourself 
Make  those  that  do  offend  you  suffer  too. 

Leon.  There  thou  speak'st  reason :    nay,  I  will 
do  so : 
My  soul  doth  tell  me  Hero  is  belied ; 
And  that  shall  Claudio  know,  so  shall  the  prince, 
And  all  of  them  that  thus  dishonour  her. 


Enter  Don  Pedeo  and  Clatjdio. 


Ant. 


the    prince     and    Claudio, 


Here    come 
hastily. 

B.  Pedro.  Good  den,  good  den. 

Claud.  Good  day  to  botli  of  you. 

Leon.  Hear  you,  my  lords, — 

B.  Pedro.  We  have  some  haste,  Leoualo 

Leon.  Some   haste,   my  lord  1 — well,    ftu'e    you 
well,  my  lord : 
Are  you  so  hasty  now  ? — well,  all  is  one. 

D.   Pedro.  Nay,  do  not  quarrel  with  us,  good 
old  man. 

Ant.  If  he  could  right  himself  with  quarrelling, 
Some  of  us  would  lie  low. 

Claud.  "Wlio  wrongs  him  ? 

Leon.  Marry,   thou  dost  wrong  me ;  thou   dis- 
sembler, thou : — 
Nay,  never  lay  thy  hand  upon  thy  sword ; 
I  fear  thee  not. 

Claud.  Many,  beshrew  my  hand, 

If  it  should  give  your  ago  such  cause  of  fear : 
la  faith,  Wij  hand  meant  nothing  to  my  sword. 

Leon.  Tush,  tush,  man !  never  fleer  and  jest  at  me 
I  speak  not  like  a  dotard,  nor  a  fool ; 
As,  under  privilege  of  age,  to  brag 
What  I  have  done  being  young,  or  what  would  do 
Were  I  not  old.     Know,  Claudio,  to  tliy  head. 
Thou  hast  so  wrong'd  mj^  innocent  child  and  me. 
That  I  am  forc'd  to  lay  my  reverence  by  ; 
And,  with  grey  hairs,  and  bruise  of  many  days, 
Do  challenge  thee  to  irial  of  a  man. 
I  say,  thou  hast  belied  mine  innocent  child  ; 
Thy  slander  hath  gone  through  and  tlirougli  'cci 

heart, 
And  she  lies  buried  with  her  ancestors  : 

2411 


MUCH  ADO  AIIOUT  NOTHING 


0 '.  in  a  tomb  where  never  scandal  slept, 
Save  this  of  hers,  fram'd  by  thy  villainy. 
Claud.  My  villainy ! 

Leon.  Thine,  Claudio  ;  thine,  I  say. 

I).  Pedro.  Yc'i  say  not  right,  old  man. 

Leon.  lAy  lord,  my  lord, 

L  'II  prove  it  on  his  body,  if  ho  dare  ; 
Despite  his  nice  fence  and  his  active  practice. 
His  May  of  )-outh,  and  bloom  of  lustihood. 

Claud.   Away ;  I  will  not  have  to  do  with  yon. 
Leun.   Canst  thun   so  daff  mcr*'      Thou  hast 
kiird  mj'  child  ; 
If  thou  Icill'st  me,  boy,  thou  shalt  kill  a  man. 

Ayit.  He  shall  kiU  two  of  us,  and  men  indeed  ; 
But  that 's  no  matter ;  let  him  kiU  me  first ; — 
Win  me  and  wear  me, — lot  him  answer  mo, — 
Come  follow  me,  boy ;  come,  sir  boy,  come  foUow 

me : 
Sir  boy,  I  '11  whip  you  from  your  foining  fence  ; 
Xay,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  will. 

Leon.  Erother, — 

Ant.  Content  yourself :   God  knows,  I  lov'd  my 
niece  ; 
And  she  is  dead,  slander'd  to  death  by  villains, 
That  dare  as  well  answer  a  man,  indeed, 
As  I  dare  take  a  serpent  by  the  tongue : 
Boys,  apes,  braggarts.  Jacks,  milksops ! — 

Leon.  Brother  Antony, — 

Ant.  Hold  you  content :   AVliat,  man  !  I  know 
them,  yea, 
.Vnd  what  they  weigh,  even  to  the  utmost  scruple : 
Scambling,"'  out-facing,  fashion-mongring  boys. 
That  lie,  and  cog,  and  flout,  deprave,  and  sLmdcr, 
Go  anticly,  and  show  outward  hidoousncss, 
And  speak  off  lialf  a-dozen  dang'rous  words. 
How  the}'  might  hurt  their  enemies,  if  they  dm-st, 
And  this  is  all ! 

Leon.  Eut,  Brother  Antony, — 

Ant.  Come,  't  is  no  matter  ; 

Do  not  you  meddle  ;  let  me  deal  in  this. 

T>.  Pedro.  Gentlemen  both,  wo  will  not  wake 
j"our  patience.'^ 
yiy  heart  is  sorry  for  your  daughter's  death  , 
But,  on  my  hcnotir,  she  wa.s  charg'd  with  nothing 
But  what  was  true,  and  very  full  of  proof. 

Leon.  My  lord,  my  lord, — 

D.  Pedro.  I  will  not  hear  you. 

L.eon.  No  ? 

Como,  brolho-;  away  : — I  vnW  be  heard  1 

Ar.t.  And  shall, 

l)r  some  of  us  will  smart  for  it. 

\_Exount  Lkox.  and  ,\m'. 
2fi0 


Enter  Benedick. 

P.  Pedro.  See,  see  ;  here  comes  the  man  wc 
went  to  seek. 

Claud.  Now,  signior  !  what  news  ? 

Pene.  Good  day,  my  lord. 

I).  Pedro.  "Welcome,  signior  :  You  ai-e  ;Jmost 
come  to  part  almost  a  fray. 

Claud.  AVe  had  lik'd  to  have  had  our  two  noses 
snapp'd  off  mth  two  old  men  without  teeth. 

P.  Pedro.  Leonato  and  his  brother.  What 
think'st  thou?  Had  we  fought,  I  doubt  we  should 
have  been  too  young  for  them. 

Bene.  In  a  false  quarrel  there  is  no  true  valour: 
I  came  to  seek  you  both. 

Claud.  "We  have  been  up  and  do^vn  to  seek  thee ; 
for  we  are  high  proof  melancholy,  and  would  fain 
have  it  beaten  away.     "Wilt  thou  use  thy  wit  ? 

Bene.  It  is  in  my  scabbard  :   ShaU  I  draw  it  ? 

P.  Pedro.  Dost  thou  wear  thy  -uit  by  thy  side? 

Claud.  Never  anj-  did  so,  though  very  many 
have  been  beside  their  -n-it. — I  wiU  bid  thee  di'aw, 
as  we  do  the  minstrels ;  draw,  to  pleasure  us. 

P.  Pedro.  As  I  am  an  honest  man,  ho  looks  pale :    \ 
— Art  thou  sick,  or  angiy  ?  1 

Claud.  "What !    courage,  man !      "What  though    ) 
care  kUl'd  a  cat,  thou  hast  mettle  enough  in  t'nee 
to  kiU  care. 

Bene.  Sir,  I  shall  meet  your  wit  in  the  career, 
an  you  charge  it  against  me  : — I  pray  you  choose 
another  subject. 

Claud.  Nay,  then  give  him  another  staff;  this 
last  was  broke  cross.'' 

P.  Pedro.  By  this  light,  he  changes  more  and 
more  :  I  think  ho  be  angry  indeed. 

Claud.  If  he  be,  he  knows  how  to  turn  his 
gii-dle.=* 

Bene.  Shall  I  speak  a  word  in  your  e,*.r  ? 

Claud.  God  bless  me  from  a  challenge  ! 

Bene.  You  are  a  villain; — I  jest  not — I  will 
make  it  good  how  you  dare,  with  what  j'ou  dare, 
and  when  you  dare  !  Do  mo  riglit,  or  I  will  pro- 
test your  cowardice.  You  liave  kill'd  a  sweet  lady 
and  her  death  shall  fall  heavy  on  you.  Lot  me 
hear  from  you. 

Claud.  "Well,  I  will  meet  you,  so  I  may  have 
good  cheer. 

P.  Pedro.  "What,  a  feast  r  a  feast  ? 

Claud.  V  faith,  I  thank  liim  ;  ho  liath  bid  nic 
to  a  calf's  head  and  a  capon,  the  which  if  I  do  not 
carvo  most  curiously,  say  mj"  knife  's  nought. — 
l>biill  I  not  find  a  woodcock  too  ?"' 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


8CEKL  1, 


Bene.  Sir,  your  vni  ambles  •well;  it  goes  easily. 

I).  Pedro.  I  '11  tell  thee  how  Beatrice  pruis'd 
l.hy  wit  the  other  day.  I  saiil,  thou  hadst  a  fine 
«it ;  "True,"  says  she,  "a  fine  little  one:" 
"No,"  said  I,  "a  great  wit;"  "Eight,"  says  she, 
•a  great  gross  «ne:"  "Naj-,"  said  I,  "a  good 
wit;"  "Just,"  said  she,  "it  hurts  nobody:" 
"Nay,"  said  I,  "  the  gentleman  is  wise;"  "Cer- 
tain," said  she,  "  a  wise  gentleman !"  "  Naj-," 
said  ],  "ho  hath  the  tongues  ;"  "That  I  believe," 
said  she,  "  for  he  swore  a  thing  to  me  on  Monday 
niglit,  which  he  forswore  on  Tuesday  morning ; 
there  's  a  double  tongue  ;  there  's  two  tongues." 
Thus  did  she,  an  hour  together,  trans-shape 
thy  particular  virtues;  yet,  at  last,  she  con- 
cluded, with  a  sigh,  thou  wast  the  prop'rest  man  in 
Italy. 

Claud.  For  the  which  she  wept  heartily,  and 
said  she  car'd  not. 

I).  Pedro.  Yea,  that  she  did;  but  yet,  for  all 
that,  an  if  she  did  not  hate  him  deadly,  she  would 
[Qve  him  dearly :  the  old  man's  daughter  told  us 
all. 

Claud.  All,  all;  and  moreover,  "God  saw  him 
when  he  was  hid  in  the  garden." 

D.  Pedro.  But  when  shall  we  set  the  savage 
DuU's  horns  on  the  sensible  Benedick's  head } 

Claud.  Yea,  and  text  underneath,  "Here  dwells 
Deuedick  the  married  man"? 

Bene.  Fare  you  well,  boy  !  you  know  mj'  mind; 
1  will  leave  j-ou  now  to  your  gossip-like  humour : 
you  break  jests  as  braggai'ts  do  their  blades,  which, 
God  be  thanked,  hurt  not. — My  lord,  for  j'our 
many  courtesies  I  thank  you  :  I  must  discontinue 
your  company :  your  brother,  the  bastard,  is  fled 
from  Messina :  you  have,  among  you,  kill'd  a  sweet 
and  innocent  lady.  For  my  lord  Lackbeard  there, 
he  and  I  shall  meet ;  and,  tiU  then,  peace  be  with 
him  !  [Exit  Bene. 

I).  Pedro.  He  is  in  earnest. 

Claud.  In  most  profound  earnest;  and,  I  '11 
warrant  you,  for  the  love  of  Beatrice. 

B.  Pedro.  And  hath  challeng'd  thee  ? 

Claud.  Most  sincerely. 

D.  Pedro.  What  a  pretty  thing  man  is,  when 
ko  goes  in  his  doublet  and  hose,  and  leaves  oft'  his 
witl 

Claud.  Ho  is  then  a  giant  to  an  ape  :  but  then  is 
an  ape  a  dDctor  to  such  a  man. 

D.  Pedro.  But,  soft  you,  lot  me  be ;  pluck  up, 
my  heart,  and  be  sad !  Did  he  not  say  my  brother 
WiiS  fled  ? 


Elder  Dogbeuby,    Veboes,    and  the  "NN'atch,  with 
CoxRADE  and  Bokaciiio. 

Pui/h.  Come  you,  sir;  if  justice  cannot  tame 
you,  she  shall  ne'er  weigh  more  reasons  in  lier 
balance :  nay,  an  you  be  a  cursing  hypocrite  once, 
you  must  be  look'd  to. 

D.  Pedro.  How  now,  two  of  my  brother's  mer 
bound  I  Borachio  one  ! 

Claud.  Hearken  after  their  offence,  my  lord  ! 

J).  Pedro.  Ofiicers,  what  offence  have  these  men 
done? 

Bojl.  Marry,  sir,  they  have  committed  false 
report;  moreover,  they  have  spoken  untraths; 
secondarily,  they  are  slanders;  sixth  and  lastly, 
they  have  belied  a  lady;  thirdly,  they  have  vcrifind 
unjust  things;  and,  to  conclude,  they  are  lying 
knaves. 

D.  Pedro.  First,  I  ask  thee  what  tlioy  have 
done ;  thirdly,  I  ask  thee  what  's  their  offence ; 
sixth  and  lastly,  why  they  are  committed :  and,  to 
conclude,  what  lay  you  to  their  charge  ? 

Claud,  nightly  reasoned,  and  in  his  own  divi- 
sion I  and,  by  my  troth,  there  's  one  meaning  well 
suited.  ^ 

D.  Pedro.  ~^Tio  have  you  offended,  masters, 
that  you  are  thus  bound  to  your  answer  ?  This 
learned  constable  is  too  cunning  to  be  understood: 
"VlHiat  's  your  offence  ? 

Bora.  Sweet  prince,  let  me  go  no  further  to 
mine  answer ;  do  )-ou  hear  me,  and  let  this  count 
kill  me.  I  have  deceived  even  your  very  eyes: 
what  your  wisdoms  could  not  discover,  these  shal- 
low fools  have  brought  to  light;  who,  in  the 
night,  overheard  me  confessing  to  this  man  how 
Don  John,  5-our  brother,  incensed  me  to  slander 
the  lady  Hero ;  how  you  were  brought  into  the 
orchard,  and  saw  me  court  Margaret  in  Hero's 
garments;  how  j'ou  disgrao'd  her,  when  3"ou  should 
many  her.  M}'  villainy  they  have  upon  record ; 
which  I  had  rather  seal  with  my  death,  than 
repeat  over  to  my  shame :  the  lady  is  dead  upon 
mine  and  my  master's  false  accusation ;  and,  briefly, 
I  desire  nothing  but  the  reward  of  a  villain. 

B.  Pedro.  Euns  not  this  speech  like  iron  through 
your  blood  ? 

Claud.  I  have  drunk  poison  whUes  he  utter'd  it 

B.  Pedro.  But  did  mj'  brc>ther  set  thee  on  to  this? 

Bora.  Yea,  and  paid  me  richly  for  the  practice 
of  it. 

B.  Pedro.  He  is  compos'd  and  fram'd  of  trea- 
chery : — 
And  fled  he  is  upon  this  viUainy. 

2o) 


ACT    V. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


Claud.  Sweet  Hero  I  now  thy  image  doth  appear 
fn  the  rare  semblance  that  I  lov'd  it  first. 

Doffi.  Come,  bring  away  the  plaintiffs ;  by  this 
time,  our  sexton  hath  reformed  signior  Leonato  of 
the  matter:  and,  masters,  do  not  forget  to  specify, 
when  time  and  place  shall  serve,  that  I  am  an  ass. 

Verff.  Here,  here  comes  master  signior  Leonato, 
Hnd  the  sexton  too. 

He-enter  Leoxato  and  Axioxio  icith  the  Sexton. 

Leon.  Which  is  the  villain  ?  Let  me  see  his  eyes, 
That  when  I  note  another  man  like  him 
I  may  avoid  him :  T\Tiich  of  these  is  he  ? 

Bora.  If  you  would  know  your  wronger,  look 
on  me. 

Leon.  Art  thou, — thou,  the  slave  that  with  thy 
breath  hast  kill'd 
Mine  innocent  ohUd  ? 

£ora.  Yea,  even  I  alone. 

Zeon.  No,  not  so,  villain;  thou  beliest  thyself; 
Hero  stand  a  pair  of  honourable  men ; 
A  third  is  fled,  that  had  a  hand  in  it : 
I  thank  you,  princes,  for  my  daughter's  death ; 
Record  it  with  your  high  and  worthy  deeds ; 
T  was  bravely  done,  if  you  bethink  you  of  it. 

Claud.  I  know  not  how  to  pray  your  patience. 
Yet  I  must  speak.     Choose  your  revenge  yourself; 
Impose  me  to  what  penance  your  invention 
Can  lay  upon  my  sin  :  yet  sinn'd  I  not, 
But  in  mistaking. 

B.  Pedro.  By  my  soul,  nor  I  ; 

And  yet,  to  satisfy  this  good  old  man, 
I  would  bend  under  any  heavy  weight 
That  he  'U  enjoin  mo  to. 

Leon.  I  cannot  bid  you  bid  my  daughter  live ; 
That  ■were  impossible  :  but  I  pray  you  both, 
Possess  the  people  in  Messina  here 
How  innocent  she  died :  and,  if  your  love 
Can  labour  aught  in  sad  invention. 
Hang  her  an  epitaph  upon  her  tomb. 
And  siug  it  to  her  bones ;  sing  it  to-night : — 
To-morrow  morning  come  you  to  my  house ; 
And  since  you  could  not  be  my  son-in-law. 
Be  yet  my  nephew :  my  brother  hath  a  daughter. 
Almost  the  copy  of  my  child  that  'a  dead. 
And  she  alone  is  heir  tc  both  of  us  ; 
Give  her  the  right  you  should  have  giv'n  her  cousin, 
And  so  dies  my  revenge. 

Claud.  0,  noble  sir, 

Your  over  kindness  doth  wring  tears  from  me ! 
I  do  embrace  your  offer ;  and  dispose 
For  henceforth  of  poor  Clundio. 
252 


Leon.   To-morrow,    then,    I   will   expect   yoiu 
coming ; 
To-night  I  take  my  leave. — This  naughty  man 
Shall  face  to  face  be  brought  to  Margaret, 
Wlio,  I  believe,  was  pack'd  in  all  this  wrong," 
Hir'd  to  it  by  your  brother. 

£ora.  No,  by  my  soul,  she  was  not ; 

Nor  knew  not  what  she  did,  when  she  spoke  to  mo 
But  always  hath  been  just  and  virtuous, 
In  anything  that  I  do  know  by  her. 

Doffb.  Moreover,  sir,  (which,  indeed,  is  not 
under  white  and  black,)  this  plaintiff  here,  the 
offender,  did  call  me  ass : — I  beseech  you,  let  it 
be  rememb'red  in  his  punishment.  And,  also,  the 
watch  heard  them  talk  of  one  Deformed :  they 
say,  he  wears  a  key  in  his  ear, "'  and  a  lock  hang- 
ing by  it;  and  borrows  money  in  God's  name;" 
the  which  he  hath  us"d  so  long,  and  never  paid, 
that  now  men  grow  hard-hearted,  and  wiU  lend 
nothing  for  God's  -sake.  Pray  you,  examine  him 
upon  that  point. 

Leon.  I  thank  thee  for  thy  caie  and  honest  pains. 

Doyb.  Your  -worship  speaks  like  a  most  thank- 
ful and  reverend  youth;  and  I  praise  God  for  you. 

Leon.  There  's  for  thy  pains. 

Dojb.  God  save  the  foundation  !  "^ 

Leon.  Go,  I  discharge  thee  of  thy  prisoner,  and 
I  thank  thee. 

Doffb.  I  leave  an  arrant  knave  with  your  worship ; 
■which,  I  beseech  your  worship,  to  correct  yourself, 
or  the  example  of  others.  God  keep  your  worship ; 
I  ■wish  your  worship  ■well;  God  restore  you  to 
health  :  I  humbly  give  you  leave  to  depart ;  and 
if  a  meny  meeting  may  be  wish'd,  God  prohibit 
it. — Come,  neighbour. 

[^Exeunt  Dogb.,  Verg.,  and  "W'atch. 

Leoji.  Until  to-morrow  morning,  lords,  farewell. 

Ant.  Farewell,  my  lords ;  we  look  for  you  to- 
morrow. 

L>.  Pedro.  AVe  wiU  not  f;xil. 
Claud.  To-night  I  'U  mourn  with  Hero. 

[^Exeunt  T>.  Peduo  and  C'i.\ni) 

Leon.  Bring  you  these  fellows  on ;  we  '11  talk 
with  Margaret, 
How  her  acquaintance  grew  with  this  lewd  fellow 

[Jilrlt 

SCENE  II.— Leonato'*  Garden. 

Enter  Benedick  and  Maeoaret,  meeting. 
Bene.  Pray  thco,  sweet  mistress  Margaret,  de- 
serve well  at  my  hands,   by  helping  me  to  the 
speech  of  Beatrice. 


act:  V, 


irUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


Marg.  Will  you  then  -write  me  a  sonnet  in  praise 
of  inj-  beauty  ? 

Bene.  In  so  liigh  a  style,  Margaret,  that  no  man 
living  shall  come  oyer  it ;  for,  in  most  comely 
tnilh,  thou  dcservest  it. 

Marg.  To  have  no  man  come  over  mc?  why, 
ehall  I  always  keep  below  stairs  ■■ 

Bene.  Thy  wit  is  as  quick  as  the  greyhound's 
mouth ;  it  catches. 

Marg.  And  yours  as  blunt  as  the  fencer's  foils, 
which  hit,  but  hurt  not. 

Bene.  A  most  manly  wit,  Margaret ;  it  -will  not 
hurt  a  woman;  and  so,  I  pray  thee,  caU  Beatrice  : 
I  give  thee  the  bucklers. "" 

Marg.  Give  us  the  swords ;  we  have  bucklers  of 
our  own. 

Bene.  If  you  use  them,  Margaret,  you  must 
put  in  the  pikes  with  a  vice ;  and  they  are  dan- 
gerous weapons  for  maids. 

Marg.  Well,  I  wiU  call  Beatrice  to  j-ou,  who,  I 
think,  hath  legs.  \_Exit  Makg. 

Bene.  And  therefore  will  come. 

The  god  of  love,  ■"-  \_Singing. 

That  sits  above, 
And  knows  me,  and  knows  me, 
IIow  pitiful  I  deserve, — 

1  mean  in  singing ;  but  in  loving, — Lcander  the 
good  swimmer,  TroUus  the  first  employer  of  pan- 
ders, and  a  whole  book  full  of  these  quondam 
carpet-mongers, '™  whose  names  yet  run  smoothly 
in  the  even  road  of  a  blank  verse,  why,  they  were 
never  so  truly  turned  over  and  over  as  my  poor 
self,  in  love.  Marry,  I  cannot  show  it  in  rhyme ; 
I  have  tried;  1  can  find  out  no  rhyme  to  "lady" 
but  "baby,"  an  innocent  rhyme;  for  "scorn," 
"horn,"  a  hard  rhyme;  for  "school,"'  "fool,"  a 
babbling  rhyme ;  very  ominous  endings.  No,  I 
was  not  bom  under  a  rhyming  planet,  nor  I  cannot 
woo  in  festival  terms. 

Enter  Beathice. 

Sweet  Beatrice,  wouldst  thou  come  when  I  call'd 
thee? 

Beat.  Yea,  signior,  and  depart  vrhen  you  bid 
me. 

Bene,  0,  stay  but  tUl  then ! 

Beat.  'Then'  is  spoken ;  fare  j  3u  wcU  now  : — 
aud  yet,  ere  I  go,  let  me  go  yd'Ja.  that  I  came  for, 
which  is,  with  kno'ving  what  hath  pass'd  between 
you  and  Claudio. 

Bene.  Only  foul  words ;  and  thercuuou  T  will 
kiss  theo. 


Beat.  Foul  words  is  but  foul  wind,  and  foul 
^\•ind  is  but  foul  breath,  and  foul  breath  is  noi- 
some ;  tlierofore  I  will  depart  unkisscd. 

Bene.  Thou  hast  frighted  tlic  word  out  of  hia 
right  sense,  so  forcible  is  tliy  wit :  But  I  must  tell 
thee  plainly,  Claudio  undergoes  my  challetge ; 
and  either  I  must  shortly  hear  from  him,  or  I  will 
subscribe  him  a  coward.  And,  I  pray  thee  now, 
tell  me  for  which  of  my  bad  parts  didst  thou  first 
fall  in  love  with  me  ? 

Beat.  For  them  all  together ;  whicli  maintain'd 
so  politic  a  state  of  evil,  that  they  will  not  admit 
any  good  part  to  intermingle  with  them.  But  for 
which  of  my  good  parts  did  you  first  suffer  lovo 
for  mc  ? 

Bene.  "Suffer  love;"  a  good  epithet!  I  do 
suffer  love,  indeed,  for  I  love  thee  against  my 
wUl. 

Beat.  In  spite  of  your  heart,  I  think ;  alas  ! 
poor  heart !  If  you  spite  it  for  my  sake,  I  will 
spite  it  for  yours ;  for  I  will  never  love  that  which 
my  friend  hates. 

Bene.  Thou  and  I  are  too  wise  to  woo  peace- 
ably. 

Beat.  It  appears  not  in  this  confession  :  there  's 
not  one  wise  man  among  twenty  that  wiLL  praise 
himself. 

P6iie.  An  old,  an  old  instance,  Beatrice,  that 
liv'd  in  the  time  of  good  neighbours :  if  a  man  do 
not  erect  in  this  age  has  own  tomb  ere  he  dies,  he 
shall"  live  no  longer  in  monuments  than  the  heUs 
ring,  and  the  widow  weeps. 

Beat.  And  how  long  is  that,  think  you  ? 

Bene.  Question  ? "" — ^Vliy,  an  hour  in  clamour, 
and  a  quarter  in  rheum.  Therefore  it  is  most 
expedient  for  the  wise  (if  don  Worm,  his  eon- 
science,  find  no  impediment  to  the  contrary)  to  be 
the  trumpet  of  his  own  virtues,  as  I  am  to  myself. 
So  much  for  praising  myself,  (who,  I  myself  will 
bear  witness,  is  praiseworthy,)  and  now  tell  me, 
how  doth  your  cousin  ? 

Beat.  Very  ill. 

Bene.  And  how  do  you  ? 

Beat.  Very  ill  too. 

Beiie.  Serve  God,  love  me,  and  mend ;  there 
will  I  leave  you  too,  for  here  comes  one  in  haste. 

Enter  Uksuia. 

Urs.  Madam,  you  must  come  to  your  uiicie; 
yonder  's  old  coQ'"  at  home :  it  is  proved,  my  lady 
Hero  hath  been  falsely  aocus'd  •  the  prince  and 
Claudio  mightily  abused ;    and  Pon  Jolm  is  the 

253 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


bce>t;  m. — iv. 


author  of  all,  who  is  fled  and  gone  ,  vnR  you  come 
presently  ? 

Jit'iit.  "Will  you  go  hear  this  news,  signior? 

Bene.  I  will  live  in  thy  heart,  die  in  thy  lap, 
and  be  buried  in  thy  eyes ;  and,  moreover,  I  will 
go  with  thee  to  thy  uncle's.  [_Exeunt. 

SCENE  111.— The  Inside  of  a  Church. 

Er.tor  Dox  Pedeo,  Claubio,  and  Attendants,  with 
music  and  lajiers. 

Claud.  Is  this  the  monument  of  Lconato  ? 
.At ten.  It  is,  my  lord. 
Cltiud.  \_Reads  from  a  scroll.'] 

"  Done  to  death  by  slanderous  tongues 
Was  the  Ilero  that  here  lies  : 
Death,  in  guerdon  of  her  %rrong3, 

Gives  her  fame  which  never  dies : 
So  the  life  that  died  with  shams 
Lives  in  death  with  glorious  fame. 
Hang  thou  there  upon  the  tomb. 
Praising  her  when  I  am  dumb. " 

.Vow,  musie  sound,  and  sing  your  solemn  hymn. 

SONG. 

Pardon,  goddess  of  the  night. 
Those  that  slow  thy  virgin  knight ; "" 
For  the  which,  with  songs  of  woe, 
Round  about  her  tomb  they  go. 

Midnight,  assist  om"  moan ; 

Help  us  to  sigh  and  groan, 
Hea%ily,  heavily : 

Graves,  yawn,  and  j-ield  your  dead, 

Till  death  bo  uttered, 
Hearily,  hea\'ily. 

Now  vmto  thy  bones  good  night ! 
Yearly  will  I  do  this  rite. 
D.  Pedro.    Good  morrow,  masters  ;    put  your 

torches  out : 
The  wolves  have  proy'd :  and,  look,  the  gentle 
day. 
Before  the  wheels  of  Phoebus,  round  about 

Dapples  the  drowsy  oast  with  spots  of  gray : 
Thanks  to  you  all,  and  leave  us ;   fare  j-ou  well. 
Claud.  Good  morrow,  masters  ;  each  his  several 

way. 
D.  Pedro.  Come,  let  us  hence,  and  put  on  other 
weeds ; 
And  then  to  Leonato's  we  ^^■iil  go. 

Claud.  And,  Hymen,  now,  with  luckier  issue 
speeds 
Than  this,  for  whom  wo  render'd  up  this  woe  ! 

[^Exeunt. 

2.S4 


SCENE  lY. — A  Room  in  Lconato'i  Ilouic. 

Enter  Leonato,  Aktoxio,  Beneuick,  IIeatkice, 
UitstTLA,  Friar,  and  Hero. 

Friar.  Did  I  not  tell  you  she  was  innocent  ? 

Leon.  So  arc  the  prince  and  Claudio,  who  acciis'r 
her 
Upon  the  error  that  you  heard  debated : 
But  Mai-garet  was  in  some  fault  for  this, 
Although  against  her  will,  ns  it  appears 
In  the  true  course  of  aU  the  question. 

Ant.  AYell,  I  am  glad  that  all  things  sort  si. 
■well. 

Bene.  And  so  am  I,  being  else  by  faith  enforc'd 
To  call  young  Claudio  to  a  reekoning  for  it. 

Leon.  AYeU,  daughter,  and  j'ou  gentlewomen  all, 
Withdraw  into  a  chamber  by  yourselves  ; 
And,  when  I  send  for  you,  come  hither  mask"d : 
The  prince  and  Claudio  promised  by  this  hour 
To  visit  me  :— you  know  your  office,  brother ; 
You  miist  be  father  to  your  brother's  daughtfr, 
And  gi-se  her  to  young  Claudio.      \_E.u>unt  Ladi':s 

Ant.  Which  I  will  do  with  coniinu'd  counte- 
nance. 

Bone.  Friar,  I  must  entreat  your  ]  ains,  I  think 

Friar.  To  do  what,  signior? 

Bene.  To  bind  me,  or  undo  rac,  one  of  them. 
Signior  Leonato,  truth  it  is,  good  signior. 
Your  niece  regards  me  with  an  eye  of  favour. 

Leoii,.  That  eye  my  daughter  leut  her:  'T  if 
most  true. 

Bene.  And  I  do  with  an  eye  of  love  requite  her. 

Leon.  The  sight  whereof,  I  think,  j-ou  had  from 
mo, 
From  Claudio,  and  the  prince.      But  what  "s  youi 
wiU? 

Bene.  Your  answer,  sir,  is  enigmatical : 
But,  for  my  will,  my  will  is,  your  good  will 
May  stand  %vith  ours,  this  day  to  be  oonjoin'd 
In  the  estate  of  honourable  marriage  ; 
In  which,  good  friar,  I  shall  desire  your  help. 

Leon.  M}'  heart  is  with  your  liking. 

Friar.  And  my  help. 

Here  come  the  prince  and  Claudio. 

Enter  Dox  Pkihw  and  Ci.Aumc    'cith  AltendaiUs 

B.  Pedro.  Good  nu)rrow  to  this  fair  assem'oly. 

Leon.  Good    morrow,   prince;     good    Borrow 
Claudio ; 
AVe  here  attend  you.     Are  you  yet  determin'd 
To-day  to  marry  with  my  brother's  daughter ' 

Claud.  I'll  hold  my  mind,  wore  she  an  Etliiopc 


acr  V. 


ItTJCH  ADO  A.KOUT  NOTHING. 


Leov.  Call  her  forth,  brother;  here  's  the  friar 
ready.  l&U  Ant. 

D.   Pedro.  Good     morrow,     Benedick:     "WHiy, 
■what  's  the  matter, 
That  ypu  have  such  a  February  face. 
So  full  of  frost,  of  storm,  and  cloudiness  ? 

Clincd.  I  tlii::'k  he  thinks  upon  the  savage  bull : — 
Tush,  fear  not,  man,  we  '11  tip  thy  horns  with  gold. 
And  all  Eiu-opa  shall  rejoice  at  thee ; "" 
As  once  Europa  did  at  luaty  Jove, 
When  he  would  play  the  noble  beast  in  love. 

J}ene.  BuU  Jove,  sir,  hud  an  amiable  low  • 
And  some  such  strange  huU  le;ip'd  your  father's 

cow, 
And  got  a  calf  in  that  same  noble  feat, 
Much  like  to  you,  for  you  have  just  his  bleat. 

Re-enter  Antonio,  zoith  the  Ladies  masked. 

Claud.  For  this  I  owe  you:  here  come  other 
rock'nings. 
Wliioh  is  the  lady  I  must  seize  upon  ? 
Zeon.  This  same  is  she,  and  I  do  give  you  her. 
Claud.  "Why,  then  she  's  mine.     Sweet,  let  me 

see  your  face. 
Lion.     jS"o,  that  you  shall  not,  till  you  take  her 
hand 
Before  this  friar,  and  swear  to  marry  her. 

Cl-md.  Give  me  your  hand  before  this  holy  friar ; 
1  am  your  husband,  if  you  like  of  me. 

Hero.  And  when  I  liv'd,  I  was  your  other  wife  : 

[  Unniasking. 
And  when  you  lov'd,  you  were  my  other  husband. 
Claud.  Another  Hero  ? 
Hero.  Nothing  certainer : 

One  Hero  died  defil'd ;  but  I  do  live, 
And,  surely  as  I  live,  I  am  a  maid. 

D.  Pedro.  The  former  Hero !  Hero  that  is  dead ! 
Leon.  She  died,  my  lord,  but  whiles  her  slander 

liv'd. 
Friar.  All  this  amazement  can  I  qualify ; 
Wien,  after  that  the  holy  rites  are  ended, 
I  'U  tell  you  largely  of  fair  Hero's  death  : 
Meantime,  let  wonder  seem  familiar, 
Ajid  to  the  chapel  let  us  presently. 
Bene.  Soft  and  fiiir,  fi-iar. — Which  is  Beatrice  ? 
Beat.  I  answer  to  that  name ;  [mmashing]  what 

is  your  will  ? 
Bene.  Do  not  you  love  me  ? 
Beat.  AVhy,  no, — no  more  than  reason. 

Bene.  "WHiy,  then  your  uncle,  and  the  prince, 
and  Claudio, 
Have  been  deceived ;  they  swore  you  did. 


Beat.  Do  not  you  love  me  ? 
Bene.  Troth,  no, — no  more  than  reasou. 

Beat.  Wliy,    then    my  cousin,  Margaret,  ami 
Ursula, 
Are  much  docciv'd  ;  for  they  did  swear  you  did. 
Bene.  They  swore  that  you  were  almost  sick 

for  me. 
Beat.  They  swore  that  you  were   well  nigh 

dead  for  mo. 
Bene.  'T  is  no  such  matter : — Then  you  do  not 
love  me  ? 

Beat.  No,  truly,  but  in  friendly  recompense. 
Hero.  Come,   cousin,  I  am  sure  you  love  the 

gentleman. 
Claud.  And  I  '11   be  sworn   upon  't,    that  h  i 
loves  her, 
For  here  's  a  paper,  written  in  his  hand, 
A  halting  sonnet  of  his  own  piu-e  Irain, 
Fashioned  to  Beatrice. 

ITero.  And  here's  another, 

Writ  in  my  cousin's  hand,  stol'n  from  her  pockei, 
Containing  her  affection  unto  Benedick. 

Bene.  A  miracle  !  here  's  our  own  hands  against 
our  hearts ! — Come,  I  will  have  thee;  but,  by  thii> 
liglit,  I  take  thee  for  pity ! 

Beat.  I  would  not  deny  you ;  -^ — but,  b-;  tins 
good  day,  I  yield  upon  great  persua-sion,  and, 
partly,  to  save  your  life,  for  I  was  told  you  Tere 
Ln  a  consumption. 

Bene.  Peace,  I  wiU  stop  your  mouth. 

{^Kissing  her. 
D.  Pedro.  How  dost  thou,  Benedick  the  mar- 
ried man  ? 

Be7ie.  I  '11  tell  thee  what,  prince ;  a  college  oi 
wit-crackers  cannot  flout  me  out  of  my  humour : 
Dost  thou  think  I  care  for  a  satire,  or  on  epigram  : 
No :  if  a  man  will  be  beaten  with  brains,  'a  shaU 
wear  nothing  handsome  about  him.  In  brief, 
since  I  do  pui-pose  to  marry,  I  will  think  nothing 
to  any  purpose  that  the  world  can  say  against  it ; 
and  therefore  never  flout  at  me  for  what  I  have 
said  against  it:  for  man  is  a  giddy  thing,  and  this 
is  my  conclusion. — For  thy  part,  Claudio,  I  did 
think  to  have  beaten  thee;  but  in  that  thou  os\ 
like  to  be  my  kinsman,  live  unbruis'd,  and  love 
my  cousin. 

Claud.  I  had  well  hop'd  thou  wouldst  have 
denied  Beatrice,  that  I  might  have  cudgcU'd  thee 
out  of  thy  single  lift-,  to  make  thee  a  double 
dealer;  which,  out  of  question,  thou  wilt  be,  if 
my  cousin  do  not  look  exceeding  narrowly  U) 
thee. 


tBT  V. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHIN'J. 


Beiie.  Come,  come,  we  arc  friends : — let 's  liave 
\  dance  ere  we  are  married,  that  wo  may  liglilen 
our  own  hearts,  and  our  wives'  heels. 

Leon.  We  '11  have  dancing  afterward. 

Bene.    First,     of    my    word;    therefore,    play 
music. — Prince,  thou  art  sad ;  get  thee  a  wife,  get 
thee  a  wife  ;  there  is  no  staff  more  rsTorend  than 
£t.t,  tipped  with  honi-"" 
^56 


Enter  a  Messenger. 
Mess.  My  lord,  your  hrother  John  Is  fcs'cu  ii 
flight. 
And  hronght  with  armed  men  back  to  Messina. 
Bene.  Think  not  on  him  till  to-morrow;  1 
devise  thee  brave  punishments  for  him. — StrLk; 


up,  pipere ! 


( Ihnoc      Eveunt 


NOTES  TO  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 


'  Jinter  Lsonato.  Innogen. 

Jauogen,  wife  of  Loonato,  is  introduced  in  the  original  in 
lie  stage  direction  here  and  in  the  second  act,  but,  as  no 
speeches  are  assigned  to  her,  her  name  has  hitherto  been 
omitted.  It  seems,  however,  unlilscly  that  Innogen  should 
ba  thus  twice  iutroduccd,  had  she  not  been  intended  by  the 
poet  for  one  of  the  characters.  I  have,  therefore,  ventui-cd 
to  select  a  few  unimportant  speeches,  hitherto  assigued  to 
Leonato,  as  her  portion. 

-  Without  a  badge  of  bitterness. 

Badge,  a  mark  or  tolten,  fi-cm  the  badges  worn  by 
servants  of  distinguished  peoi^le.  The  inmates  of  the 
Hospital  at  Warwick  still  wear  the  silver  badges  of  the 
founder,  the  E.arl  of  Leicester.  In  great  measure,  abun- 
lantly.     Truer,  more  honest. 

^  Is  Signior  Montanto  returned. 

■Warburton  refers  to  the  Spanish  mrmtdnte,  a  two-handed 
iword.  Montanto  was  an  old  fencuig  term,  here  ludicrously 
applied  to  Benedick. 

■1  Of  any  sort. 

That  is,  of  any  rank.  "  Look  you,  sir,  yon  presume  to 
be  a  gentleman  of  sort,"  Every  Man  out  of  his  Humour. 
Mr.  Xnight  complains  that  the  word  is  sometimes  explained 
one  way,  and  ser:?*:"TR  another.  In  a  case  lilvc  this,  we 
can  only  judge  by  tlie  context,  Shakespeare  undoubtedly 
using  the  word  in  both  senses  in  the  coui-se  of  his  plays. 

^  He  set  up  his  bills  here  in  Messina. 

It  was  usual  for  fcuccrs,  archers,  and  others,  to  post  their 
bills  or  chaUonges  on  the  posts.  "  These  joUy  mountibanks 
olapt  up  their  bills  upon  eveiy  post,  like  a  fencer's  chal- 
lenge," Decker's  Wonderfull  Yeare,  1603.  Dabome,  the 
actor,  says  in  a  letter,  "  I  pray,  sir,  let  the  boy  giv  order 
this  night  to  the  stage-keeper  to  !jet  up  bUls  against  Munday 
for  Eastward  Hoe. "  A  flight  was  a  light  arrow,  foimed 
for  very  long  and  straight  shcts ;  the  bird-holt,  on  the  eon- 
traiy,  was  a  short  thick  arro^'  with  a  broad  flat  end,  used 
for  "Killing  small  birds,  without  piercing,  by  the  mere  force 
of  the  blow.  The  satii'e  of  course  consists  in  the  antithesis , 
the  flight  being  the  swiftest  arrow,  and  the  bii'd-bolt  the 
worst  in  archeiy,  used  by  fools  and  children.  He  '11  be 
meet  with  you,  even  with  you ;  he  'U  be  a  match  for  you. 

Holp,  helped;  the  old  preterite.  Trencherman,  feeder; 
03 


eater.  "  His  doublet  is  of  cast  satten  cut  sometime  upcn 
tafl'ata,  but  that  the  bumbast  hath  eafen  througli  it,  and 
spotted  it  here  and  there  with  pm-o  fat  to  testifie  that  he  is 
a  good  trencher-man,"  Lodge's  "Wits  Miserie.  1-596,  p.  63. 

"  Stuffed  with  all  honourable  virtues. 

Stuffed,  furnished,  not  in  a  ridiculous  sense.  Medc, 
1672,  montions  Adam  as  being  "stuffed  with  so  many 
excellent  quahties." 

'  Four  of  his  five  wits. 

The  five  senses  were  formerly  tei-med  the  five  mits,  but 
Shakespeare  seems  to  consider  them  distinct.  A  character 
in  the  old  interlude  of  the  '  Five  Elements,'  says, — 

I  am  callyd  Son.sual  Apetyte, 
All  creatures  in  me  delyte, 

I  comforte  the  wytti/s  five ; 
The  tastyng,  smellyiig,  and  herynge, 
1  rcfipshe  the  sygh'te  and  fel}'nge 

To  all  creatm-es  alyve. 

^  If  he  have  wit  enough  to  keep  himself  warm. 

That  is,  if  he  has  sense  enough  to  take  care  of  his  own 
interests.  This  proverbial  expression  _was  formerly  very 
common.  "  Madam,  your  whole  self  cannot  but  be  perfectly 
wise,  for  your  liands  have  wit  enough  to  keep  themselves 
wai-m,"  Ben  Jonson's  Cynthia's  Revels.  "A  wise  man.  He 
warrant  him,  for  he  can  kecpe  himselfe  warme,"  Man  in 
the  Moone,  1609.  Sworn  brother,  one  who  swore  peipetual 
disinterested  friendship,  and  shared  his  fortune.  The  btoci, 
a  mould  on  which  a  hat  is  formed.  Hence  it  is  used  for  the 
hat  itself,  or  for  the  shape  of  it.  "  I  have  scene  sLxe  oi 
seven  fashion-hunting  gallants  together  sit  seomin"  and 
deriding  a  better  man  then  themselves,  onely  because  either 
his  hat  was  of  the  old  blocke,  or  that  his  rufl'e  was  not  so 
richly  lac'd,"  Taylor's  Workes,  1630.  The  fashions  of  hats 
varied  very  much  in  Shakespeare's  time,  and  Fyncs  Morj-son, 
Itin.  1617,  tells  us,  "the  taylors  and  shopkeepers  daily 
invent  fantasticaU  fashions  for  hats,  and  like  new  fashion 
and  names  for  stuffos. " 

^  Is  not  in  your  books. 

That  is,  is  not  in  your  favour.  "We  stUl  say  "  in  vour 
good  books."  Various  explanations  of  the  origin  of  the 
phi-ase  have  been  given,  but  none  are  very  satisfactory.  I: 
is,  in  fact,  difficult  to  assign  really  gsod  derivations  for  nios* 

257 


r" 


NOTES  TO  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHINtt 


iif  these  vernacular  idioms.      Sauarer,  a  quarreller  or  roar- 
ing boy. 

Tliat  wench  is  modest :  oh !  shce  's  in  my  bookes  ; 
I  onely  love  her  for  her  modest  lookes. 

Heywood's  Great  Brilaines  Troy,  1C09. 
'  1  was  so  much  in  his  books,  that,  at  his  decease,  he  left 
roe  the  lamp  hy  which  he  used  to  write  his  lucubrations  " — 
Addison. 

"'  The  lady  fathers  herself. 
According  to  Steevens,  this  phrase  is  common  in  Dorset- 
shire.    Jack  fathers  himself,  i.e.  is  like  his  father. 

"  Courtesy  itself  must  convert  to  disdain. 

Covvcrt,  turn.  So,  in  the  old  translation  of  the  Bible, — 
"  Uowboit  after  this,  Jeroboam  converted  not  from  his 
Xicked  way." 

^"  Do  you  play  the  flouting  .Jack. 
Jack  was  a  term  of  contempt,  perhaps  derived  from  apes 
being  usually  so  termed.      The  reader  ■s\'ill  find  the  expres- 
sion, ^OM^«y  Jack,  in  an  extract  from  ah  old  play  given  in 
the  preface  to  the  Comedy  of  Errors. 

"  Cupid  is  a  good  hare-finder. 
Hare  is  metaphorically  used  for  a  Heentious  person,  as 
plainly  appears  from  a  passage  in  Ford's  play  of  'Tis  Pity 
She  's  a  AVhore,  v.  5.  Hare-hunters  is  used  in  a  similar 
manner  by  Decker,  in  his  Gull's  Horn-book,  1609. 
Tollctt,  however,  has  a  reasonable  explanation : — "  Do  j'ou 
Ecofl'  and  mock  in  teUijig  us  that  Cupid,  who  is  blind,  is  a 
good  hare-finder,  which  reijuires  a  quick  eye-sight;  and 
that  A'ulean,  a  blacksmith,  is  a  rare  carpenter?"  To  find  a 
hai'e  was  the  sporting  term  to  seek  one  out  with  dogs  for 
coui-sing.     So  Ilan-ington,  in  his  Epigrams,  1C33, — 

A  gallant,  full  of  life  and  void  of  care. 
Asked  his  friend  if  he  would  find  a  hare ; 
He  that  for  .sleep  more  then  such  sports  did  care. 
Said,  Go  your  waies,  and  leave  me  here  alone ; 
Let  them  find  hares  that  lost  them  :  I  lost  none. 

To  go  in  the  song,  to  join  with  you  in  the  song. 

^^  He  will  wear  his  cap  with  suspicion. 

Tliat  is,  s.ays  Dr.  Johnson,  subject  his  head  to  the 
disquiet  of  jealousy.  Sigh  away  Su7idays  probably  alludes, 
pays  Steevens,  to  the  strict  manner  in  which  the  Sabbath 
was  observed  by  the  Puritans,  who  usually  spent  th.at  day 
in  sighs  and  groanings.  It  is  more  Ukely  a  proverbial 
phrase,  the  meaning  of  which  has  not  been  yet  ascertained. 

'5  Like  the  old  tale,  my  lord. 

The  following  curious  traditional  tale,  illusti'ating  this 
[Ktssage,  was  contributed  to  the  varionim  edition  by  Mr. 
Blakeway : — 

"  Once  uf  "n  a  time  there  was  a  young  lady  called  Lady 
Maiy,  who  imd  two  brothers.  One  summer  tliey  all  three 
went  to  a  country  seat  of  theirs  which  they  bad  not  before 
visited.  Among  theothcr  gentiy  in  the  neighbourhood  who 
came  to  see  them  was  a  Jtr.  Fox,  a  bachelor,  with  whom 
Ihey,  particularly  the  young  lady,  wi^'e  much  pleased.  Ho 
used  often  to  dLne  with  them,  and  frequently  invited  Lady 
Mary  I'l  come  and  ace  his  house.  One  day,  when  her 
2C8 


brothers  were  absent  elsewhere,  and  she  had  nothing  hettci 
to  do,  she  determined  to  go  thither,  and  accordingly  set  out 
unattended.  'When  she  arrived  at  the  house  and  knocked  at 
the  door,  no  one  answered.     At  length  she  opened  it  an 
went  in,  and  over  the  portal  of  the  door  was  writtf  n  ■ 

Be  bold,  be  bold,  but  not  too  bold. 
She  advanced,  and   found  the  same  inscription  over  th 
staircase ;  again  at  the  entrance  of  a  gallerj-;  and  lastly,  a 
the  door  of  a  chamber,  with  the  addition  of  a  line  : 

Be  bold,  be  bold,  but  not  too  bold. 

Lest  that  your  heart's  blood  should  run  cold ! 

She  opened  it,  and  what  was  her  terror  and  astonishment  to 
find  the  floor  covered  mth  bones  and  blood.  She  retreated 
in  haste,  and  coming  down  stairs,  she  saw  from  a  window 
Mr.  Fox  advancing  towards  the  house  with  a  dra^Ti  sword 
in  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he  dragged  along  a 
young  lady  by  the  hair  of  her  head.  Lady  Mary  had  just 
time  to  slip  down,  and  hide  herself  under  the  stairs,  before 
Mr.  Fox  and  his  victim  an-ived  at  the  foot  of  them.  As  he 
puUed  the  young  lady  up  staii-s,  she  caught  hold  of  one  of 
the  bannisters  «-ith  her  hand,  on  which  was  a  rich  bracelet. 
Mr.  Fox  cut  it  off  with  his  sword :  the  hand  and  bracelet 
fell  into  Lady  JIary's  lap,  who  then  eonti'ived  to  escape  un- 
observed, and  got  safe  home  to  her  brother's  house. 

"  A  few  days  afterwards,  Mr.  Fox  came  to  dine  with 
them  as  usual.  After  dinner,  the  guests  began  to  amuso 
each  other  with  extraorduiaiy  anecdotes,  and  Lady  Maiy 
said  she  would  relate  to  them  a  remarkable  dream  she  had 
lately  had.  I  dreamt,  said  she,  that  as  you,  Mr.  Fox,  hai 
often  invited  me  to  your  house,  I  would  go  there  one 
morning.  'When  I  came  to  the  house,  I  knocked  at  the 
door,  but  no  one  answered.  'Wlieu  I  opened  the  door,  ovci 
the  hall  I  saw  ^^^^tten,  '  Be  bold,  be  bold,  but  not  tec 
bold.'  But,  said  she,  turning  to  Mr.  Fox,  and  smiling, 
'  It  is  not  so,  nor  it  was  not  so. '  Then  she  pursued  the 
rest  of  the  story,  concluding  at  every  tmn  i^-ith,  '  It  is  not 
so,  nor  it  was  not  so,'  till  she  came  to  the  discovery  of  the 
room  full  of  bones,  when  Mr.  Fox  took  up  the  burden  vl 
the  tale,  and  said ; 

It  is  not  so,  nor  it  was  not  so, 
And  God  forbid  it  should  be  so ! 

which  he  continued  to  repeat  at  every  subsequent  turn 
of  the  dreadfid  story,  till  she  came  to  the  circumstance  ol 
his  cutting  off  the  young  lady's  hand,  when,  upot  lus 
saying  as  usual. 

It  is  not  so,  nor  it  was  not  so. 
And  God  forbid  it  Eho\ild  be  so  1 

Lady  Mary  retorts  by  saying 

But  it  is  so,  and  it  was  so. 

And  here  the  hand  I  have  to  show ! 

at  the  same  moment  producing  tlie  hand  and  bracelet  iroia 
her  lap.  A\Tiereupon  tlic  guests  diew  their  swords,  anj 
instantly  cut  Mr.  Fox  into  a  thousand  pieces. " 

Mr.  Knight  appears  to  doubt  the  authontioily  of  this 
curious  story ;  he  does  not,  at  least,  express  an  opinion  tliat 
it  is  really  tlie  tale  alluded  to  by  Shakespeare.  On  this 
account,  I  copy  a  legend  recently  communicated  to  the 
"Notes  and  Queries,"  the  writer  being  evidently  uiiac- 
quaiutcd  with  the  above,  tlie  genuineness  of  which  i) 
seems   to  establish  :■  — 


NOTES  lO  iiUCll  Ai)U  AUUUi  jNuillLsu. 


"  I  on  3  day  waa  looking  ovlt  the  difTorcnt  monuments  in 
(/raiibrook  Church  in  Kent,  wlion  in  the  chancel  my  atten- 
tion was  arrested  by  one  erected  to  the  memory  of  Sir 
Richard  Balicr.  The  gauntlet,  gloves,  helmet,  and  spurs 
were  (as  is  often  the  case  in  monumental  erections  of  Eli- 
zabethan date)  suspended  over  the  tomb.  What  chiefly 
attracted  my  attention  was  the  colour  of  the  gloves,  which 
was  red.  The  old  woman  who  acted  as  my  cicerone, 
Bcoing  me  look  at  them,  said,  '  Aye,  miss,  those  are  Bloody 
I^alvcr's  gloves ;  tlieir  red  colour  comes  from  the  blood  lie 
slied.*  This  speech  awakened  my  curiosity  to  hear  i«ore, 
and  with  very  little  pressing  I  induced  my  old  guide  to  tell 
me  the  following  strango  tale. 

"  The  Baker  family  had  formerly  large  possessions  in 
Cranbrook,  but  in  the  reign  of  Edward  VI.  great  mis- 
fortunes fell  on  them ;  by  extravagance  and  dissipation 
they  gradually  lost  all  their  lands,  until  an  old  liouse  in  the 
village  (now  used  as  the  poor-house)  was  all  that  remained 
to  them.  The  sole  representative  of  the  family  remaining 
at  the  accession  of  Queen  Maiy,  was  Sir  Richard  Baker. 
He  had  spent  some  years  abroad  in  consequonco  of  a  duel ; 
but  when,  said  my  informant,  Bloody  Qvieen  Mary  reigned, 
he  thought  he  might  safely  retxu'n,  as  he  wa«  a  Papist. 
When  he  came  to  Cranbrook,  he  took  up  his  abode  in  his 
aid  house ;  he  only  brought  one  foreign  servant  ■«'ith  him, 
and  these  two  lived  alone.  Very  soon  strange  stories  began 
to  be  whispered  respecting  imcai'tlily  shrieks  ha\'ing  been 
heard  frequently  to  issue  at  nightfall  from  his  house. 
Slany  people  of  importance  were  stopped  and  robbed  in 
the  Glastonbury  woods,  and  many  imfortunate  travellers 
were  missed  and  never  hoard  of  more.  Kicliard  Baker  still 
contined  to  live  in  seclusion,  but  he  gradually  repurchased 
his  alienated  property,  although  he  was  known  to  have 
spent  all  he  possessed  before  he  left  England.  But  wicked- 
ness was  not  always  to  prosper.  He  formed  an  apparent 
attachment  to  a  young  lady  in  the  neighbom-hood,  remarka- 
ble for  always  wearing  a  great  many  jewels.  He  often 
pressed  lier  to  come  and  see  liis  old  house,  telling  her  he 
had  many  curious  things  he  wished  to  show  her.  She  had 
always  resisted  fixing  a  day  for  her  visit,  but  happening  to 
walk  within  a  short  distance  of  his  house,  she  determined 
to  surprise  him  with  a  visit ;  her  companion,  a  lady  older 
than  herself,  endeai'oured  to  dissuade  her  fi-om  doing  so, 
but  she  woidd  not  be  turned  from  her  puri)ose.  They 
blocked  at  the  door,  but  no  one  answered  them;  they, 
however,  discovered  it  was  not  locked,  and  determined  to 
enter.  At  the  head  of  the  stairs  hung  a  parrftu,  which  on 
theii  passing  cried  out,- 

'  Peepoh,  pretty  lady,  be  not  too  bold. 
Or  yoTU'  red  blood  will  soon  nm  cold.' 

And  cold  did  nm  the  blood  of  the  adventurous  damsel 
when,  on  opening  one  of  the  room  doors,  she  found  it  filled 
with  the  dead  bodies  of  murdered  persons,  chiefly  women. 
Just  then  they  heard  a  noise,  and  on  looking  out  of  the 
(rindow  saw  Bloody  Baker  and  his  sen'ant  bringing  in  the 
omrdered  body  of  a  lady.  Nearly  dead  with  fear,  they 
con.eided  themselves  in  a  recess  under  the  staircase. 

"  As  the  mm-Jerers  with  their  dead  buiden  passed  by 
them,  the  hand  of  the  unfortimate  murdered  lady  hung  in 
the  baluster  of  the  stairs ;  with  an  oath  Bloody  Baker 
cL;f  ped   it   off,   and   it   fcU   into   the   lap   of  one   of  the 


concealed  ladies.  As  soon  as  the  murderers  had  passed  by 
the  ladies  ran  away,  having  the  presence  of  mind  to  carrj 
with  them  the  dead  hand,  on  one  of  the  fingers  of  which 
was  a  ring.  On  reaching  liome  they  told  their  Biory,  and  in 
confiiTuation  of  it  displayed  the  ring.  All  the  families  who 
had  lost  relatives  mysteriously  were  then  told  of  wh.at  liad 
been  foimd  out ;  and  they  determined  to  ask  Baker  to  3 
large  party,  apparently  in  a  friendly  manner,  but  to  liavo 
constables  concealed  ready  to  take  him  into  custody.  He 
came,  suspecting  nothing,  and  then  the  l.idy  told  him  all  she 
had  seen,  pretending  it  was  a  di-cam.  '  Fair  lady,'  said  lie, 
'dreams  are  nothing:  they  are  but  fables.'  'They  niaj 
be  fables, '  said  she ;  '  but  is  this  a  fable  r '  and  she  pro- 
duced the  hand  and  ring.  Upon  this  tlie  constables  rushed 
in  and  took  him ;  and  the  tradition  further  says,  he  was 
bunit,  notwitlist.inding  Queen  Maiy  tried  to  save  Iiim,  on 
account  of  the  religion  he  professed." 

'^  A  redieat  winded  in  my  forehead. 

A  rccheat  was  a  particular  blowing  on  tlie  horn,  property 
used  to  call  the  hounds  back  from  a  wrong  scent.  There 
were  several  kinds  of  recheats,  and  the  term  was  more 
generally  applied  in  later  times.  Baldrick,  a  belt,  girdle, 
or  sash.  There  are  several  instances  of  the  word  where  it 
woidd  seem  to  have  been  merely  a  collar  or  strap  round  the 
neck,  though  it  was  more  generally  passed  round  one  side 
of  the  neck,  and  under  the  opposite  arm.  It  is  unnecessary 
to  explain  the  particulaj  allusions. 

Fine,  i.e.  end,  conclusion.  The  meaning  of  Benedick's 
next  speech  \rill  not  bear  explanation.  Nolable  argument, 
a  good  subject  for  ridicule. 

"  Hang  me  in  a  bottle  lilie  a  cat. 

We  have  several  early  allusions  to  shooting  at  cats  in  a 
basket,  but  none  have  been  produr;->d  in  which  a  bottle  is 
mentioned.  It  may  be  presumed  it  was  a  similar  amuse- 
ment. Bottles  were  often  formerly  made  of  leather,  but 
here  a  wooden  bottle  is  probably  intended. 

When  loe,  a  glorious  post  you  might  beholJ 
Fairer  then  any  stake  in  Grayes-Inne  field. 
Or  the  large  pastui-es  of  Saint  George's  hold. 
Or  Finsburie,  or  Islington  can  yield ; 
Which  in  a  cart,  as  theeves  to  hanging  ride, 
Are  thither  brought  by  archers  in  great  pride. 
Guarded  with  gunners,  bill-men,  and  a  rout 
Of  bowmen  bold,  which  at  a  cat  doe  shoot. 

Pasquil's  Niyht-Cap,  1612. 
Adam  is  gener.iUy  believed  to  refer  to  Adam  Bell,  thi 

celebrated  archer,  of  whom  there  is  an  old  ballad  cciu- 

mencing, — 

Mery  it  was  in  the  grene  forest 

Amonge  the  leves  grene. 
Whereas  men  hunt  east  and  wcjt, 

W)-th  bowes  and  .an-owes  kene ; 

To  raise  the  dere  out  of  thcyr  denne ; 

Suche  sightes  hath  ofte  bene  sene ; 
As  by  thre  ycmen  of  the  Xorth  countrej. 

By  them  it  is  I  meane. 

The  one  of  them  hight  Adam  Bel, 

The  other  Clym  of  the  Clough, 
The  thp-d  was  William  of  Cloudesly, 

An  archer  good  ynough. 

2d9 


JVOTES  TO  ilUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


'*  In  time  tJie  savage  bull  doth  bear  the  yoke. 
Tins  lino,  sliglitly  altered,  oceurs  in  Watson's  Centurie  of 
Love,  1581,  and  is  adopted  in  the  Spanish  Tragedy,  1599. 
Guarded  with  fragments,  i.e.  bordered  or  laced  with  frag- 
ments.    Basti  i,  sc\n3,  stitehcd. 

^^  Ere  youjlout  old  ends  any  further. 
"  Old  ends"  arc  merely  familiar  scraps,  and  often  applied 
to  quotations  from  books  or  plays.  "  Nor  hales  he  in  a  gidl 
old  er^  "ociting,"  Ben  Jonson's  Fox.  "  Apply  old  ends  of 
comfort  to  her  griefe,  but  the  burden  of  my  song  shall  be 
to  tell  her  wordes  are  but  dead  comforts,"  Chapman's 
Widdowcs  Teares,  1612.  "LUlies  old  ends  he  hath  got  by 
lieart,"  Scot's  Philomythie,  161G. 

-0  And  I  will  break  with  her. 
That  is,  I  will  open  the  subject  to  her.  "  Tell  mo  but 
this,  did  you  ever  break  betn-ixt  my  mistress  and  your 
sister  here,  and  a  certain  lord  i' th'  cotut?" — Chapman's 
Monsieur  D'Olive,  1G06.  Grant,  gift,  concession.  The 
fairest  grant  is  the  necessity,  i.e.  the  best  gift  is  that  which 
confines  itself  to  the  real  necessities  of  the  case. 

-^  '  Tis  once,  thou  lovest. 
Once,  i.e.  once  for  aU.     "We  have  already  had  the  word 
jsed  in  this  way  in  the  Comedy  of  Errors. 

--  In  a  ihlch-pleached  allq/. 

Thich-pleaehed,  thickly  interwoven.  The  term  plash  has 
till  continued  in  use  for  plashing  hedges,  lowering  and  nar- 
o\ving  a  broad-spread  hedge  by  partially  cutting  off  the 

tranches,   and   entwining   them  with   those   left  upright. 

Accordant,  agreeing.     Take  the  present  time  by  the  top,  take 

advantage  of  the  moment.     What  the  good-jer ;  see  notes  to 

the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  No.  67. 

-'  A  mortal  medicine  to  a  mortifying  mischief. 

The  liist  edition  reads  moral,  an  error  corrected  in  the 
laamd  folio,  but  not  noticed  by  the  editors.   Claw,  to  flatter. 

^*  /  had  rather  be  a  canker  in  a  hedge. 

The  canlcer,  according  to  Stecvens,  is  the  dog-rose,  but  I 
Jo  not  find  the  terra  in  Gerard.  "  Whether  she  be  a  white 
rose  or  a  canker  is  the  question,"  Maid  in  the  Mill,  v.  2. 
The  ccmmon  red  poppy  is  called  a  canker  in  the  Eastern 
30untics,  but  that  is  evidently  not  the  meaning  hero. 
Shakespeare  says  in  tlie  Sonnets — 

The  canker  blooms  have  full  as  deep  a  die 
Ab  the  perfumed  tinctm-e  of  thi  rose. 

-'  /  use  it  only. 
is,  I  use  it  by  itself,  without  any  adjunct.     What  ia 
r.  fool,  what  a  fool  he  is. 

^^  As  I  was  smoking  a  musty  room. 
filthy  habits  of  oiu-  anci  stors  rendered  smoldngs  and 
es  ccnstantly  necessary.     Sad,  serious. 

"  /  whipt  me  behind  the  arras. 
fjc  objective  pronoun  me  is  here  taken  from  the  edition 
i/f   IfiJi).     lie  l)a3  just  said,  "comes  mo  the  prince  and 
Chiudio."     Tills  use  of  the  pronoun  has  been  previously 
QOtJood.     Sure,  to  bo  depended  upon. 
260 


'*  In  mrnest  of  the  bear-herd. 

Sear-herd  for  bear-ward,  the  bear  keeper.  Allusions  Id 
the  apes  of  Paris  Garden  are  not  uncommon.  A  person 
who  was  unmarried  was  said  to  "lead  apes  in  hell." 

-^  Else  make  another  cursy. 
Cursy,  the  old  word  for  courtesy,  and  should  not  b  • 
altered.  "  I  must  straine  cursie  with  you,"  Lilly's  Mcthc( 
Bombie,  1632.  Important,  importimate.  Beatrice  after 
wards  plays  on  the  meaning  of  measure,  a  slow  dance  so 
called.  Cinque-pace,  a  dance,  the  steps  of  which  were 
regulated  by  the  number  five.  "  He  seemed  the  trimmest 
dauncer  that  ever  trode  a  cinque-pace  after  sutch  musicke, " 
Painter's  Palace  of  Pleasure,  1566.  It  is  almost  unneces- 
saiy  to  obsers'e  there  's  here  a  quibble  between  the  words 
cinque  SiTii  sink,  i^rtenrf,  lover,  i^ajjour,  feature,  countenance. 

3"  For  God  defend. 
Defend,  i.e.  forbid,  prohibit.  "And  that  poynt  to  his 
apostles  purly  defended,"  Piers  Ploughman,  ed.  Wright,  p. 
485.  "  In  tills  kinde  you  might  venter  foure  of  youl 
elbowes,  yet  God  defende  your  coate  should  have  so  many," 
Mai-ston's  Malcontent,  160-1.  The  next  line  refers  to  tho 
story  of  Philemon,  the  countrjTiian  who  entertained  Jupiter 
and  Mercury  in  his  cottage.  His  lisor  is  the  thatched  roof. 
Witliin  it  is  a  di\'imty. 

"'  Here  's  his  dry  hand. 

A  diy  hand  was  formerly  considered  the  mark  of  i  colil 
constitution.     Up  and  down,  completely,  exactly. 

'-  The  Hundred  Merry  Talcs. 

The  Hundred  Merry  Tales  was  a  very  popular  jest- 
book  of  the  sixteenth  centui-y,  but  only  one  copy,  and  that 
somewhat  mutilated,  has  yet  been  recovered.  It  h.as  the 
following  colophon, — "  Here  endeth  the  booke  of  a  c  mcry 
Talys,  Imprinted  at  London  at  the  sygne  of  the  mcremay(h 
at  Powlys  gate  ne.xte  to  Chepcsydc."  It  is  not,  as  has  been 
supposed,  cither  a  tr.anslation  of  the  Decameron  or  the 
Cent  Nounelles  ^ouvelles.  A  specimen  may  amuse  the 
reader : — 

"  Of  him  that  said  that  a  woman  s  tongue  was  lightest  O; 
digestion.  A  certayn  artificer  in  London  there  w.ns,  whyche 
was  sore  soke,  and  coulde  not  well  .dysgest  his  meat,  to 
whom  a  physicyon  cam  to  give  hym  eouncell,  and  sayd  thai 
he  must  use  to  etc  metis  that  be  light  of  digestyon  and 
small  byrdys,  as  span-owes,  swalnwes,  and  specyally  that 
byrd  which  is  called  a  wagtayle,  whose  fiessh  is  mervelouso 
lyght  of  dygcstyqn,  bycause  that  byrd  is  ever  movj-ing 
and  styryng.  The  soke  man,  herynge  the  phesicion  say  so, 
answered  hym  and  seyd,  '  Syr,  yf  that  be  the  cause  that 
those  byi-des  be  lyght  of  dygestyon,  than  I  know  a  mete 
moch  lyghter  of  dygestyon  than  other  spaiow,  swallow,  or 
wagtaile,  and  that  is  my  wyves  tong,  for  it  is  never  in  rest, 
but  ever  me%Ting  and  stenyng. 

"  Of  the  scaler  that  gave  his  shoes  to  cloute.  In  thb 
Universyte  of  Oxcnforde  there  was  a  scoler  (hat  delyted 
raoehe  to  spekc  cloquente  Englysshe  and  curious  ternies, 
and  came  to  the  cohler  with  his  shoes,  whyche  were  pykcd 
before,  as  they  used  that  tymo  to  have  them  elouteil,  and 
aayde  this  wyse.     '  Coblcr,  I  praye  the  sette  two  tiyan^ls 


NOTES  TO  MUCH  ADO  ABOtT  NOTHING. 


and  two  somyoirclcs  upm  ray  subpedytalcs,  and  I  shall 
paye  tlio  for  thy  Ial)o\ire. '  The  coboler,  because  he  under- 
btoodc  liym  nat  hulfo,  answered  shortely,  and  sayd, — '  Syr, 
jTOir  uloqiiencc  jiassclli  inyiie  intellygenec,  but  I  promyse 
'/i)U,  yl'  ye  meddyll  with  me,  the  clowtyngo  of  youre  shoon 
hail  cost  you  threpens. '  Ey  this  tale  men  may  lerne  that 
}■  is  foly  to  study  to  speko  eloquently  before  them  that  be 
i"udo  and  uiilcriicd. " 

^  There  's  a  partrkhje"  winy  saved. 

The  \ring  seems  to  have  boon  considered  the  delicate  part 
of 'this  bu'd.  The  following  talc  is  extracted  fi'om  Copley's 
Wits,  Fits,  and  Fancies,  1614  : — "  Old  Maister  Palmer  of 
Agmerine  was  a  pleasant  Gentleman,  and  being  one  day  at 
ilinner  with  the  Didie  of  Sommcrset,  no  sooner  was  a  dainty 
morsell  of  mcate  carv'd  him,  but  straight  the  sen-ingmen 
were  ready  for  clean-e  trenchers  to  i-eceave  it  from  him ; 
At  last  a  Lady  carv'd  him  a  ParlrU/ge-winy,  and  a  serving 
man  foorthwith  cleane-frencher'd  him,  and  went  eleane 
away  with  it.  ^Vhich  the  mcn'ie  Gentleman  perceiving, 
said  aloud  unto  ail  the  honourable  company;  A  faii-e  flight, 
sirs ;  marke,  marke  it  well :  oh,  the  faii-e  flight ! " 

3*  Faith  meitcih  into  hluud. 

That  is,  fidelity  is  dissolved  in  the  senses  by  the  charms 
of  love. 

^^  Wliat  fashion  will  ijuii  ivear  the  garland  of  f 

It  was  the  custom  for  tliose  "nho  were  disappointed  iu 
ove  to  wear  willow  garlands.     See  fiu'ther  iu  Othello. 

A  moneth  I  spent  in  wat'ring  of  my  pillow. 
And  then  bethought  me  of  a  garland  wUlow. 

Gayton^s  Notes  upon  Don  Quixote^  1654. 

^'^  Like  an  usurer's  chain. 

Reed  observes  that  chains  of  gold,  of  considerable  value, 
wore,  in  our  author's  time,  usually  worn  by  wealthy  citizens. 

^''  As  melancholy  as  a  lodge  in  a  warren. 

Several  simile?  of  a  parallel  natiu-o  to  this  may  be 
quoted.  "By  the  solitarinesse  of  the  house,  I  judged  it  a 
lodge  in  a  foiTcsc,  but  there  was  no  bawling  of  dogges 
thereabout,"  Man  iu  the  Jloone,  1609. 

^^  Ate  in  good  apparel. 

Ate,  the  Goddess  of  Revenge,  was  generally  represented 
b  a  di'csa  of  wild  character. 

2"  A  hair  off  the  great  Cham's  beard.  ■ 

One  of  the  charges  tc  the  hero  iu  the  romance  of  Huon 
of  Bourdeaux  was  to  "  goe  to  the  citie  of  Babylon  to  the 
admiral  Gaudisse,  to  bring  me  thy  hand  full  of  the  heare 
of  the  beard,  and  foure  of  his  greatest  teeth."  Prester 
Joim  was  a  name  formerly  giveu  to  the  king  of  India.  He 
obtained  the  name,  undc  the  impression  that  he  was  a 
Cliristian.     Use,  interest  oi  money. 

'"  Civil  as  an  orange. 

An  old  pun  on  the  SeAille  orange.  "  For  the  order  of 
my  life,  it  is  a.s  civil  as  an  orange,"  Nash's  Strange  Newes 
of  the  intercepting  'ertaine  Letters,  4to.  1592.      Cetgi-ave 


translates  aigre-douce,  "  a  civile  orange,  or  orange  that  if 
betweene  sweet  and  sower. " 

"  Good  Lord,  for  aUii'Ace. 

Good  Lord,  how  alliauccs  arc  forming! 
^'-'  But  I  am  sunburned. 

To  go  to  the  world  was  an  old  phra-se  for  getting  manici 
Sunburned  is  more  difficult  of  explanation.  Jlr.  llimtci 
says  it  expresses  the  state  of  being  without  family  con- 
nexions, destitute  pf  the  comf.jrts  of  domestic  life.  I 
can  scarcely  think  the  term  is  used  in  the  ordinarj-  sense, 
which  would  introduce  Beatrice  disparaging  her  personal 
attractions. 

"  And  his  qucasif  stomach. 

Qucasi/,  i.e.  squeamish,  nice,  delicate.  "  Qucasie,  fasti- 
diosus,  delicatulus,"  Coles.  Stale,  a  woman  of  loose  cha- 
racter. The  term  occurs  again  in  another  scene  of  this 
play.     Intend,  pretend. 

A  fjueazie  lover  may  impart 

What  mistresse  'tis  that  please  his  hart. 

Wits  Recreations,  1C40. 

Of  Jupiter,  and  his  decoitfuU  stale, 
'Who  seem'd  so  like  a  A-irgin. 

Hetjwood's  Great  Britaines  Troy,  160!). 

"  Bring  it  hither  to  me  in  the  orchard. 
Tho  boy  here  goes  out.  Benedick  musing  till  he  returns 
He  does  so  very  quickly,  and  Benedick  then  dismisses  him. 
This  aiTangemeut  is  not  understood  in  representation. 

*5  ^y■e  'II  fit  ike  kid-fox  with  a  penny-worth. 
A  kid-fox,  as  Ritsou  o'bserves,  was  a  young  fox  or  cub. 

*'''  Note,  notes,  forsooth,  and  nnthing. 
Don  Pedro,  according  to  Mr.  Collier,  means  to  play  upon 
the  similaiity  of  sound  between  noting  and  nothing,  to  indi- 
cate his  opinion  of  Balthasiar's  music.  For  my  money,  a 
common  proverbial  phrase,  equivalent  to,  to  my  taste,  &c. 
So  iu  Wits  Recreations,  1640, — 

Bagpiper,  good  luck  on  you, 
Th'  art  the  raanfor  my  money. 

*'  Of  dumps  so  dull  and  heavy. 
A   dump  was   a  melancholy  strain   in  either  vocal   or 
instrumental  music. 

*8 1  had  as  lief  have  heard  tlie  night-raven. 
The  night-raven,  according  to  some  authorities,  is  tho 
owl ;    according  to  others,  the  bittern.     This  bird  is  men- 
tioned by  Milton  iu  1' Allegro.     It  was  considered  one  of 
bad  omen. 

■"  Stalk  on,  stalk  on  ;  the  fowl  sits. 

Alluding  to  the  stalking-horse,  a  real  or  factitious  horso 
under  which  the  sportsman  shelters  Mmself  fi-om  the  sight 
of  the  game.  A  long  account  of  tho  stalking-horse  is  given 
iu  the  Gentleman's  Recreation,  foL  1686.  "  Flattery  is 
the  stalkeing-horse  of  polUcy,"  Maides  Revenge,  1639. 

'"  It  is  past  tlie  infinite  of  tliought. 

That  is,  it  is  beyond  the  utmost  power  of  thought  to 
imagine  it.     "  'Why,  't  is  past  thought,  '  E-,  cry  Man  out  oi 

261 


AUTK.S  TO  ilUCH  ADO  .AJ50UT  NOTHIjSG. 


tu£  Humour.      Gull,  a  deceit,  ot  falsehood.      "  Balivcrne,  a 
iye,  fib,  gull,"  C'otgrave. 

"  Into  a  thousand  halfpence. 

Halfpence,  here  metaphorically  used  for  small  pieces, 
pieces  uo  largjr  than  halfpence.  The  halfpence  of  EUza- 
lieth's  time  were  small  silver  coins. 

'-  It  were  an  aims  to  hang  him. 

Equivalent  to  the  modsrn  pbrase,  it  were  a  charity  or 
good  deed.  So,  in  the  interlude  of  the  '  Disobedient  Child,' — • 

It  were  alm9s,  by  my  trothe,  thou  were  well  beaten, 
Bycause  so  Icnge  thou  hast  made  me  tarye. 

^■^  /  would  liauetdaff^d  all  other  respects. 

Da£"d,  doff'd,  put  aside.  Contemptible  spirit,  i.e.  con- 
temptuous spirit ;  an  unusual  sense  of  the  word,  but  found 
m  Drayton  and  some  other  wi-iters.  Proper,  handsome. 
Sadly  borne,  seriously  conducted. 

5*  Bid  you  coync  in  to  dinner. 
There  is  a  slight  oversight  here,  the  scene  being  in  the 
evening,  as  appears  from  a  speech  of  Claudio's. 

*^  Proposing  with  the  prince  and  Claudia. 
Proposing,  conversing.       So,  below,  "  to  listen  our  pro- 
pose," ta  listen  to  our  conversation.      From  the  French 
.tropos. 

5°  As  haggards  of  the  rock. 

A  haggard  was  a  Anlil  hawk ;  technically,  one  that  had 
preyed  for  hei"self  before  being  captured.  The  haggard  was 
considered  very  difficult  to  tame.  To  wish  him,  i.e.  to 
recommend  or  desire  him.  See  Measure  for  Measure,  v.  1. 
.is  full  as  fortunate,  qiute  as  foitimate.  The  commentators 
make  sad  work  of  this  simple  sentence ;  and  Collier  and 
Knight  improperly  place  a  comma  after  full.  Misprising, 
imdervaluing. 

"  An  agate  very  vildly  cut. 
Agate  is  here  metaphorically  used  for  a  little  man,  as  in 
2  Henry  IV.     Tlie  antic  previously  mentioned  alludes  to  a 
drawing  of  grotesque  figures,  such  as  still  remain  in  some 
of  om"  old  churches. 

And  cast  to  make  a  chariot  for  the  king, 
Painted  \vith  antickes  and  ridiculous  toyes. 

Drayton's  Poems,  p.  43. 

"  Tlian  die  with  moclts. 
So  the  quarto  of  1600,  the  folio  reading  "to  die  with 
mocks. "  Mr.  Collier  en'oneoiisly  says  the  latter  reads, 
"  than  to  die  with  mocks."  limpoison,  to  poison  or  destroy. 
Swift,  ready.  Limed,  caught  as  a  bird  is  by  bird-lime  ;  the 
folio  reading  ta'en.  What  fire  is  in  mine  cars,  is  said  to  be 
an  allusion  to  the  belief  that  the  ears  burn  when  people 
talk  of  y)u.  So,  in  Yates'  Castell  of  Courtesie,  4to.  Lond. 
1582,-- 

rhat  I  doe  creditc  give 
Unto  tlic  saying  old, 
Which  is,  ^vhcnas  tlio  cares  doe  bume, 
Some  tiling  on  thee  is  told. 

"  When  our  cheek  bums,"  says  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  ''or 
262 


ear  tingles,  we  usually  say  somebody  is  talking  of  us,  ii 
conceit  of  great  antiquity,  and  ranked  among  superstitious 
opinions  by  Pliny.  He  supposes  it  to  have  proceeded  from 
the  notion  of  a  signifying  genius,  or  universal  Mercury 
that  conducted  sounds  to  their  distant  subjects,  ani  taugli 
to  hear  by  touch. " 

'^  77;e  little  hangman  aare  not  shoot  at  him. 
Hangman,  odd  as  it  may  appear,  was  formerly  a  term  oi 
endearment.       "  How  doth  Ned  r  quoth  he :   that  honest, 
moiTy  hangman,    how    doth    he.>" — Heywood's    Edward 
IV.,  IGOO. 

60  A'o  appearance  of  fancy. 
Don  Pedro  here  plays  upon  the  double  meaning  o{ fancy, 
which  meant  love  as  well  as  humom*  or  inclination. 

6'  A  German  from  the  waist  doumward. 
Compare  the  foUomng  passage  in  Lodge's  '  Wit's  Miserie,' 
1596,  p.  35, — "Who  is  this  with  the  Spanish  hat,  the 
Italian  ruffe,  the  French  doublet,  the  Muffes  cloak,  the 
Toledo  rapier,  the  Germane  hose,  the  English  stocking,  and 
the  Flemish  shoe  ?" 

*-  The  old  ornament  of  his  cheek. 

Aliudiflg  to  his  beard.  Tennis  balls  were  formerly  stuffed 
with  human  hair.  "  Thy  beard  shall  serve  to  stuff  those 
balls  by  which  I  get  me  heat  at  tennice,"  Kara  AUcy,  16 U. 

Hobby-horses,  used  here  as  a  term  of  contempt.  "  Her 
honest  husband  is  her  hobie -horse  at  home,  and,  abroad,  hei 
foole,"  Man  in  the  Moone,  1609. 

'•'^  Good  den,  good  evening,  or  good  night ;  a  solutctiun 
formerly  used  after  noca  was  past,  or,  gener.Tlly,  after 
dinner.  It  is  said  to  be  a  corruption  of  good  e'en,  good 
evening. 

Is  't  god  morn  or  god  deen  ?  what  sesta,  Will? 
I  thinlt  you  have  nut  din'd ;  here  's  a  good  smell. 

The  Praise  of  Yorkshire  Ale,  1697,  p.  62, 

6'  Dogberry  and  Verges, 

AccoriUng  to  Steevens,  these  names  are  adopted  from 
the  dog-berry,  the  female  cornel,  and  verjiiice.  Verges  being 
a  corruption.  I  find,  however,  that  Dogberry  occurs  as  a 
surname  as  early  as  tlie  tim.-  of  Richard  II.  in  a  charter 
preserved  m  the  Biiti.';h  Museum,  (Harl.  76  c.  13), 

The  stupidity  of  the  constables  in  former  days  was  so 
familiar  a  theme,  that  no  usefid  piupose  would  be  answered 
by  any  extended  notice  of  contemporary  accounts.  The 
following  letter,  however,  from  Lord  Burghley,  contains  so 
graphic  a  description  of  their  inclliciency,  it  may  be  quoted 
as  an  illustration.  It  was  printed  by  Mr.  Collier  1:1  the 
'Papers'  of  the  Shakespeare  Society,  from  the  origina. 
preserved  in  the  State  Paper  office  : — 

"  Sir — As  I  cam  from  London  liomward,  in  my  coche,  I 
sawc  at  every  towncs  end  the  number  of  .\  or  xii,  slandyng, 
with  long  staves,  and  untill  I  cam  to  Enfold  I  thought  no 
other  of  them,  but  that  they  had  stayd  for  avoyding  of  the 
rayne,  or  to  drynk  at  some  alcliowse,  for  so  they  did  stand 
under  pentyces  [penthon.ses]  at  ale  bowses.  But  at  Enfeld 
fyndiiig  a  doscn  in  a  plump,  whan  tlier  was  no  riyue,  I 
bothonglit  my  self  that  (hey  war  appointed  as  watchmen, 
for  the  apprehcnJyng  of  such  as  are  missyng ;  and  thcruppog 


NOTES  TO  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


I  tolled  some  of  them  to  mo  apart,  and  asked  them  -wherfor 
they  stood  there  ?  and  one  of  them  answered,  '  To  take  3 
yong  men.'  And  demandyng  how  they  shuld  know  the 
persons,  one  answered  with  these  wordcs :  *  Marry,  my 
Lord,  by  intelligence  of  thcr  favor. '  '  "WTiat  mcano  you  by 
that?'  quoth  I.  'Man-y,'  sayd  they,  'one  of  the  partyos 
hatb  a  hooked  nose.' — 'And  have  you,'  quoth  I,  'no  otlicr 
mark?' — 'No,'  sayth  they.  And  then  I  asked  who 
apnynteJ  them;  and  they  answered  one  Banlces,  a  Head 
Constable,  whom  I  willed  to  be  sent  to  me.  Suerly,  sir, 
who  so  ever  had  the  chardgo  from  yow  hath  used  the 
matter  negligently;  for  these  watclimen  stand  so  oppenly 
in  plumps,  as  go  suspected  person  will  come  ncaro  them. ; 
and  if  they,  be  no  better  instructed  but  to  fynd  3  persons  by 
one  of  them  havyng  a  hooked  nose,  they  may  miss  thercf. 
And  thus  I  thought  good  to  advertise  yow,  that  the  Justyces 
that  had  the  chardg,  as  I  thynk,  may  use  the  matter  more 
cii'cumspeetly.  From  Theobaldos,  10  Ang.,  15S6.  Your's, 
assmedly,  W.  BuHGnLUY." 

^^  That  your  hills  be  not  stolen. 

Bills  were  a  kind  of  pilce  and  halbort,  anciently  carried 
by  the  English  infantrj',  and  afterwards  the  usual  weapon 
of  watchmen.      True  man,  an  honest  man. 

S6  Se  vigilant,  I  beseech  you. 

So  the  old  copies,  altered  by  Mr.  ICnight  to  vigilant.  Mr. 
Knight  says  Dogberry  does  not  coin  words,  like  Mrs.  Mala- 
prop.  Very  true ;  but  is  vigilant  for  vigilant  a  worse 
blunder  than  statues  for  statutes,  senseless  fur  sensible,  &c.  ? 

*'  There  would  a  scab  follow. 

A  play  upon  words,  a  scab  being  a  term  of  great  con- 
tempt. "  Such  poore  scabs  as  I  must  not  come  neere  her," 
Taylor's  ^Yorkes,  1630.  A  pent-house  is  an  open  shed  or 
projection  over  a  door  or  shop,  forming  a  protection  against 
the  weather.  Within  the  last  few  years,  an  old  fishmonger's 
shop  on  the  North  side  of  tlie  Strand,  adjoining  Temple 
bar,  retained  the  ancient  pent  house,  reminding  one  of  the 
times  before  plate-glass,  when  painstaking  shop-keepers 
attracted  the  attention  of  passers-by  with  their,  "  What 
d'  ye  lack  ? "  Unconfirmed  is,  says  Warburton,  impractised 
'n  the  ways  of  the  world. 

^  Pharaoh's  soldiers  in  the  reechy  painting. 

Reechy,  smoky,  discoloured  by  smoke.  Bel's  priests  were 
m  some  absurd  subject  ongl.ass  taken  from  the  Apocrypha ; 
and  Hercules  was  shaved  when  in  the  service  of  Omphale. 
Smirched,  soiled,  daubed.  The  term  is  still  in  use  in 
Herefordshii'c. 

•■^  We  are  like  to  prove  a  goodly  commodiiy. 

Boraehio  plays  on  the  words,  taken  np  on  bills  being  a 
commercial  phrase  for  obtaining  goods  or  commodities  on 
credit.  West,  in  his  Symboleography,  IGOl,  explains  a  biU 
or  obligation  to  be,  "  a  deed  whereby  the  obligor  doth 
knowledge  himself  to  owe  unto  the  obligee  a  certaine 
tumme  of  money  or  other  thing ;  in  which,  besides  the 
tarties  names,  are  to  be  considered  the  sunime  or  thing 
due,  and  the  time,  place,  and  manner  of  paiment  or 
delivery  thereof."    A  commercial  bill  was,  in  fact,  formerly 


a  bond  inidcr  tlie  hand  and  seal  of  the  debtor,  without  t 
clause  of  forfeiture  for  non-payment  ;  and  it  was  not  un- 
usual for  these  bills  to  be  entered  at  fuL  length  in  the 
creditor's  lodger. 

'"  Your  other  rabato  were  better. 

A  rabato,  generally  spelt  rebate,  was  a  kind  of  plaited 
ruff  which  tiUTicd  back  and  lay  on  the  shoulders.  "  I  pray 
you,  sir,  what  say  you  to  these  great  ruffes,  which  are 
borne  up  with  supporters  and  icbaloes,  as  it  wore  with  postc 
and  railc,"  Dent's  Pathway  ;o  Ueaven,  p.  42.  Compare, 
also,  Decker's  Gulls  IIorn-Book,  IGOO, — "  Your  treble-qua- 
druple d.-cdalian  ruffs,  nor  your  stifliiecked  rabalos,  that 
have  more  arches  for  pride  to  row  under,  than  can  stand 
under  five  London  bridges." 

"  Down  sleeves,  side  sleeves. 

Side  sleeves  were  long  hanging  sleeves.  The  term  wae 
io  use  tiU  very  lately  in  the  North  of  England.  They  Rre 
thus  humorously  alluded  to  by  an  old  poct,^ 

Now  hath  this  land  little  ncedo  of  broomes, 
To  sweope  away  tlie  fUth  out  of  the  streete. 

Sen  side  sleeves  of  pcnnilesse  groomes 
Will  it  up  licke,  be  it  drie  or  weete. 

'-  Barns,  bairns,  cluldrcn.  We  have  here  a  quibble  on 
the  two  meanings  of  the  word. 

"3  For  the  letter  that  begins  them  all,  H. 

The  previous  line  was  proverbi;il,  and  the  whole  will  be 
more  readily  understood  from  tiie  following  epigram  in 
'Wit's  Secreatious,'  1640,  entitled,  dolor  intimus, — 

Nor  hawk,  nor  h.ound,  nor  horse,  those  letters  h.  h.  h., 

But  ach  itself,  'tis  Brutus'  bones  attaches. 

The  quibble  between  H  and  ache  was  a  very  favoiuitc 
one.     The  elder  Heywood,  in  his  '  Epigrammes, '  says, — 

H.  is  worst  among  letters  in  the  crosse-row. 
For  if  thou  findc  him,  other  in  tliyne  elbow, 
In  thyne  arme,  or  leg,  in  any  degree. 
In  thy  heade  or  teeth,  in  thy  toe  or  knee. 
Into  what  place  soever  H.  may  pike  him, 
Where-cver  thou  find  ache,  thou  shall  not  like  him. 

■"^  To  turn  Turk,  says  Gifford,  was  a  figurative  expression 
for  a  change  of  condition  or  opinion.  Trow,  an  exclamation 
of  enquhy. 

But  if  the  god  of  warre  abroad  should  range. 
And  catch  these  men  tiiat  long  to  see  a  change. 
You  then  should  sec  them  all  williin  one  day. 
For  very  feare  of  death  to  turne  Turke  way. 

Ki/ig's  Halfe-Pennyworth  of  Wit,  1613. 

'*  Tliey  are  an  excellent  perfume. 

Perfumed  gloves  were  formerly  much  in  fashion.  The 
fbUowing  "  excellent  way  to  perfume  gloves"  is  taken  from 
the  'Closet  of  Rarities,"  12mo.  1706, — "Take  of  storax 
and  calamint,  each  an  ounce ;  of  benjamin  two  ounces,  the 
first  and  the  last  being  to  be  beaten  by  themselves ;  add  tc 
them  an  ounce  of  the  weaker  cinnamon-water,  and  four 
ounces  of  the  oil  of  swect-almonds,  mingle  them  with  a 
muller  on  a  stone ;  and  baring  first  wetted  ycut  "loves 
with  hysop-water,  gently  anoint  them  with  the  perfume, 
and  it  wUl  smell  beyond  expectation. " 

263 


SOTES  TO  MUCH  ADO  AJ30UT  NOTHING. 


■"*  nis  distilled  Carduus  Bcncdictus. 

The  "blessed  thistle,"  says  Gerard,  is  usually  known  by 
tlie  Latin  name  Carduus  Benedictus.  The  same  \vriter 
occupies  half  a  folio  page  -n-ith  its  virtues.  The  broad 
bright  leaves  of  this  plant  are  marked  with  white  spots, 
and  the  popular  legend  is  that  the  Virgin  Mary,  ha\-ing 
oueu  been  at  a  loss  for  a  vessel  for  holding  milk,  used  one 
of  its  leaves  for  a  cup,  which  have  ever  since  retained  the 
marks  of  its  useful  application. 

""  Putabras,  neighbour  Verges. 

Dogberry  would  have  said  pocas  pallabrax,  the  Spanish 
for  few  tpords.  It  wis  proverbial  in  England,  and  occiu-s 
in  several  old  plays. 

'^  It  is  a  icorld  to  see. 

That  is,  it  is  wonderful  to  see,  it  is  worth  seeing.  The 
phrase  was  a  very  common  one.  "  It  is  a  world  to  heare, 
or  it  is  a  thing  worthie  the  hearing,"  Baret's  Alvearie, 
J  580.  "It  is  a  world  tc  see  ho  we  demui-ely  and  sadly 
some  sit  beholding  them  that  daunee,"  Northbrooke's 
Treatise  against  Dicing,  1577 

"  God  's  a  good  man. 

An  old  homely  pi'overb,  signifying  the  goodness  of  God's 
providence.  It  would  now,  perhaps,  be  considered  impioiis, 
but  in  Shakespeare's  time  the  tendency  of  it  was  exactly 
the  reverse.  "  They  asked  him  where  hee  was  borne.  At 
my  mother's  backe,  sayes  hee.  In  what  country  ?  (nioth 
they.  In  the  countiy,  quoth  hee,  where  God  is  a  good 
man,"  Annin's  Nest  of  Ninnies,  1608. 

""  Non  com,  DogbeiTy's  blunder  for  non  plus. 

^^  He  doth  speak  so  wide. 

That  is,  so  wide  of  the  mark,  so  far  from  the  purpose. 
"No,  no;  no  such  matter;  you  are  wide,"  Troil.  Cress. 
"  Our  speculative  make  many  difficulties,  as  if  this  yoimg 
lady  was  a  lilcely  match  for  the  King  of  Spain;  others, 
that  the  same  business  is  now  treating  for  the  Reine  Blanche 
in  France ;  but  I  think  they  ai'e  both  ways  wide,  the  one  as 
fai'  as  the  other." — Letter  dated  1611.  "True!  0  God!" 
says  Hero,  emphatically  repeating  the  last  word  of  Don 
John's  speech  in  lUre  astonishment.  Mr.  Collier  contends 
for  a  note  of  interrogation  after  true ;  but  that  aiTangement 
would,  I  think,  weaken  tlie  force  of  the  speech. 

*-  Kindly  powc,  i.e.  natural  power.  Liberal,  open,  fi-ee 
of  tongu?.     Conjecture,  suspicion. 

*'  We  rack  the  value. 

That  is,  we  place  the  utmost  value  on  it  that  it  will  heai'. 
Upon  his  words,  by  his  words.  The  Liver,  as  has  been 
previously  noticed,  was  considered  the  seat  of  love.  In- 
wardness intimacy. 

"  /  am  gone,  though  1  am  here. 

Tho  dilEculty  experienced  by  the  commentators  in  ex- 
plaining this  passage,  is  scar'jcly  felt  in  the  representation, 
where  tho  disjointed  language  of  Beatrice,  accompanied  by 
Uie  necessary  action,  produces  high  dramatic  effect. 
264 


'^  Uncovered  slander. 

That  is,  unmasked  or  discovered  slander.  "  I  must 
imcovcr  myself  unto  him,"  Ben  Jonson's  Baitholomcw 
Fair.  Princes  and  counties ;  earLs  and  counts  were  formerly 
termed  comities.  So  we  have  '  County  Pa3-!s'  in  llomec 
and  Juliet. 

^^  That 's  the  eflesl  way. 

Eftest,  i.e.  quickest,  readiest. 

"'  And,  sorrowing,  cry  '  hem '  when  he  should  groan. 

The  old  editions  read,  "  And  .sorrow,  wagge,  crie  hem, " 
which  must  be  a  corruption.  Heath's  emendation,  here 
adopted,  seems  the  best  that  has  been  suggested.  To  cry 
hem  implied  good  spirits,  courage;  it  was  a  jovial  ex- 
clamation, and  occm's  again  in  1  Henry  IV.,  ii.  4.  So,  JE 
an  old  song,— 

There  dwelt  an  old  fellow  at  'Waltham  cross, 

Who  merrily  sung,  though  he  lived  by  the  loss  : 

He  cheared  up  his  hcai-t  when  his  goods  went  to  wiack, 

With  a  '  hem,  boys,  hem, '  and  a  cup  of  old  sack. 

*^  With  candle-wasters. 

Candle-wasters,  a  contemptuous  appellation  for  haiJ 
students.  Whalley  explains  the  whole  passage  thus, — "  II 
such  a  one  will  patch  grief  with  proverbs,  case  oi  cover  the 
wounds  of  his  grief  .with  proverbial  sayings ;  make  misfor- 
tune  drunk  with  candle-wasters,  stupify  misfortune,  or 
render  himself  insensible  to  the  strokes  of  it,  by  the  con- 
versation or  lucubrations  of  scholars."  Advertisement 
admonition. 

^'  Made  a  push  at  chance  and  sufferance. 

The  interjection  pish  was  often  spelt  /)«*/i  in  the  pages  of 
onr  old  dramatists.  "Push!  they  are  Tai'magauts,"  Change- 
ling, 4to.  1653,  sig.  H. 

so  Canst  thou  so  daff  me  ? 

That  is,  canst  thou  so  put  me  oif .'  So  in  the  second  act 
of  this  play,  "  I  would  have  daff 'd  all  other  respects. ' 

*'  Scambliny. 

Scamble,  to  scramble,  to  shift.  "  Seamblingly,  catch  that 
catch  may, "  Cotgrave.  "  Such  scambling,  such  shift  for  to 
cate,"  Marston's  Parasitastcr,  1606.  It  seems  to  be  equi- 
valent to  steaUng  small  thmgs  in  Ford's  Fancies,  1638, 
"  scamblhig  half  a  ducat  now  and  then. "  Fashion-mougring, 
coiTected  in  the  second  folio  £rom  Jashiun-juonging. 

82  We  xeitl  not  wake  your  patience. 

That  is,  we  will  not  keep  your  patience  awake  by  any 
further  provocation.  "Care  killed  a  cat"  was  a  conironu 
old  proverbial  phrase. 

"  If  he  inclines  to  schoUership,  they  be  these :  Fiitt,  tc 
abandon  melancholy,  for  care,  hoc  saith,  kils  a  cat :  tlien  to 
avoide  nuscliievous  thoughts,  fcr  hco  that  drinkes  well, 
slcepcs  well,  and  hee  that  sleepes  well  thinkesuoharmo."— 
Stepliens'  Essayes,  1615,  p.  273. 

I  take  great  care  how  I  might  cares  avoyd. 
And  to  that  end  I  have  my  cares  imployd 
For  long  agoe  I  doe  remember  thnt 


— , 


NOTES  TO  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTJIING. 


There  was  a  provcrli,  Care  will  kill  a  cat ; 
And  it  13  said  a  cat 's  a  wcmdroiis  beast, 
And  that  she  hath  in  her  nine  lives  at  least. 

Worhes  of  John  Taylor,  1630. 

^•^  This  last  was  broke  cross. 

An  allusion  to  tilting,  in  which  it  was  considered  a  mark 
i)(  disgrace  to  have  the  lance  broken  across  the  breast  of  the 
adversary. 

"  lie  km  ws  how  to  turn  his  girdle. 

This  plu-ase,  indicating  defiance,  is  not  uncommon, 
altliough  it  only  occurs  once  in  Shakespeare.  According  to 
Holt  ^^^lite,  "Lai'ge  belts  were  worn  with  the  buckle 
before,  hut,  for  \vrestling,  the  buckle  was  turned  behind,  to 
give  the  advcrsaiy  a  faii'er  grasp  at  the  girdle  :  to  turn  tlie 
buckle  behind,  therefore,  was  a  challenge." 

^^  Shall  I  notjind  a  woodcock  too. 

A  woodcock  was  a  term  applied  to  a  foolish  fellow,  that 
bu'd  being  supposed  to  have  no  brains.  Ford  alludes  to  this 
belief  in  his  Lover's  Melancholy,  ii.  1. 

'^  There  's  one  meaning  well  suited. 

That  is,  there  is  one  idea  put  into  a  number  of  suits  or 
foimj.     Incensed,  instigated.     Possess,  inform. 

"  Pack'd  in  all  this  wrong. 
Pack'd,  combined   as   an  accomplice.     Gifford  explains 
packing,  an  insidious  contrivance. 

^^  He  wears  a  key  in  his  ear. 

Dogberry  is,  as  usual,  blundering,  and  here  alludes  to 
the  custom  of  wearing  a  lock  of  hair  under  the  ear. 
Moryson,  in  his  Itinerary,  1617,  ii.,  45,  describing  Lord 
Mountjoy,  says  "  he  was  of  statiu-e  tall,  and  of  very  comely 
proportion,  his  skin  taire,  with  little  haire  on  his  body, 
which  haii-e  was  of  colour  blackish,  or  inclining  to  blacke, 
and  thinne  on  his  head,  where  he  wore  it  short,  except  a 
locke  rmder  his  left  care,  which  he  nom-ished  the  time  of 
this  warre,  and  being  woven  up,  hid  it  in  his  neck  under 
his  ruHe." 

3^  And  borrows  money  in  God  *s  name. 
Alluding  to  the  former  practice  of  beggars,  who  always 
tried  to  soUcit  charity  "  for  the  Lord's  sake." 

""'  God  save  the  foundation. 

Such,  says  Steeveis,  was  the  customary  phi'ase  employed 
by  those  who  receiv  ;d  alms  at  the  gates  ol  religious  houses. 

Ill  /  give  thee  the  bucklers. 
I'bat  is,  I  yield. 


"=  The  god  of  love. 

The  original  ballad  hero  quoted  does  not  ajipcar  to  1» 
extant.  It  was  very  popular,  and  a  moralization  »f  it  by 
one  \V.  Birch,  printed  about  1566,  commences, — 

The  god  of  love, 
That  sits  above. 

Doth  know  us,  doth  know  us, 
How  sinful  that  we  be. 

Several  songs  commence  with  the  first  two  lines.  A 
character  in  the  'Faire  Mayde  of  the  Exchange,'  1 607.  ii 
introduced  singing, — 

Te  gods  of  lovfc,  that  sit  above, 

And  pity  lovers'  pain. 
Look  fi'om  youi  tln'ones,  upon  the  moans, 

That  I  do  now  sustain. 

'™  Carpet-monger,  a  phrase  similar  to  carpel-knight,  a 
term  of  contempt  for  an  effeminate  mam 

""  Question? 
That  is,  that 's  the  question. 

'"*  Yond  's  old  coil  at  home. 

Old,  has  occurred  before  in  the  sense  of  great.  It  waa 
formerly  a  common  augmentative.  "If  you  shall  refuse  to 
marrie,  then  will  he  lay  all  the  fhult  upon  you,  and  then  will 
bee  olde  stirre  and  hurleburlic, "  Terence  in  English, 
4to.  1614.     Coil,  bustle,  tumult.     Guerdon,  reward. 

^"^  Those  that  slew  thy  virgin  knight. 

Perhaps,  thy  v-irgin  hero.  Malone  says,  Diana's  knight, 
or. virgin  knight,  was  the  common  poetical  appellation  o{ 
virgins  in  Shakespeare's  time. 

'""  And  all  Europa  shall  rejoice  at  thee. 

A  double  meaning,  alluding  to  the  daughter  of  Agenoi 
and  the  continent  of  Europe.  There  is  no  necessity  for  tba 
emendation  of  Steevens.  The  "savage  bull"  has  coutmued 
a  joke  throughout  the  play. 

108  /  jvould  "at  deny  you. 

This  answers  to  Benedick's,  "I  will  have  thee,"  in  the 
preceding  speech.    Theobald  unnecessarily  changes  not  to  yet 

'"'  More  reverend  than  one  tipped  with  horn.  - 

Douce  seems  to  think  it  "possible"  that  the  waUdng- 
Bticks  or  staves  used  by  elderly  people  might  be  intended, 
which  were  often  headed  or  tipped  with  a  cross  piece  ol 
bom,  or  sometimes  amber.  A  fi-iar  in  Chaucer  is  described 
as  having  "  a  staff  lipped  mth  horn."  T'lere  is,  of  ccurae^ 
a  double  meaning. 

265 


r 


If  haply  won,  perhaps  a  hapless  gain ; 
If  lost,  why  then  a  grievous  labour  won. 


^''UE  composition  and  structure  of  Love's  Laljour  "b  Lost  unquestionably  lead  to  a  supposition  that  the 
main  incidents  were  taken  from  some  romance  not  yet  discovered ;  and  that  the  tale,  whenever  it  may 
be  found,  will  probably  have  been  rightly  conjectured  to  belong  to  the  cycle  of  the  lighter  romances 
of  chivalry.  The  story  is  partially  founded  on  history,  as  appears  from  the  following  passage  in 
the  Chi-onicles  of  Monstrelet : — "  Charles,  king  of  NavaiTe,  came  to  Paiis  to  wait  on  the  king.  He 
negotiated  so  successfully  with  the  King  and  Privy  Coimcil,  that  he  obtained  a  gift  of  the  castle  of 
Nemours,  with  some  of  its  dependent  castle-wicks,  which  territory  was  made  a  duchy.  Ho  instantly 
did  homage  for  it,  and  at  the  same  time  surrendered  to  the  Idng  the  castle  of  Cherbm-g,  the  county  of 
Evix'ux,  and  aU  other  lordships  he  possessed  within  the  kingdom  of  France,  renouncing  all  claims  and 
profits  in  them  to  the  king  and  to  his  successors,  on  condition  that  with  the  duchy  of  Nemours  the  king 
of  France  engaged  to  pay  him  two  hundred  thousand  gold  crowns  of  the  coin  of  the  lung  our  lord."  It  will 
De  seen  from  this  passage,  which  was  first  pointed  out  by  Mi".  Hunter,  that  the  link  of  connexion 
between  histoiy  and  the  play  is  of  a  very  slight  kind ;  but  it  is  curious  as  showing  us  that  the  story 
used  by  Shakespeare  was  grounded  iu  some  degree  on  a  real  occurrence,  although  the  main  action  of 
Love's  Labour's  Lost  is  of  course  fictitious.  The  long  of  Navarre  died  in  1425,  and  the  time  of  the 
play  may,  therefore,  be  fixed  shortly  after  that  period. 

The  internal  evidence  of  Love's  Labour 's  Lost  points  to  its  being  a  very  early  play,  and  it  was, 
perhaps,  in  its  original  foim,  the  fii'st  drama  that  Shalcespeare  composed.  The  eaj'licst  kno^vn  edition 
appeai-ed  in  the  year  1598,  under  the  title  of,  "A  pleasant  conceited  Comedie  called  Loves  Labors 
Lost,  as  it  was  presented  before  her  Highnes  this  last  Christmas,  newlg  corrected  and  augmented  hj  W 
Shahsjiere  r  the  last  sentence  imdoubtedly  implj-ing  that  this  edition  contaiucd  the  author's  last  im- 
provements. Coleridge  has  well  observed  that  "the  characters  in  tliis  play  arc  either  uu personated 
out  of  Shakespeare's  own  multiformity  by  imaginative  self-position,  or  out  of  such  as  a  country  town 
and  a  schoolboy's  observation  might  supply."  The  latter  opinion  is  unquestionably  the  time  one,  uo 
play  of  Shakespeare's  containing  so  many  allusions  to  what  was  probably  his  school-boy  literatm-e — 
1  mean  by  this  his  literatm-e  in  school  and  out  of  school — or,  let  me  add,  so  much  vernacular  provincial 
pliraseology.  Mr.  Knight  has  combated  the  unnecessary  supposition  that  Florio  was  reflected  in  the 
character  of  Holofemos,  and  I  am  inclined  to  assign  the  date  of  composition  eai-lier  than  1591,  the 
year  when  Florio  is  aUoged  to  have  provoked  the  satire.  There  is  merely  pourtraj cd  in  Holoferues  the 
diameter  of  a  pedantic  schoolmaster,  such  an  one  as  was  Master  Borabus  iu  Sidney's  masque  of  the 

267 


LOVE'S  LABOUK  'S  LOST. 


Lady  of  Jfay  ;  and  an  extract  from  wliidi  may  serve  to  exhibit  to  the  reader  of  how  general  a  descrip- 
tion is  the  satire  of  hard  words  in  Love's  Labom*  's  Lost : — 

Here\Wth  tlio  woman-suiter  being  gone,  there  was  heard  in  the  wood  a  confused  noysx?,  and  forthwith  there  camo 
{.ut  s'lx  sheapheards,  with  as  many  fosters,  haling  and  pulling  to  whether  side  they  shoidd  draw  the  Lady  of  May,  who 
seemed  to  encline  neith-ir  to  the  one  nor  other  side.  Among  them  was  Maister  Rombus,  a  schnolemaister  of  a  villaj.e 
thereby,  wh:  being  fully  perswaded  of  his  ownc  learned  wisedome,  came  thither,  "with  his  authority,  to  part  their  fray; 
where,  for  aunswer,  hto  received  many  unlearned  blowes.  But  the  Queene  comming  to  the  place  where  she  was  scene  o 
them,  though  they  knew  not  her  estate,  yet  something  there  was  which  made  them  startle  aside  and  gaze  upon  her,  till 
old  father  Lalus  stepped  forth  (one  of  the  subatantiallist  sheaphcai'ds)  and  making  a  legge  or  two,  said  these  few  words : — 
'  May  it  please  your  bsnigiiity  to  give  a  little  superfluous  intelligence  to  that  which,  with  the  opening  of  my  niouih,  my 
iongue  and  teeth  shall  deliver  unto  you.  So  it  is,  right  worshipfuU  audience,  that  a  certainc  shoe  creature,  which 
we  sheapheards  call  a  woman,  *  of  a  minsieaii  countenance,  but,  by  my  white  Lambe,  not  three  quarters  so  beautious  as 
yourselfc,  hath  disannulled  the  braine-paa  of  two  of  our  featioust  youyg  men.  And  will  you  wot  how .'  by  my  mother 
Kit's  soule,  with  a  eertaine  fransicall  maladie  they  call  Love :  when  I  was  a  young  man,  they  called  it  flat  foUie.  But 
here  is  a  substantiall  schoole-maister  can  better  diseom'se  the  whole  foundation  of  the  matter,  although,  in  sooth,  for  all  his 
loqxionce,  our  young  men  were  notliing  dutious  to  liis  clarkeship;  come  on,  come  on,  Maister  schoole-maister;  be  not  83 
bashlesse ;  we  say  that  the  fiiu-est  are  ever  the  gentlest :  tell  the  whole  case,  for  you  can  much  better  \  ent  the  points  of  it 
then  I." 

Then  came  forward  Maister  Eombus,  and  with  many  speciall  graces,  made  this  learned  oration: — "  Now  the  thmider- 
thumping  Jove  transfund  his  dotes  into  your  excellent  formositie,  which  have,  with  your  resplendent  beamcs,  thus 
segi'egated  the  enmitie  'of  those  ruraU  animals.  I  am  Potentis.sima  Domina,  a  schoole-maister,  that  is  to  say,  a  Pedagogue, 
one  not  a  litle  versed  in  the  diseipUnating  of  the  juventaU  fiie,  whei-ein  (to  my  laud  I  say  it)  I  use  such  geomelricaU 
proportion  as  neither  wanted  mansuetude  nor  con'ection,  for  so  it  is  desciibed,  Parcare  subjectos  et  dehcllirt  superbos 
Yet  hath  not  the  pulchritude  of  my  vertues  protected  me  from  the  contaminating  hands  of  these  plebeians ;  foi 
cnmming  solummodo  to  have  parted  their  sanguinolent  fray,  tljey  yecldcd  me  no  more  reverence  then  if  1  had  bin  soma 
Pecorius  Asinus.  I,  even  I,  that  am,  who  am  I .'  Dixi  verbus  sapiento  satum  est.  But  what  sayd  that  Trojan  -Eneas, 
when  he  sojomed  in  the  surging  sulkes  of  the  sandifcrous  seas,  Hrcc  olim  memonasse  juvebit.  Well,  well,  ad  propositos 
reverlebo,  the  pmritie  of  the  veritie  is,  that  a  eertaine  Pulchra  puella  profccto,  elected  and  constituted  by  the  integrated 
determination  of  aU  this  topographicall  region,  and  as  the  soveraigne  Lady  of  this  Dame  Maias  month,  hath  been  quo- 
dammodo  hunted,  as  you  would  say,  pm-sued  by  two,  a  brace,  a  couple,  a  cast  of  yong  men,  to  whom  the  crafty  coward 
Cupid  had,  inquam,  delivered  his  dire-dolorous  dart." 

But  here  the  May  Lady  inteiTupted  his  speech,  saying  to  him, — "  -\way,  away,  you  tedious  foole ;  your  eyes  are  no' 
worthy  to  looke  to  yonder  Princelie  sight,  much  lesse  your  fooUsh  tongue  to  trouble  her  wise  eares. " 

At  wMch  Maister  Rombus  in  a  gi'cat  chafe  cried  out, — "  0  ^Tempori,  6  Moribus !  in  profession  a  childe,  in  dignitie  a 
woman,  in  ycares  a  Lady,  in  ccelcris  a  maid,  should  thus  turpifie  the  reputation  of  my  doctrine  with  the  superecription  ol 
a  foole  ;  6  Tempori,  6  Moribus !" 

But  here  againe  the  M.ay  Ladie  saying  to  him,  "  Leave  off,  good  Latine  foole,  and  let  me  satislie  the  long  desire  I 
have  had  to  feede  mine  eyes  with  the  only  sight  this  age  hath  granted  to  the  world." 

That  Love's  Labour  's  Lost  was  not  a  new  play  in  1598  may  be  gathered  from  a  veiy  curious  notice 

of  it  in  Tofte's  'Alba,  the  Months  Jlinde  of  a  Melancholy  Lover,'  8vo.  1598,  who  says  he  had  seen  it 

•icted,  and  from  the  way  in  which  he  alludes  to  it,  probably  several  years  before  the  pullicatioa  of  that 

work  ; — 

Love's  Labour  Lost !  I  once  did  see  a  play 

Y-clcped  so,  so  called  to  my  paine, 
Which  I  to  heare  to  my  small  joy  did  stay. 

Giving  attendance  on  my  froward  darao : 
My  misgiving  minde  presaging  to  me  ill. 
Yet  was  I  drawne  to  see  it  'gainst  my  wilL 

This  play  no  play,  but  plague,  was  unto  mo, 

For  tlicre  I  lost  the  love  I  liked  most ;  . 

And  what  to  others  seemde  a  jest  to  be, 

I  that  iu  earnest  found  unt^  my  coat. 
To  every  one,  save  me,  't  was  comieall. 
While  tragick-lilce  to  me  it  did  befall. 

•  Compare  Armado's  letter  in  act  I.  so.  1,  "  a  child  of  our  grandmother  Bve,  a  female ;  or,  for  tliy  more  sweet 
ladcretaudiiig,  a  woman."     Tho  Latin  is  intentionally  wrong,  the  whole  being  satfrioal  upon  tho  sehoolmastor. 
358 


LOVE'S  LABOUll'S  LOST. 


Each  actor  plaid  it:  cunniii};  wise  his  part, 

But  chiefly  tliose  cntrapt  in  Cupid's  snaro; 
Tot  all  was  faincd,  't^va3  not  from  tho  hart, 

They  seeme  to  grieve,  but  yet  tliey  felt  no  caro ; 
'Twas  1  that  {jriefo  indeed  did  hcaro  in  brest; 
The  others  did  but  make  a  show  in  jest. 

The  exact  date  at  which  tho  comedy  was  wi-itten,  will  perhaps  never  be  a.scertained.  Tho  qiiCB- 
'jon  is  rundcrftd  exceedingly  intricate  by  the  probability  that  it  received  additions  from  its  autlioi 
shortly  before  the  year  1598.  I  place  little  or  no  reliance  on  the  mention  of  the  dancing-horse,  the 
allusion  to  that  animal  in  Tarlton's  Jests  being  no  evidence  whatever  that  it  was  exliibited  bciforo  the 
death  of  that  clown.  In  fact,  the  horse  Vfos  fourteen  years  old  in  1601,  and  Tarlton  died  in  1588;  so 
Hint  the  probability  Ls  of  tho  very  slightest  kind  that  it  coidd  liavo  been  exhibited  in  liis  lifetime.  The 
jest,  which  is  not  worth  quoting  entire,  commences  thus — "  There  was  one  Baulccs,  in  the  time  of 
Tarlton,  who  served  the  Earl  of  Essex,  and  luid  a  horse  of  strange  qualities ;  and  being  at  the  Cross 
Keycs  in  Gvacious-streete,  getting  money  -nath  him,  as  he  was  mightily  resorted  to,  Tarlton  then  with 
his  fcUowcs  playing  at  the  Bell  by,  came  into  the  Cross  Kcjts  amongst  many  people  t  j  see  fashions  : 
which  Jiankes  perceiving,  to  paake  the  people  laugh,  saics,  '  Signior,'  to  his  horse,  '  go  fetch  me  the 
veriest  foole  in  the  company.'  The  jade  comes  immediately,  and  -n-ith  his  month  di'aws  Tarlton  forth." 
I  liavc  little  doubt  that  the  anecdote  is  an  invention. 

A  simUaritj-  has  been  pointed  out  by  Chalmers  between  what  Dr.  Johnson  calls  the  "  finished 
representation  of  colloquial  excellence"  at  tho  commencement  of  the  fifth  act,  and  a  passage  in  Sidney's 
Arcadia,  where  he  says,  speaking  of  Parthenia,  "  that  which  made  her  .faimesse  much  the  fairer  was 
that  it  was  but  a  faire  embassador  of  a  most  faire  mind,  fiiU  of  wit,  and  a  wit  -which  dcUghted  more  to 
j'jdge  itsclfe  then  to  show  itselfo  :  her  speech  being  as  rare  as  precious ;  her  silence  without  sullcnnesso ; 
l.er  modestie  without  aifectation ;  her  shamefastnesse  without  ignorance  :  in  suiome,  one  that  to  praise 
well,  one  must  first  set  downe  with  himselfe  what  it  is  to  be  excellent ;  for  so  she  is."  Sidney's 
Arcadia  was  fii'st  published  in  1590,  but  the  similarity  here  pointed  out  is  scarcely  forcible  enough  to 
prove  that  there  was  any  plagiarism.     The  coincidence  was  very  likely  quite  accidental. 

Our  text  is  chiefly  taken  fi-om  the  first  edition  of  1598,  some  of  the  readings  of  the  foHo  of  1623 
being  adopted.  The  latter  was  evidently  piinted  from  the  quarto,  or  fi-om  the  same  manuscript  from 
which  the  quarto  was  printed ;  but  there  are  variations  in  the  folio,  which  show  that  it  is  not  a  mere 
copy  of  the  first  eflition.  Another  quarto  edition  appe;xred  in  1631.  It  was  also  entered  at  Stationers' 
HaU  early  in  1607,  but  no  copy  bearing  that  date  has  yet  been  discovered. 

Love's  Laboiu'  's  Lost  is  not  a  favomite  play  with  the  general  reader,  but  I  apprehend  that  the 
cause  of  its  modem  unpopularity  is  to  be'  sought  for  in  the  circumstance  of  its  satii'c  ha\'ing  been 
principally  directed  to  fashions  of  language  that  have  long  passed  away,  and  consequently  little  under- 
stood, rather  than  in  any  great  deficiency  of  di-amatic  invention.  Wlien  it  has  been  well  studied,  there  are 
few  satirical  plays  that  will  afford  more  gratification ;  it  abounds  with  touches  of  the  highest  humour ; 
and  the  playful  tiicks  and  discoveries  ai-e  conducted  with  so  much  dexterity,  that,  when  we  an'ive  at 
tho  conclusion,  the  chief  wonder  is  how  tho  interest  eoidd  have  been  preserved  in  the  development  of 
so  cxti'emcly  meagre  a  plot.  The  real  key  to  the  appreciation  of  this  drama  is  to  be  found  in  the 
reuiaj-k  that  there  is  throughout  a  vein  of  good-humoured  ridicule  and  satire. 

269 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED 


r£RDiNAHT3,  King  of  Nmmre. 
lippiars,  Act  I.    sc.  1.     Act  II.   ac.   1.     Act  IV.   ec  3. 

ActV.  so.  2. 

BiaoN  {pronounced  Beroon)  a  lord  attending  on  the 

King. 

Appears,   Act  I.  sc.   1.     Act  II.  sc.  1.     Act  III.  sc.  1. 

Act  IV.  sc.  3.     Act  5.  sc.  2. 

IxtNOATiLLE,  a  lord  attending  on  the  King. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc    1.     Act  II.  sc.   1.     Act  IV.  bc.  3. 
Act  V.  sc.  2. 

DuMAiN,  a  lord  attending  on  the  King. 

Appears,   Act   I.   so.   1.     Act   II.  sc.    I.     Act  IV.  sc.  3. 

Act  V.  sc.  2. 

BorET,  a  lord  attending  on  the  Princess  of  France. 
Appears,  Act  II.  so.  I.     Act  IV.  sc.  1.     Act  \.  sc.  2. 

Ueec.u)e,  a  lord  attending  on  the  Princess  of  France. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  2. 

Don  Adkiano  he  Armado,  a  fantastical  Sjianiard. 
/ippears,  Act  I.  so.  2.     Act  III.  sc.  1.    Act  V.  sc   1 ;  bc.  2. 

SiK  NATnANrnL,  a  curate. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  bc.  2.     Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2. 

IldLOFEUNES,  a  schoolmaster. 
Appears,  .\ct  IV.  sc.  2.    Act  V.  sc.    I ;  bc.  2. 
270 


Dull,  a  constable. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc  1;  sc.  2.    Act  IV.  sc.  2.     Act  V 

CosiAED,  a  clown. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.   Act  III.  sc.  1.  Act  IV.  sc.  1 

sc.  2 ;  sc.  3.     Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2. 

Moth,  page  to  Ai-mado. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.     Act  III.  sc.  1.     Act  V.  sc.  1;  sc.  2. 

A  Forester. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  1. 

Prln'cess  of  France. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  I.    Act  IV.  sc.  1.     Act  V.  sc  2. 

EosAiTNE,  a  lady  attending  on  the  Princess  of  Franco. 
Appears,  Act  II.  so.  1.     Act  IV.  sc.  1.     Act  V.  sc.  2. 

Maria,  a  lady  attending  on  tlie  Princess  of  France. 
Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1.    Act  IV.  sc  1.    Act  V.  sc  2. 

Katharine,    a  lady  attending  on   the  Princess  of 
France. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  I.     Act  IV.  sc.  1.     Act  V  sc.  2. 

jAQnENETTA,  o  couutry  wench. 
Appears,  Act  I.  so.  2.      Act  IV.  sc.  2 ;  so.  .S. 

Officers,  Attendants,  and  otficrs. 
SCENE,— Na^mihe. 


1C0iie's  ICiiknir's  %ml 


ACT  I. 


SCET^E  I  — ^Navarre.  A  Park,  with  a  Palace  in  it. 

Fktcr  the  King,  Bmox,  Lonoavuxe,  and  DtmAiir. 

X''in(/.  Let  fame,  that  all  uunt  after  in  their  lives, 
Live  registor'd  upon  our  brazen  tombs, 
And  then  gi-ace  us  in  the  disgrace'  of  death; 
When,  spite  of  cormorant  devouring  Time, 
Th'  endeavour  of  this  present  breath  may  buy 
That  honour,  which  shall  bate  his  scythe's  keen 

edge, 
And  make  us  hcii's  of  all  eternity. 
Therefore,  brave  conquerors  ! — for  so  you  are. 
That  war  against  your  own  affections. 
And  the  huge  army  of  the  world's  desires, — 
Our  late  edict  shall  strongly  stand  in  force  : 
Navarre  shall  bo  the  wonder  of  the  world  ; 
Our  court  shall  bo  a  little  Academe,' 
StUl  and  contemplative  in  living  art. 
You  thi'ce,  Bii-on,  Dumain,  and  Longaville, 
Have  sworn  for  three  years'  term  to  live  with  me. 
My  feUow-seholars,  and  to  keep  those  statutes 
That  arc  recorded  in  this  schedule  here  : 
Your  oaths  are  pass'd,  and  now  subscribe  your 

names. 
That  his  own  hand  may  strike  his  honour  down, 
L'hat  violates  the  smallest  branch  herein : 
If  you  are  arm'd  to  do,  as  sworn  to  do. 
Subscribe  to  your  deep  oaths,  and  keep  them  too. 
Jkuiff.  I  am  resolv'd  :  "t  is  but  a  three  years' 

fast 


The  mind  shall  banquet,  though  the  body  pine  . 

Fat  paunches  have  lean  pates ; '  and  dainty  bite 
Make  rich  the  ribs,  but  bankrupt  quite  the  wits 

Diim.  My  loving  lord,  Dumain  is  mortified. 
The  grosser  manner  of  these  world's  delights 
He  tlirows  upon  the  gross  world's  baser  slaves  : 
To  love,  to  wealth,  to  pomp,  I  pine  and  die ; 
With  all  these  living  in  philosophy.^ 

Biron.  I  can  but  say  their  prctestation  over, 
So  much,  dear  liege,  I  have  already  sworn. 
That  is, — To  live  and  study  here  three  years. 
But  there  ai-e  other  strict  observances : 
As,  not  to  see  a  woman  jn  that  term ; 
"Which,  I  hope  well,  is  not  enrolled  there  : 
And,  one  day  in  a  week  to  touch  no  food, 
And  but  one  meal  on  every  day  beside ; 
The  which,  I  hope,  is  not  enrolled  there : 
And  then  to  sleep  but  three  hours  in  the  night 
And  not  be  seen  to  wink  of  all  the  day ; 
(Wlien  I  was  wont  to  think  no  harm  aH  night, 
And  make  a  dark  night  too  of  half  the  day :) 
Wliioh,  I  hope  weU  is  not  enrolled  there  : 
0,  these  are  barren  tasks,  too  hard  to  keep  ; 
Not  to  see  ladies, — study,  fast, — not  sleep. 

King.  Your  oath  is  pass'd  to  pass  away  from 
these. 

Biron.  Let  me  say  no,   my  liege,  an  if  yo\i 
please ; 
I  only  swore  to  study  with  your  grace. 
And  stay  here  in  your  court  for  three  years'  spac« 

271 


LOV'E'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


Long.  Tou  swore  to  that,  Biron,  and  to  the 

rest. 
Biron.  By  yea  and  nay,   sir,  tlien  I  swore  in. 
jest. 
\^Tiat  is  the  end  of  study?  let  fla.e  know. 

King.  Why,  that  to  know,  which  else  we  should 

not  know. 
Biron.  Things  hid  and  barr'd,  you  moan,  from 

common  sense  ? 
King.  Aj,  that  is  study's  godUie  recompense. 
Biron.  Come  on,  then ;  I  will  sweai-  to  study  so, 
To  know  the  thing  I  am  forbid  to  know  : 
A.S  thus, — To  study  where  I  well  may  dine, 

"When  I  to  feast  expressly  am  forbid ; 
9r  study  where  to  mcel  iome  mistress  fine, 

Wlicn  mistresses  from  common  sense  are  hid  : 
Or,  having  sworn  too  hard-a-keeping  oath. 
Study  to  break  it,  and  not  break  my  troth. 
If  study's  gain  be  thus,  and  this  be  so, 
Study  knows  that  which  yet  it  doth  not  know  : 
Swear  me  to  this,  and  I  'n'ill  ne'er  say,  no. 
King.    These  he  the  stops  that  hinder  study 
quite 
And  train  our  intellects  to  vain  delight. 

Biron.  'WTiy,   all  delights  are  vain ;   but  that 
most  vain. 
Which,  with  pain  purchas'd,  doth  inherit  pain  : 
As,  painfully  to  pore  upon  a  book. 

To  seek  the  light  of  truth;    while  tnilh  the 
while 
Doth  falsely  blind  the  eyesight  of  his  look : ' 

Light,  seeking  light,  doth  light  of  light  beguile  : 
So,  ere  you  find  where  light  in  darkness  lies, 
Tour  light  grows  dark  by  losing  of  }-our  eyes. 
Study  me  how  to  please  the  eye  indeed, 

By  fixing  it  upon  a  fairer  eye ; 
Who  dazzling  so,  that  eye  shall  be  his  heed, 
Aud  give  him  light  that  it  was  blinded  by. 
Study  is  hke  the  heaven's  glorioiis  sun. 

That  will  not  be    deep-seEU-ch'd  with    saucy 
looks ; 
Small  have  continual  plodders  ever  won. 

Save  base  authority  from  other's  books. 
These  oartlily  godfathers  of  heaven's  lights. 

That  give  a  name  to  every  fixed  star. 
Have  no  more  profit  of  their  shining  nights. 
Than  those  that  walk,  and  wot  not  what  they 
are. 
Too  much  to  know  is,  to  know  nouglit  but  fame ; 
And  uvcry  godfather  can  give  a  name. 

£iiig.  JTow  well  he  "s  read,  to  reason  against 
ruiidiiigl 
27i 


Bum.   Proceeded  well,   to   stop   all  good  pro- 
ceeding ! 
Long.  He  weeds  the  com,  and  still  lets  grow 

the  weeding. 
Biron.  The  spring  is  near,  when  green  gees 

are  a  breeding. 
Bum.  How  follows  that  ? 
Biron.  Fit  in  his  place  and  tmie. 

Bum.  In  reason  notliing. 
Biron.  Something  then  in  rhjTne. 

King.  Biron  is  like  an  cl  rious  sneaping  frost,' 
That  bites  the  first-born  infants  of  the  spring. 
Biron.    Well,   say  I  am ;    why  shc.ild  proud 

siunmer  boast, 
Before  the  birds  have  any  cause  to  sing  ? 
Why  should  I  joy  in  any  abortive  birth  : 
At  Christmas  I  no  more  desire  a  rose. 
Than  wish  a  snow  in  May's  new-fangled  showo ; 
But  like  of  eaeli  thing  that  in  season  grows. 
So  you,  to  stud}',  now  it  is  too  late, 
Climb  o'er  the  house  to  unlock  the  little  gate. 
King.  Well,  fit  you  out;  go  home,  Biron;  adieu. 
Biron.  No,  my  good  lord  !  I  have  swcrn  to  stay 
with  you  : 
And,  though  I  have  for  barbaiism  spoke  more, 

Than  for  that  angel  knowledge  you  can  say;  , 

Yet,  confident  I  'U  keep  what  I  have  swore. 

And  bide  the  penance  of  eacli  three  years'  day 
Give  me  the  paper, — let  me  read  the  same ; 
And  to  the  sti'ictcst  decrees  I  "11  •mite  my  name. 
King.  How  well  this  yielding  rescues  thee  from 

shame  1 
Biron.  [_Beads.'\ 

Item,  That  no  woman  shall  come  within  a  milo  i  my 
court — 

Hath  this  been  proclaimed? 
Zong.  Four  days  ago. 
Biron.  Let  *s  see  the  penally.  {Jleada. 

— On  pain  of  losing  her  tongue. — 

Who  devis'd  this  penalty  ? 
Long.  Marry,  that  did  I. 
Biron.  Sweet  lord,  and  why  ? 
Long.  To  friglit  them  licncc  with   that  dread 

penalty. 
Biron.  A  dangerous  law  against  gentility.' 

Itfiii,  Tf  nny  man  bo  seen  to  talk  with  a  woman  within 
the  term  of  three  years,  ho  shall  endm'o  sunh  public  shama 
a-s  the  nv't  "t  the  court  can  possibly  devise. — 

This  artieli^,  my  licgc,  )-ourself  must  break  ; 
For,  well  TOU  know,  here  comes  in  embassy. 


Ad  I. 


LOVE'S  LABOUE  'S  LOST. 


SCISSZ  z. 


The  French  Icing's   daughter,   with   yourself  to 
speak, — 

A  maid  of  grace,  and  complete  majesty, — 
About  surrender-up  of  Aquituin 

To  her  decrepit,  sick,  and  bed-rid  father  : 
Therefore  this  article  is  made  in  vam. 

Or  vainly  comes  th'  admired  princess  hither. 

A'inff.  What  say  you,    lords?    why,    this  was 
quite  forgot. 

Biron.  So  study  evermore  is  over-shot ; 
While  it  doth  study  to  have  what  it  woidd, 
It  doth  forget  to  do  the  thing  it  should  : 
And  when  it  hath  the  thing  it  hunteth  most, 
'T  is  won,  as  towns  with  fire ;  so  won,  so  lost. 

King.  We  must,    of  force,   dispense  ■with  this 
decree ; 
She  must  lie"  here  on  mere  necessity. 

Biron.  Necessity  wiU  make  us  all  forsworn 

Three  thousand  times  within  this  three  years' 
space  : 
For  every  man  with  his  affects  is  born  ; 

Not  by  might  master' d,  but  by  special  grace. 
If  I  break  taith,  this  word  shall  speak  for  me, — 
I  am  forsworn  on  mere  necessit}-. 
So  to  tlie  laws  at  large  I  write  my  name  ; 

[  Sliiscribes. 

And  he  that  breaks  them  in  the  least  degree 
Stands  in  attainder  of  eternal  shame. 

Suggestions  are  to  others,  as  to  me ; 
But,  I  believe,  although  I  seem  so  loth, 
I  am  the  last  that  wiU  last  keep  his  oath. 
But  is  there  no  quick  recreation  granted  ? 

King.  Aye,  that  there  is  :   our  coui-t,  you  know, 
is  haunted 

With  a  refined  traveller  of  Spain ; 
A  man  in  aU  the  world's  new  fashion  planted. 

That  hath  a  mint  of  phrases  in  his  bram  : 
One  who  tlie  music  of  his  own  vain  tongue 

Doth  ravish,  like  enchanting  harmony ; 
A  man  of  complements,*  whom  right  and  wrong 

Hath  chose  as  umpire  of  tlicir  mutiny  : 
This  child  of  fancy,  that  Armado  hight; 

For  interim  to  our  studies,  shall  relate, 
In  high-born  words,  the  worth  of  many  a  knight 

From    tawny    Spain,   lost  in  the   world's  de- 
bate.'" 
Ifow  you  delight,  my  lords,  I  know  not,  I ; 
Kut,  I  protest,  I  love  to  hear  him  lie. 
And  I  will  use  him  for  my  minstrelsy." 

Biron.  Ai'mado  is  a  most  illustrious  wight, 
A    man     of    fire-new'^    words,    fashion's     own 
knight. 

S5 


Long.  Costard,  the  swain,  and  he,  shall  be  our 
sport ; 
And,  so  to  study,  three  years  is  but  short. 

Enter  DnLL,  with  a  letter,  and  Cosxabd 

BuU.  Wliich  is  the  duke's  own  person  ? 

Biron.  This,  fellow.     What  wouldst  ? 

Bull.  1  myself  rej)rehend  his  own  person,  for  1 
am  his  grace's  tharborough  :  but  I  would  see  his 
own  person  in  flesh  and  blood. 

Biron.  This  is  he. 

Bull.  Signior  Arme — Armo — commends  you. 
There  's  villainy  abroad  :  this  letter  wiU  tell  you 
more. 

Cost.  Sir,  the  contempts  thereof  arc  as  touching 
me. 

King.  A  letter  from  the  magnificent  Armado. 

Biron.  How  low  soever  the  matter,  I  hope  in 
God  for  high  words. 

Long.  A  high  hope  for  a  low  heaven :  God  grant 
us  patience  I 

Biron.  To  hear  ?  or  forbear  hearing  ? 

Long.  To  hear  meekly,  sir,  and  to  laugh  mode- 
rately ;  or  to  forbear  both. 

Biron.  Well,  sir,  bo  it  as  the  style  shall  give  us 
cause  to  climb  in  the  merriness. 

Cost.  The  matter  is  to  me,  sir,  as  concerning 
Jaquenetta.  The  manner  of  it  is,  I  was  taken 
with  the  manner." 

Biron.  In  what  manner  ? 

Cost.  In  manner  and  form  following,  sir ;  aU 
those  three  :  I  was  seen  with  her  in  the  manor- 
house,  sitting  with  her  upon  the  form,  and  taken 
following  her  into  the  park  ;  which,  put  togethei, 
is  in  manner  and  form  following.  Now,  sir, 
for  the  manner, — it  is  the  manner  of  a  man 
to  speak  to  a  woman  :  for  the  form, — in  some 
form. 

Biron.  For  the  following,  sir  ? 

Cost.  As  it  shall  follow  in  my  correction ;  and 
God  defeud  the  right  I 

King.  WiU  you  hear  this  letter  with  attention  ? 

Biron.  As  we  would  hear  an  oracle. 

Cost.  Such  is  the  simplicity  of  man  to  hearken 
after  the  flesh. 

King.  [Reads.'] 

Great  deputy,  the  wellon  s  vicegerent,  and  sole  donii- 
nator  of  Navarre,  my  soul's  earth's  God,  and  body's  foster- 
ing patron, — 

Cost.  Not  a  word  of  Costard  yet. 

King. 

So  it  is, — 

273 


iCT   I. 


LOVE'S  LABOTJE  'S  LOST. 


scEirjs  n. 


Cod.  It  may  be  so  :  but  if  he  say  it  is  so,  lie  is,  ■ 
in  telling  trae,  but  so. 

King.  Peace  1 

Cost.  — bo  to  me,  and  every  man  that  dares  not 
fight ! 

Xing.  Iv"o  words  ! 

Cost.  — of  other  men's  secrets,  I  beseech  you. 

King. 

So  it  is,  besieged  with  sable-coloured  melancholy,  I  did 
commend  the  black-oppressing  biiinoiir  to  the  most  whole- 
some physick  of  thy  health-giving  air;  and,  as  I  am  a 
gentleman,  betook  mysulf  to  walk.  The  time  when.' 
About  the  sixth  hour;  when  beasts  most  graze,  birds  best 
peck,  and  men  sit  down  to  that  nourishment  which  is  called 
eupper.  So  much  for  the  time  when.  Now  for  the  giound 
which ,  which,  I  mean,  I  walked  upon  :  it  is  y-cliped "  thy 
park.  Then  for  the  place  where;  where,  I  mean,  I  did 
encounter  that  obscene  and  most  preposterous  event  that 
di'aweth  fi'om  my  snow-white  pen  the  ebon-coloxu-cd  ink, 
irhich  here  thou  viewest,  beholdest,  su^r^'cyest,  or  seest : 
But  to  the  place  wheie, — It  standeth  north-north-east  and 
by  east  from  the  west  corner  of  thy  cmiovis-knotted  garden. 
There  did  I  see  that  low-spiiited  swain,  that  base  minnow 
of  thy  mirth, 

Cost.   Me? 
King. 

— that  unletter'd  small-knowing  soul, 

Cost.  Me? 

King. 
— ^that  shallow  vassal, 

Cost.  Still  me?  « 

King. 
— which,  as  I  remember,  hight  Costard, 

Cost.  0  me  ! 

King. 

-sorted,  and  consorted,  conti-ary  to  thy  established 
proclaimed  edict  and  contiacut  canon,  ■with — with — 0 
with — but  with  this  I  passion  to  say  wherewith. 

Cost.  With  a  wench. 

King. 

— with  a  child  of  our  grandmother  Eve,  a  female ;  or, 
for  thy  more  sweet  understanding,  a  woman.  Him  I  (as 
my  ever-esteemed  duty  pricks  me  on)  have  sent  to  thee,  to 
receive  the  meed  of  punishment,  by  thy  sweet  grace's 
officer,  Antony  Dull;  a  man  of  good  rcputCj  carriage, 
bearing,  and  estimation. 

Dull.  Me,  an' t  shall  please  you;  lamiVntonyUuU. 

King. 

For  Jatiuenetta  (so  is  the  weaker  vessel  called,  which  I 
arprchended  with  the  aforesaid  swain,)  I  keep  her  as  a 
vessel  of  tliy  law's  fury ;  and  shall,  at  the  least  of  thy 
Bweet  notice,  bring  her  to  trial.  Thine,  in  all  compliments 
of  devoted  and  hcart-biiniing  heat  of  duty, 

Don  Amuano  de  Aum.vdo. 

Biron.  This  is  not  so  wcU  as  I  loohed  for,  but 
the  beat  that  ever  I  hcari. 
274 


King.  Ay,  the  best  for  the  worst.     But,  sirrah 
what  say  you  to  this  ? 

Cost.  Sir,  I  confess  the  wench. 

King.  Did  you  hear  the  proclamation  ? 

Cost.  I  do  confess  much  of  the  hearing  it,  but 
little  of  the  marking  of  it. 

King.  It  was  proclaimed  a  year's  imprisoLment, 
to  be  taken  with  a  wench. 

Cost.  I  was  taken  with  none,  sir  ;  I  was  taken 
with  a  damosel. 

King.  Well,  it  was  proclaimed  damosel. 

Cost.  This  was  no  damosel  neither,  su- ;  she  was 
a  virgin. 

King  It  is  so  vaiied  too ;  for  it  was  proclaimed 
virgin. 

Cost.  If  it  were,  I  deny  her  virginity ;  I  was 
taken  with  a  maid. 

King.  This  maid  will  not  serve  your  turn,  sir. 

Cost.  This  maid  \vill  serve  my  trn-n,  sir. 

King.  Sii',  I  will  pronounce  j'our  sentence :  Yoit 
shall  fast  a  week  with  bran  and  water. 

Cost.  I  had  rather  pray  a  month  with  mutton 
and  porridge. 

King.  And  Don  Armado  shall  be  your  keeper. — 
My  lord  Biron,  see  him  deliver'd  o'er. — 
And  go  we,  lords,  to  put  in  practice  that 

Which  each  to  other  hath  so  strongly  sworn. — 
\_Excunt  KiUG,  Long.,  and  Dcii. 

Biron.  I  'U  lay  my  head  to  any  good  man's  hat, 

These  oaths  and  laws  will  prove  an  idle  scorn. — 
Sirrah,  come  on. 

Cost.  I  suffer  for  the  truth,  sir :  for  true  it  is,  I 
was  taken  with  Jaquenetta,  and  Jaquenetta  is  a 
true  gild ;  and  therefore,  Welcome  the  sour  cup  oJ 
prosperity  !  Affliction  may  one  day  smile  again, 
and  until  then.  Sit  thee  down,  sorrow  !     \_Exeimt. 

SCENE  11.— Another  part  of  the  Pari: 
near  Ai-mado's  House. 

Enter  Ahmado  and  Mora. 

Arm.  Boy,  what  sign  is  it,  when  a  man  of  great 
spirit  grows  mehmcholy  ? 

Moth.  A  great  sign,  sir,  that  he  will  look  sa^l. 

Ann.  Wliy,  sadness  is  one  and  the  self-esj-ic 
thing,  dear  imp." 

Moth.  No,  no ;  0  Lord;  sir,  no. 

Arm.  How  canst  thou  part  sadness  and  melau- 
choly,  my  tender  Juvenal  ? 

Mo(h.  Jiy  a  familiar  demonstration  of  the  work 
ing,  my  tough  senior. 

Ann.  Why  tough  senior  ?  why  tough  ecnior  ? 


ACT  I. 


LOVE'S  LABOUE'S  LOST. 


scBim  n. 


Moth.  Why  tender  Juvenal?  why  tender  juvenal? 

Arm.  I  spoke  it,  tender  jiivonal,  as  a  congiiient 
epilhetbn,  uppertaiiiing  to  tliy  young  days,  whieh 
wo  may  nominate  tender. 

2[oth.  And  I,  tough  senior,  as  an  appertiiicnt 
title  to  your  old  time,  which  we  may  name  tough. 

Arm.  Pretty  and  apt.'" 

Moth.  How  moan  you,  sir ;  I  pretty,  and  my 
Bajing  apt  ?  or  I  ajit,  and  my  saying  pretty  ? 

Arm.  Thou  prctt)',  beeausc  little. 

Moth.  Little  pretty,  because  little  :  Wherefore 
apt? 

Arm.  And  therefore  apt,  because  quick. 

Moth.  Speak  you  this  in  my  praise,  master  ? 

Arm.  In  thy  condign  praise. 

Moth.  I  will  praise  an  eel  ■with  the  same  praise. 

Arm.  AVliat  ?  that  an  eel  is  ingenious  ? 

Muth.  That  an  eel  is  quick. 

Arm.  I  do  say,  thou  art  quick  in  answers : 
Thou  heat'st  my  blood. 

Moth.  I  am  answer' d,  sir. 

Arm.  1  love  not  to  be  crossed. 

Moth.  lit!  speaks  the  mere  contrary;  crosses" 
bve  not  him.  \_Aside. 

Arm.  I  have  promis'd  to  study  three  years  with 
(ho  duke. 

Moth.  You  may  do  it  in  an  hour,  sir. 

Arm.  Impossible. 

Moth.  How  manj^  is  one  thrice  told  ? 

Arm.  I  am  ill  at  reck'niug ;  it  fits  the  spirit  of 
a  tapster. 

Muth.  You  are  a  gentleman,  and  a  gamester, 
sir. 

Arm.  I  confess  both ;  they  ai'e  both  the  varnish 
of  a  complete  man. 

Moth.  Then,  I  am  sure,  you  know  how  much 
the  gross  sum  of  deucc-ace  amounts  to. 

Arm.  It  doth  amount  to  one  more  than  two. 

Moth.  \\Tiich  the  base  vulgar  call,  three. 

Arm.  True. 

Moth.  Why,  sir,  is  this  such  a  piece  of  study  ? 
Now  hero  's  thi'ce  studied,  ere  you  "11  thrice  wink: 
and  hew  easy  it  is  to  put  5-ears  to  the  word  tliree, 
and  study  three  years  in  two  words,  the  dancing 
horse  will  tell  you.'* 

^  irm.  A  most  fine  figure  ! 

Moth.   To  prove  you  a  cipher.  y_Asidc. 

Arm  I  will  hereupon  confess,  I  am  in  love  : 
md,  as  it  is  base  for  a  soldier  to  love,  so  am  I  in 
love  with  a  base  wench.  If  drawing  my  sword 
against  the  humour  of  affection  would  deliver  me 
Ciom  the  reprobate  thought  of  it,  I  would  take 


Desire  prisoner,  and  ransom  him  to  any  FrenrJl 
courtier  for  a  new  devis'd  curtsy.  I  think  sconi 
to  sigh ;  mcthinks,  I  sLsuld  oulswear  Cupid. 
Comfort  me,  boy :  What  great  men  have  been  in 
love  ? 

Moth.  Hercules,  master. 

Arm.  Most  sweet  Hercules ! — lloro  authority, 
dear  boy,  name  more ;  and,  sweet  my  child,  let 
them  be  men  of  good  repute  and  carriage. 

Moth.  Samson,  master ;  he  was  a  man  of  good 
tarriage,  great  carriage  ;  for  he  cairied  tiie  town- 
gates  on  his  back,  like  a  porter :  and  he  was  in 
love. 

Arm.  0  well-knit  Samson !  strong-jointed  Sam- 
son !  I  do  excel  thee  in  my  rapier,  as  much  aa 
thou  didst  me  in  carr3'ing  gates.  I  am  in  lovo 
too.     Who  was  Samson's  love,  my  dear  Moth  ? 

Moth.  A  woman,  master. 

Arm.  Of  what  complexion  ?  , 

Moth.  Of  all  the  four,  or  the  three,  or  the  two 
or  one  of  the  four. 

Arm.  Tell  me  precisely  of  what  complexion. 

Moth.  Of  the  sea-water  green,  sir. 

Arm.  Is  that  one  of  the  foiu*  complexions  ? 

Moth.  As  I  have  read,   sir :    and  the  best  of 
them  too. 

Arm.  Green,  indeed,  is  the  colour  of  lovers; 
but  to  have  a  love  of  that  coloiu",  methinks, 
Samson  had  small  reason  for  it.  Ho,  surely, 
affected  her  for  her  wit. 

Moth.  It  was  so,  sir  ;  for  she  had  a  green  wit. 

Arm.  My  love  is  most  immaculate  white  and 
red. 

Moth.  Most  maculate'"  thoughts,  master,  are 
mask'd  imder  such  colours. 

Arm.  Define,  define,  well-educated  infant. 

Moth.  My  father's  wit,  and  my  mother's  tongue, 
assist  me. 

Arm.  Sweet  invocation  of  a  child  ;  most  pretty 
and  pathetical ! 

Moth.  If  she  be  made  of  white  and  red, 
Her  faults  -will  ne'er  be  known ; 
For  blushing  cheeks  by  faults  are  bred, 

And  fears  by  pale-wliite  shown : 
Then,  if  she  fear,  or  be  to  blame, 

By  this  you  shall  not  know ; 
For  still  her  clioeks  possess  the  same, 
Which  native  she  doth  owe. 
A  dangerous  rhjine,  master,  against  the  reason  of 
white  and  red. 

Arm.  Is  there  not  a  ballad,  boy,  of  the  King 
and  the  beggar?^ 

275 


ACT  h 


LOVE     LABOUE'S  LOST. 


SCENE  IL 


Moth.  The  -world  was  very  guilty  of  such  a  bal- 
lad some  three  ages  since  :  but,  I  think,  now  't  is 
not  to  be  fotmd ;  or,  if  it  were,  it  would  neither 
serve  for  the  writing,  nor  the  tune. 

Arm.  T  will  have  that  subject  newly  wiit  o'er, 
that  I  may  example  my  digression  by  some  mighty 
precedent.  33oy,  I  do  love  that  countTy  gii'l  that 
I  took  in  the  park  with  the  rational  liLad  Costard; 
she  deserves  well. 

Moth.  To  be  whipp'd ;  and  yet  a  better  love 
than  my  master.-'  l_Aside. 

Arm.  Sing,  boy ;  my  spirit  grows  heavy  in  love. 

Moth.  And  that 's  great  marvel,  loving  a  light 
wench. 

Arm.  I  say,  sing. 

Moth.  Forbear  tiU  this  company  be  past. 

Unier  Dull,  Costabd,  and  jAaPENTii.v. 

LiiU.  Sir,  the  duke's  pleasure  is  that  you  keep 
Costard  safe  :  and  you  must  let  him  take  no  de- 
light, nor  no  penance  ;  but  a'  must  fast  three 
lavs  a- week.  For  this  damsel,  I  must  keep  her 
at  the  park ;  she  is  allow'd  for  the  day-woman." 
Fare  you  well. 

Arm.  I  do  betray  myself  witji  blushing. — -Maid. 

Jaq.  Man. 

Arm.  I  wiU  visit  thee  at  the  lodge. 

Jaq.  That 's  hereby. 

Arm.  I  know  where  it  is  situate. 

./aq.  Lord,  how  wise  you  are  ! 

Arm.  I  will  tcU  thee  wondei  8. 

Jaq.  With  that  face  ?  '-* 

Arm.  I  love  thee. 

Jaq.  So  I  heard  you  say. 

Arm.  And  so  farewell. 

Jaq.  Fair  weather  after  you  ! 

Lull.  Come,  Jaquenetta,  away. 

[_I!xit  Dull  and  Jaq. 

Arm.  ViUaLn,  thou  slialt  fast  for  thy  oflfences 
era  thcu  be  pardoned. 
276 


Cost.  "Well,  sir,  I  hope,  when  I  do  it,  I  shall  do 
it  on  a  full  stomach. 

Arm.  Thou  shall  be  heavily  punished 

Cost.  I  am  more  bound  to  you  than  your  fellows 
for  they  are  but  lightly  rewarded. 

Arm.  Take  away  this  villain  ;  shut  him  up. 

Moth.  Come,  you  transgressing  slave ;  away. 

Cost.  Let  me  not  be  pent  up,  sir ;  I  will  fas:, 
being  loose. 

Moth.  No,  sir ;  that  were  fast  and  loose  :  thou 
shalt  to  prison. 

Cost.  Well,  if  ever  T  do  see  the  merry  days  of 
desolation  that  I  have  seen,  some  shall  see — 

Moth.  What  shall  some  see  ? 

Cost.  Nay,  nothing,  master  Moth,  but  what 
tliey  look  upon.  It  is  not  for  prisoners  to  be  too 
silent  in  their  words ;  and,  therefore,  I  will  say 
nothing  :  I  thank  God,  I  have  as  little  patience  as 
another  man ;  and,  therefore,  I  can  be  quiet. 

l£xeu7it  Moth  and  Cost. 

Arm.  I  do  affect  the  very  ground,  which  is  base, 
where  her  shoe,  which  is  baser,  guided  bj-  her  foot, 
which  is  basest,  doth  tread.  I  shall  be  forewom 
(wliich  is  a  great  argument  of  falsehood)  if  I  love; 
And  how  can  that  be  true  love,  which  is  falsely 
attempted  ?  Love  is  a  familiar ;  love  is  a  devil  : 
there  is  no  evil  angel  but  love.  Yet  was  .Samson 
so  tempted ;  and  he  had  an  excellent  strength : 
yet  was  Solomon  so  seduced;  and  he  had  a  very 
good  wit.  Cupid's  buttshaft  is  too  hard  for  Her- 
cules' club,-*  and  therefore  too  much  odds  for  a 
Spaniard's  rapier.  The  first  and  second  cause 
will  not  serve  my  turn  ;  the  passado  he  respects 
not ;  the  ducUo  he  regards  not :  his  disgrace  is  to 
be  called  boy,  but  his  glory  is  to  subdue  men. 
Adieu,  valour !  rust,  rapier !  be  stiU,  drum !  for 
your  manager  is  in  love ;  yea,  he  loveth.  Assist 
me,  some  extcmporal  god  of  rhyme,  for,  I  am  sure, 
1  shall  turn  sonneteer.  Devise,  wit!  write,  pen 
for  I  am  for  whole  volumes  in  folio.  f .  Eci'i 


LOVE'iS  LAIiOUK  'S  LOST. 


WKNE   L. 


ACT  II, 


BCENE  I. — Another  part  of  the  Pari:.    A  Pavilion 
and  Tents  at  a  distance. 

E7iter  the  Princess  of  Feance,  Eosaline,  Maeia, 
ELatheedte,  Boyet,  Lords,  and  other  Attendants. 

Boyet.  Now,  madam,  summon  up  your  dearest 
spirits ; 
Consider  who  the  king  your  father  sends ; 
To  whom  he  sends  ;  and  what 's  his  embassy : 
Yourself,  held  precious  in  the  world's  esteem, 
To  parley  with  the  sole  inheritor 
Of  all  perfections  that  a  man  may  owe, 
Matchless  Navarre  :  the  plea  of  no  less  weight 
Than  Aquitain  ;  a  dowi-y  for  a  queen. 
Be  now  as  prodigal  of  all  dear  grace. 
As  Nature  was  in  making  graces  dear, 
WTien  she  did  starvs  the  general  world  beside. 
And  prodigally  gave  them  all  to  you. 

Prin.  Good  lord  Boyet,  my  beauty,  though  but 
mean, 
Needs  not  the  painted  flourish  of  your  praise  ; 
Beauty  is  bought  by  judgment  of  the  eye. 
Not  utter'd  by  base  sale  of  chapmen's^  tongues  : 
I  am  less  proud  to  hear  you  tell  my  worth, 
Than  you  much  willing  to  be  counted  wise 
In  spending  your  wit  in  the  praise  of  mine. 
But  now  to  task  the  taskor, — Good  Boyet, 
You  arc  not  ignorant,  all-telling  fame 
Doth  noise  abroad,  Navarre  hath  made  a  vow, 
Till  painful  study  shall  out- wear  three  years. 
No  woman  may  approach  his  silent  court : 
Therefore  to  's  seemeth  it  a  needful  course, 
Before  we  enter  his  forbidden  gates, 
To  know  his  pleasure  ;  and  in  that  behalf, 
Bold  of  your  worthiness,  we  single  you 
As  our  best-moving  fair  solicitor  : 
Tell  him,  the  daughter  of  the  king  of  France, 
On  serious  business,  craving  quick  despatch. 
Importunes  personal  conference  with  his  grace. 
Haste,  signify  so  much  ;  while  we  attend. 
Like  humble-visag'd  suitors,  his  high  will. 

Boyet.  Proud  of  employment,  willingly  I  go. 

lExit. 


Prin.  AU  pride  is  willing  pride,  and  yours  u>  sa 

Who  are  the  votaries,  my  loving  lords. 

That  are  vow-feUows  with  this  virtuous  duke .' 

Lord.  Longaville  is  one. 

Prin.  Know  you  the  man  ? 

Mar.  I  know  him,  madam  ;  at  a  marriage  feast. 
Between  lord  Perigort  and  the  beauteous  heir 
Of  Jaques  Falconbridge,  solemnized 
In  Normandy,  saw  I  this  Longaville : 
A  man  of  sovereign  parts  ho  ls  .esteeni'd ; 
\YeIl  fitted  in  arts,  glorious  in  arms  : 
Nothing  becomes  him  ill,  that  he  would  well. 
The  anly  soil  of  his  fair  virtue's  gloss 
(If  virtue's  gloss  will  stain  with  any  soil) 
Is  a  sharp  wit  match'd  with  too  blunt  a  will ; 
Whose  edge  hath  power  to  cut,  whose  ■will  still 

wills 
It  should  none  spare  that  come  within  his  power. 

Prin.  Some  merry  mocking  lord,  belilce;  is  't  so? 

Mar.  They  say  so  most,  that  most  his  humours 
know. 

Prin.  Such  short-liv'd  wits  do  wither  as  they 
grow. 
Who  are  the  rest  ? 

Kath.  The  young  Dumaiu,  a  wcU- accomplish' d 
youth, 
Of  all  that  vii-tue  love  for  virtue  lov'd  : 
Most  power  to  do  most  harm,  least  Imowing  Ul ; 
For  he  hath  wit  to  make  an  ill  shape  good. 
And  shape  to  win  grace  though  he  had  no  wit. 
I  saw  him  at  the  duke  Alengon's  once ; 
And  much  too  little  of  that  good  I  saw," 
Is  my  report,  to  his  great  worthiness. 

Ros.  Another  of  these  students  at  that  time 
Was  there  with  him.    If  I  have  heard  a  truth, 
Biron  they  call  him ;  but  a  merrier  man. 
Within  the  limit  of  becoming  mirth, 
I  never  spent  an  hour's  talk  withal: 
His  eye  begets  occasion  for  his  wit : 
For  every  object  that  the  one  doth  catch, 
The  other  hu-ns  to  a  mirth-moving  jest ; 
Which  his  fair  tongue  (conceit's  expositor) 
Delivers  in  such  apt  and  gracious  words, 

27" 


LOVE'S  LABOITE  'S  LOST. 


RCMTE  I. 


rhat  aged  ears  play  truant  at  his  tales, 
And  younger  hearings  are  quite  ravished, 
So  sweet  and  -voluble  is  his  discourse. 

Frin.  God  bless  my  ladies !  are  they  all  in  love, 
That  every  one  her  own  hath  garnished 
With  such  bedecking  ornaments  of  praise  ? 

Ljid.  Here  comes  Boyet. 

He-enter  Botei. 

Frin.  Kow,  what  admittance,  lord  ? 

Boyet.  Navarre  had  notice  of  your  fair  approach, 
And  he  and  his  competitors  in  oath-' 
Were  all  addi-ess'd  to  meet  you,  gentle  lady, 
Before  I  came,     ilariy,  thus  much  I  have  learnt, 
He  rather  means  to  lodge  you  in  the  field, 
(Like  one  that  comes  here  to  besiege  his  court,) 
Than  seek  a  dispensation  for  his  oath. 
To  let  you  enter  his  unpeopled  house. 
Eere  comes  Kavarre.  [Tlie  Ladies  mash. 

Enter  King,  LoxoiviLLE,  Dtnura,  BraoN,  and 
Attendants. 

King.  Fair  piincess,  welcome  to  the  court  of 

Navarre. 
Prin.  Fair  I  give  you  back  again;  and  welcome 
I  have  not  yet :  the  roof  of  this  court  is  too  high 
to  be  yours ;    and  welcome  to  the  wide  fields  too 
base  to  be  mine. 

Kinq.  Tou  shall   be  welcome,  madam,  to  my 

court. 
Prin.  I  will   be  welcome   then ;    conduct   me 

thitlicr. 
King.  Hear  me,  dear  lady,  I  have  sworn  an  oath. 
Prin.  Our  Lady  help  my  lord !    he  '11  be  for- 
sworn. 
King.  Not  for  the  world,  fair  madam,  by  my 

^vill. 
Prin.   "Why,    will   shall   break  it;    wiU,   and 

nothing  else. 
King.  Your  ladyship  is  ignorant  what  it  is. 
Prin.  Were  my  lord  so,  his  ignorance  were  wise. 
Where  now  his  knowledge  must  prove  ignorance. 
I  hoar,  your  grace  hath  sworn-out  housekeeping : 
'T  is  deadly  sin  to  keep  that  oath,  my  lord. 
And  sin  to  break  it : 
But  pardon  mo,  I  am  too  sudden  bold  ; 
To  teacli  a  teacher  ill  bcseomctli  me. 
Vouchsafe  to  read  the  pui-pose  of  my  coming. 
And  Bu  idenly  resolve  me  in  my  suit. 

[  Gives  a  paper 
King    Afadain,  T  will,  if  suddenly  I  may. 
Prin.  \o\\  will  the  sooner,  that  I  were  away; 
278 


For  you  'U  prove  porjur'd,  if  you  make  me  stay. 

Biron.  Did  not  I  dance  with  you  in  Brabant' 
once  ? 

Eos.  Did  not  I  dance  with  you  in  Brabant  once  ? 

Biron.  I  know  you  did. 

Bos.  How  needless  was  it  then  to  ask  the  ques- 
tion ! 

Biron.  Tou  must  not  be  so  quick. 

Bos.  'T  is  long  of  you  that  spur  me  with  such 
questions. 

Biron.  Your  wit  's  too  hot,  it  speeds  too  fast 
't  will  tii-e. 

Bos.  Not  tin  it  leave  the  rider  in  the  mire. 

Biron,  Wliat  time  o'  day  ? 

Bos.  The  hour  that  fools  should  ask. 

Biron.  Now  fair  befal  your  mask ! 

Bos.  Fair  fall  the  face  it  covers ! 

Biron.  And  send  you  many  lovers ! 

Bos.  Amen,  so  you  be  none. 

Biron.  Nay,  then  wiU  I  be  gone. 

King.  Madam,  your  fothcr  here  doth  intimate 
The  payment  of  a  hundred  thousand  crowns ; 
Being  but  th'  one  half  of  an  entire  sum, 
Disbursed  by  my  father  in  his  wars. 
But  say,  that  he,  or  we,  (as  neither  have,) 
Eeceiv'd  that  sum  ;  yet  there  remains  mipaid 
A- hundred  thousand  more;  in  sm'ety  of  the  which 
One  part  of  Aquitain  is  bound  to  us, 
Although  not  valued  to  the  money's  worth. 
If  then  the  kiug  your  father  -n-ill  restore 
But  that  one  half  which  is  unsatisfied. 
We  wUl  give  up  our  right  in  Aquitain, 
And  hold  fair  fi'iendship  with  his  majesty. 
But  that,  it  seems,  he  little  purposeth, 
For  here  he  doth  demand  to  have  repaid 
An  hundred  thousand  crowns ;  and  not  demands. 
On  payment  of  a  hundred  thousand  crowns, 
To  have  his  title  Kve  in  Aquitain  ; 
Wliich  we  much  rather  had  depart  withal,** 
And  have  the  money  by  our  father  lent. 
Than  Aquitain  so  gelded  as  it  is. 
Dear  princess,  were  not  his  requests  so  far 
From  reason's  yielding,  your  fair  self  should  make 
A  yielding,  'gainst  some  reason,  in  my  breast, 
And  go  well  satisfied  to  France  again. 

Prin.  You  do  the  lung  ray  father  too  much  wrong 
And  wrong  the  reputation  of  your  name. 
In  80  unseeming  to  confess  receipt 
Of  that  which  hath  so  faithfully  been  paid. 

King.  I  do  protest  I  never  lieard  of  it ; 
And,  if  you  prove  it,  I  '11  repay  it  back, 
Or  yield  up  Aquitain. 


ACT  II. 


LOVE'S  LABOmi  S  LOST. 


SCENE    I. 


Prin  We  arrest  yoiir  -word  : — 

Boyct,  you  cau  produce  acquittancea, 
For  such  a  sum,  from  special  officers 
Of  Charles  his  father. 

liing.  Satisfy  me  so. 

Buyei.  So  please  yoiir  grace,  the  packet  is  not 
come 
Wliere  that  and  other  specialties  are  bound ; 
To-morro-w  you  shall  have  a  sight  of  thom. 

King.  It  sliall  suffice  me  :  at  which  interview, 
AH  liberal  reason  I  -will  yield  unto. 
Ifeantime  receive  such  welcome  at  my  hand 
As  honour,  without  breach  of  honour,  may 
Make  tender  of  to  thy  true  worthiness  : 
You  may  not  come,  fair  princess,  in  my  gates ; 
But  here  \^^thout  you  shall  bo  so  rccciv'd, 
Ae  you  shall  deem  yourself  lodgd  in  my  heart, 
Thougli  so  deny'd  fair  harbour  in  my  house. 
Your  own  good  thoughts  excuse  me,  and  fai'ewcU : 
To-morrow  shall  we  visit  you  again. 

Prin.  Sweet  health  and  fair  dcsii-es  consort  your 

gi-aoe  ! 
King.  Thy  own  wish  wish  I  thee  in  every  place ! 
\_Exeunt  Kino  and  his  Train. 
Biron.  Lady,  I  will  commend  you  to  my  own 

heart. 
Ros.  Tray  you,  do  my  commendations ;  I  would 
!.ie  glad  to  see  it. 
Biron.  I  would  you  heai'd  it  groan. 
Ros.  Is  the  fool  sick  ? 
Biron.  Sick  at  the  heart. 
Ros.  Alack,  let  it  blood. 
Biron.  Would  that  do  it  good  ? 
Ros.  My  physio  says,  ay. 
Biron.  WiU.  you  prick  't  with  your  eye  ? 
Ros.  No  point '^  with  my  knife. 
Biron.  Now,  God  save  tliy  life  ! 
Ros.  And  yours  fi-om  long  living  ! 
Biron.  I  cannot  stay  thanlcsgiving.      [Rdiritig. 
Ihmi.  Sir,  I  pray  you  a  word  :   What  lady  is 

that  same  ? 
Boyet.  Tlie  heir  of  Alengon,  EosaHne  her  name. 
Bum.  A  gallant  lady !  Monsieur,  fare  you  well. 

\_Exit. 
Long.  I  beseech  you,  a  word :  What  is  she  iu 

the  white  ? 
Boyet.  A  woman  sometimes,  on'  you  saw  her  in 

the  lighl. 
Long.  Perchance,  light  in  the  light :    I  desire 

her  name. 
Royct.  She  hath  but  one  for  herself;  to  desire 
that  were  a  shame. 


Long.  Pray  you,  sir,  whose  daughter  ? 
Boyet.  Her  mother's,  I  have  heard. 
Long.  God's  blessing  on  your  beard  ! 
Boyet.  Good  sir,  be  not  offended  : 
She  is  an  heir  of  Falconbridge. 

Long,  l^aj,  my  choler  is  ended. 
She  is  a  most  sweet  lady. 

Boyet.  ISTot  unlike,  sir  ;  that  may  be. 

[Exit  LoNO. 
Biron.  "WHiat  's  her  name,  in  the  cap  ' 
Boyet.  Katherinc,  by  good  hap. 
Biron.  Is  she  wedded,  or  no  ? 
Boyet.  To  her  will,  sir,  or  so. 
Biron.  You  are  welcome,  sir  !  adieu  I 
Boyet.  Farewell  to  nic,  sir,  and  welcome  to  you. 
\_Exit  BiBos. — Ladies  unmash. 
Mar.  That  last  is  Biron,  the  merry  madcap  lord ; 
Not  a  word  with  him  but  a  jest. 

Boyet.  And  every  jest  but  a  word. 

Pri7i.  It  was  well  done  of  you  to  take  him  at 

his  word. 
Boyet.  I  was  as  willing  to  grapple,  as  he  was  to 

board. 
Mar.  Two  hot  sheeps,  maj'iy ! 
Boyet.  And  wherefore  not  ships  ? 

No  sheep,  sweet  lamb,  unless  we  feed  on  yoiu-  lips. 
Mar.  You   sheep,  and  I  pasture :    Shall   tnat 

finish  the  jest  ? 
Boyet.  So  you  grant  pasture  for  me. 

[  Offering  to  hiss  her. 
Mar.  Not  so,  gentle  beast ; 

My  Hps  ai'e  no  common,  though  several  they  be.*" 
Boyet.  Belonging  to  whom  ? 
Mar.     .  To  my  fortunes  and  me. 

Prin.  Good  wits  will  be  jangUng;  but,  gentles, 
agree : 
This  civil  war  of  wits  were  much  better  us'd 
On  Navarre  and  his  book- men;  for  here 't  is  abus'd. 
Boyet.  If  my  observation,  (which  veiy  seldom 
lies,) 
By  the  heart's  stiU  rhetoric,  disclosed  with  eyes. 
Deceive  me  not  now,  NavaiTc  is  infected. 
Prin.  With  what  ? 
Boyet.    With    that  which   we   lovers   entitle, 

affected. 
Prin.  Your  reason. 

Boyet.  "WTiy,  all  his  behaviours  do  make  theii 
retire 
To  the  court  of  his  eye,  peeping  thorough  desire  : 
His  heart,  like  an  agate,  with  your  print  impressed. 
Proud  with  his  form,  in  his  eye  pride  erpiessed  : 
His  tongue,  all  impatient  to  speak  and  not  see,'' 

273 


LOVE'S  LABOUR  'S  LOST. 


SCtiVE    I. 


Did  stumble  with  haste  ia  his  eye-sight  to  be ; 
All  senses  to  that  sense  did  make  their  repair, 
To  feel  only  looking  on  fairest  of  fair  : 
Methought  aU  his  senses  were  lock'd  in  Ms  eye, 
As  jewels  in  crystal  for  some  prince  to  buy ; 
Who,  tendering  their  own  worth,   from  whence 

they  were  glass' d. 
Did  point  out  to  buy  them,  along  as  you  pasa'd. 
His  face's  own  margent  did  cote  such  amazes. 
That  all  eyes  saw  his  eyes  enchanted  with  g;azes: — 
"I  '11  give  you  Aquitain,  and  aU  that  is  big, 
An  you  give  him  for  my  sake  but  one  loving-  kiss." 
Prin.  Come,  to  our  pavihon:  Boyet  is  dispos'd.'' 
Boyet.  But  to  speak  that  in  words,  whi'ih  his 
eye  h;ith  disclos'd  : 


I  only  have  made  a  mouth  of  his  eye. 
By  adding  a  tongue  which  I  know  wUl  not.  lie. 
Bos.  Thou  art  an  old  lovc-mongcr,  and  SDeakesl 

sldlfully. 
Mar.  He  is  Cupid's  grandfather,  and  learns  newj 

of  him. 
Bos.  Then  was  Venus  Kks  her  mother ;  for  hoi 

father  is  but  grim. 
Boyet.  Do  you  hear,  my  mad  wonches  ^ 
Mar.  No. 

Boyet.  What,  then,  do  you  see  ? 

Ros.  Aj,  our  way  to  be  gone. 
Boyet.  Tou  are  too  hard  for  me. 

fUxmnt. 


ACT   III. 


SCENE  I. — Another  part  of  the  Park 

Enter  Aemabo  and  Moth. 

Arm.  Warble,  child ;  make  passionate  my  sense 
of  hearing. 

Moth.   Coneolinel \_Singing. 

Arm.  Sweet  air !  Go,  tenderness  of  yeai's !  take 
tais  key,  give  enlargement  to  the  swain,  bring 
him  festinately  hither ;  I  must  employ  him  in  a 
letter  to  my  love. 

Moth.  Master,  will  yon  win  your  love  with  a 
French  brawl  r'^ 

Ar7n.  How  meanest  thou?  brawling  in  Prench ? 

Moth.  No,  my  complete  master :  but  to  jig  off 
a  tune  at  the  tongue's  end,  canary  to  it  with  your 
feet,  humoui-  it  with  turning  up  your  eyelids;  sigh 
u  note,  and  sing  a  note ;  sometime  through  the 
throat,  as  if  you  swallowed  love  with  singing  love; 
sometime  through  the  nose,  as  if  you  snuffed  up 
love  by  smelling  love  ;  with  yoiir  hat,  penthouso- 
Uke,"  o'er  the  shop  of  your  eyes ;  with  your  anns 
crossed  on  your  thin  belly-doublet,  like  a  rabbit  on 
a  spit;  or  your  hands  in  your  pocket,  like  a  man 
after  the  old  painting ;  and  keep  not  too  long  in 
one  tune,  but  a  snip  and  iway :  These  are  com- 
plements, these  are  humours;  tliese  betray  nice 
wenches,  that  would  be  betrayed  without  these; 
and  make  them  men  of  note,  (do  you  note  men  ?) 
that  mout  arc  affected  to  these. 

Arm.  How  hast  thou  purchased  tliis  experience  ? 
280 


Moth.  By  my  penny  of  observation. 

Arm.  But  0,— but  0— 

Moth,  —the  hobby-horse  is  forgot.'"' 

Ami.  CaU'st  thou  my  love,  hobby-horse  ? 

Moth.  No,  master;  the  hobby-horse  is  but  a 
colt,^°  and  your  love,  perhaps,  a  hackney.  But 
have  you  forgot  your  love  ? 

Arm.  Almost  I  had. 

Moth.  Negligent  student !  learn  her  by  heart. 

Arm.  By  heart,  and  in  heart,  boy. 

Moth.  And  out  of  heart,  master :  all  those  three 
I  "niU  prove. 

Arm.  What  wilt  thou  prove  ? 

Moth.  A  man,  if  I  live;  and  this,  by.  In,  and 
without,  upon  the  instant :  By  heart  you  love  her, 
because  your  lieart  cannot  come  by  her :  in  heart 
you  love  her,  because  your  heart  is  in  love  with 
her :  and  out  of  heart  you  love  her,  being  out  of 
heart  that  you  cannot  enjoy  her. 

Arm..  I  am  all  these  three. 

Moth.  And  three  times  as  much  more,  and  yet 
nothing  at  all. 

Arm.  Fetch  hither  the  swain ;  he  must  carry 
me  a  letter. 

Moth.  A  message  well  sympathiz'd  ;  a  horse  to 
be  ambassador  for  an  ass  ! 

Arm.  Ha,  ha !  what  sayest  thou  ? 

Moth.  llaiTy,  sir,  j-ou  must  send  the  ass  upon 
the  horse,  for  lie  is  very  slow-gaited  :  But  I  go. 
Arm.  The  way  is  but  short ;  away. 


Aoi  m. 


LOVE'S  LA^BOUii,  'S  LOST. 


SCENTS  1, 


Moth    As  swift  as  load,  sir. 
A>-m.  Thy  rat-aniug,  pretty  ingenious  ? 
fs  not  load  a  metal  heavy,  duU,  and  slow  ? 
Motlt.  Minitm-,  honest  master;  or  rather,  master, 

no. 
Arm    I  say,  lead  is  slow. 
l[uth.  You  arc  too  swift,  sir,  to  say  so : 

Is  that  load  slow  which  is  fir"d  from  a  gun  } 

Arm.  Sweet  smoke  of  rhetoric  ! 
Ho  reputes  me  a  cannon ;    and  the  bullet,  that 's 

ho:— 
I  slioot  thee  at  the  swain. 
Moth. '  Thump,  then,  and  I  floe.  \_Exit. 

Arm.  A  most  acute  juvenal ;   voluble  and  free 
■  of  grace ! 
By  thy  favom-,  sweet  welkin,  I  must  sigh  in  thy 

face : 
Most  rude  melancholy,  valour  gives  thee  place. 
My  herald  is  retum'd. 

Re-enter  Moth  and  Costabd. 

Moth.  A   wonder,    master ;    here  's  a   Costard 

broken  in  a  shin.'' 
Arm.  Some  enigma,  some  riddle  :    come, — thy 

V envoy  ;" — begin. 
Cod.  No  egma,  no  riddle,  no  V envoy ;  no  salve 
in  them  all,  sir :  0  sir,  plantain,  a  plain  plantain ; 
no  I'cnvo!/,  no  F envoi/ ;  no  salve,  sir,  but  a  plantain! 
Arm.  liy  virtue,  thou  enforcest  laughter;  thy 
silly  thought,  my  spleen ;  the  heaving  of  my  lungs 
provokes  me  to  ridiculous  smiling  :  0,  pardon  me, 
m)-  stars  !  Doth  the  inconsiderate  take  salve  for 
I'enroy,  and  the  word  V envoy  for  a  salve  ? 

Moth.  Do  the  wise  think  them  other  ?   is  not 
V  envoy  a  salve  ? 

Arm.  No   page  :  it  is  an  epilogue  or  diseoiu:se, 
to  make  plain 
Some  obscure  precedence  that  hath  tofore  been  sain. 
I  will  example  it : 

The  fox,  the  ape,  and  the  humble-bee. 
Were  still  at  odds,  being  but  three. 
There  's  the  moral :  Now  the  V envoy. 

Moth.  I  will  add  the  V envoy ;    say  the  moral 
again. 
Arm.  The  fox,  the  ape,  and  the  humble-bee, 

AYcrc  still  at  odds,  being  but  throe. 
Moth.  Until  the  goose  came  out  of  door. 
And  stay"d  the  odds  by  adding  four. 
Nov.-  wUl  I  begin  your  moral,  and  do  you  follow 
with  my  V envoy : 

The  fox,  the  ape,  and  the  himible-bee, 
y^cre  still  at  odds,  being  but  three  : 


Arm.  Until  the  goose  came  out  of  door. 

Staying  the  odds  by  adding  four. 
Moth.  A  good  r envoy,  ending  in  the  goose;  would 

you  desire  more  ? 
Cost.  The  boy  hath  sold  him  a  bargain,^"  a  goose 
that 's  flat : — 
Sir,  your  pennyworth  is  good,  an  your  goose  be 

fat- 
To  sell  a  bargain  wcU  is  as  cunning  as  fast  and 

loose : 
Let  me  see  a  fat  V envoy ;  ay,  that 's  a  fat  goose. 
Arm.  Come  hither,  come  hither :  How  did  tliis 

argument  begin  ? 
Moth.  By  saying  that  a  Costard  was  broken  in  a 
shin. 
Then  caU'd  you  for  the  I'envoy. 
j       Cost.  True,  and  I  for  a  plantain:  Thus  camo 
your  argument  in ; 
Then  the  boy's  fat  Vcnvoy,  the  goose  that  you 
j  bought ; 

!  And  he  ended  the  market. 

Arm.  But  teU  mo ;  how  was  there  a  Costard 
broken  in  a  shin  ? 

Moth.  I  will  teU  you  sensibly. 
Cost.  Thou  hast  no  feeling  of  it.  Moth ;  I  will 
speak  that  I'envoy. 

I,  Costard,  running  out,  that  was  safely  witliin, 
Fell  over  the  threshold,  and  broke  my  shin. 
Arm.  We  will  talk  no  more  of  this  matter. 
Cost.  TiU  there  be  more  matter  in  tlic  sliin. 
Arm.  Sirrah  Costard,  I  wiU  cnfrancliise  thee. 
Cost.  0,  marry  me  to   one   Frances; — I  smcU 
some  V envoy,  some  goose  in  this. 

Arm.  By  my  sweet  soul,  I  mean,  settiag  thee 
at  liberty,  enfroodoming  thy  person;  thou  wert 
immured,  restrained,  captivated,  bound. 

Cost.  True,  true ;  and  now  you  will  be  my  pur- 
gation, and  lot  me  loose. 

Arm.  I  give  thee  thy  liberty,  set  thee  from 
durance;  and,  in  lieu  thereof,  impose  on  thee 
nothing  but  this :  Bear  this  significant  to  the 
country  maid  Jaquenetta :  there  is  remuneration ; 
\  giving  him  money']  for  the  best  ward  of  mine 
honour  is  rewarding  my  dependents.    Moth,  follow 

lExit 
Moth.    Like  the  sequel,   1.'° — Signer  Costard 
adieu. 

Cost.  My  sweet  ounce  of  man's  flesh !  my  incony 

Jew!"  [£■«<  Moxn. 

Now  will  I  look  to  his  remuneration.     Kemunera- 

tion  !  0,  that 's  the  Latin  word  for  three  farthings : 

three  farthings — ^remuneration. — What 's  the  price 

2S1 


ACT  ur. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST 


of  this  inkle  r  a  penny : — "No,  I  '11  give  you  a 
remuneration :  why,  it  carries  it. — Remuneration  ! 
—why,  it  is  a  fairer  name  than  a  French  crown." 
I  will  never  buy  and  sell  out  of  this  word. 

Miter  Bmoif. 
Biron.  0,  my  good  knave  Costard !  exceedingly 
well  met. 

Cost.  Pray  you,  sir,  how  much  carnation  ribbon 
may  a  man  buy  for  a  remuneration  ? 
Biron.  ^Vhat  is  a  remuneration  ? 
Cost.  Marry,  sir,  halfpenny  farthing. 
Biron.  0,  why  then,  three-fiutliings-worth  of 
sOk. 

Cost.  I  thank  your  worship  :  God  be  with  you ! 
Biron.  0,  stay,  slave ;  I  must  employ  thee : 
A^  thou  wUt  win  my  favour,  good  my  knave, 
Do  one  thing  for  me  that  I  shall  entreat. 
Cost.  When  would  you  have  it  done,  sir 
Biron.  0,  this  afternoon. 
Cost.  ^Yell,  I  vidll  do  it,  sir :  Fare  you  woU. 
Biron.  0,  thou  knowest  not  what  it  is. 
Cost.  I  shaU  know,  sir,  when  I  have  done  it. 
Biron.   Why,  villain,  thou  must  know  first. 
Cost.  I  wiU  come  to  your  worship  to-morrow 

morning. 
Biron.  It  must  be  done  this  afternoon.      Hark, 
slave,  it  is  but  this ; — 
The  princess  comes  to  hunt  here  in  the  pai'k, 
And  in  her  train  there  is  a  gentle  lady ; 
WTien  tongues  speak  sweetly,  then  they  name  her 

name. 
And  Eosaline  they  call  her :  aak  ibr  her ; 
And  to  her  white  hand  see  thou  do  commend 
This  seal'd-up  counsel.     There  's  thy  guerdon ;  go. 

[Gives  him  a  shilling. 
Coti.  Gardon, — 0  swoet  gsrdon  i    better  than 
2S2 


remuneration;  eleven-pence  fTTtl-ing  better:'- 
Most  sweet  gardon  ! — I  will  do  it,  :-ir,  in  print.— 
Gardon — remuneration.  [_Ej.it. 

Biron.  0  I — And  I,  forsooth,  iii  love  I  I,  tlial 
have  been  love's  whip ; 
A  very  beadle  to  a  humorous  sigh ; " 
A  critic ;  nay,  a  night-watch,  constable  ; 
A  domineering  pedant  o'er  the  hoy, 
Than  whom  no  mortal  so  magnificent ! 
This  whimplcd,"'  whining,  purblind,  wayward  boy ; 
This  senior-j  imior,  giant-dwarf,  Dan  Cupid : 
Eegent  of  love-rhymes,  lord  of  folded  arrns, 
Th'  anointed  sovereign  of  sighs  and  groans, 
Liege  of  all  loitei'ers  and  malcontents, 
Dread  prince  of  plackets,"  king  of  codpieces, 
Sole  imperator,  and  great  general 
Of  trotting  paritors.     0  my  little  heart ! — 
And  I  to  bo  a  corpoi-al  of  his  field, 
And  wear  his  colours  like  a  tumbler's  hoop.*' 
A^Hiat !  I  love  !  I  sue !  I  seek  a  wife ! 
A  woman,  that  is  like  a  German  clock,*' 
Still  a  repairing ;  ever  out  of  frame ; 
And  never  going  aright,  being  a  watch, 
But  being  watch'd  that  it  may  still  go  right  ? 
Nay,  to  be  perjur'd,  which  is  worst  of  aU; 
And,  among  three,  to  love  the  worst  of  all; 
A  whitely  wanton  with  a  velvet  brow. 
With  two  pitch-balls  stuck  in  her  face  for  eyes ; 

i  Ay,  and,  by  heaven,  one  that  will  do  the  deed, 
Though  jVrgus  were  her  eunuch  and  her  guard ! 

!  And  I  to  sigh  for  her, — to  watch  for  her, 
To  pray  for  her  ?     Go  to ;  it  is  a  plague 
That  Cupid  wiU  impose  for  my  neglect 
Of  liis  almighty  dreadfiil  little  might. 
Well,  I  will  love,  write,  sigh,  pray,  sue,  groan  • 
Some  men  must  love  my  lady,  and  somo  Joan. 


AOT   IV. 


LOVE'S  LABOUIi  'S  LOST. 


SCBNE    I. 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  1.— Another  part  of  the  Park. 

Enter  tlie  Picncess,  EosALmE,  Masia,  Katiiauine, 
EoYET,  Lords,  Attendants,  and  a  Forester. 

Prin.  "Was  that  the  king,  that  spur'a  liis  horse 
so  hard 
igaiust  the  steep  uprising  of  the  hUl  ? 

Boyet.  I  know  not ;  but,  I  thinlv,  it  was  not  he. 

I'rin.  Wlio  e'er  he  was,  he  show"d  a  mouuting 
mind. 
Well,  lords,  to-day  we  shall  have  our  despatch ; 
On  Saturday  wo  will  return  to  France. — 
Tlien,  forester,  my  friend,  where  is  the  bush 
That  we  must  staud  and  play  the  murderer  in  ? 

For.  Hereby,  upon  the  edge  of  yonder  coppice, 
A.  stand  where  you  may  make  the  fairest  shoot,*' 

Prin.  I  thank  my  beauty,  I  am  fair  that  shoot, 
-Ind  thereupon  thou  speak'st,  the  fairest  shoot. 

For.  Pardon  me,  madam,  for  I  meant  not  so. 

Prin.  What !  what !  fii'st  praise  me,  and  then 
again  say  no  ? 
0  sliort-liv'd  pride  !     Not  fair  ?  alack  for  woe  ! 

For.  Yes,  madam,  fair. 

Prin.  Nay,  never  paint  me  now ; 

Where  fair  is  not,  praise  cannot  mend  the  brow. 
Here,  good  ray  glass,*  take  this  for  telling  true ; 

\_Gicing  him  money. 
Fair  payment  for  foul  words  is  more  than  due. 

For.  Nothing  but  fair  is  that  which  you  inherit. 

Prin.  See,  see,  my  beauty  will  be  sav'd  by  merit. 
0  heresy,  in  fair,  fit  for  these  days ! 
A.  giving  hand,  though  foul,  shall  have  fair  praise. — 
But  come,  the  bow  : — Now  Mercy  goes  to  kill, 
Aaid  shooting  woU  is  then  accounted  iU. 
Thus  wiU  I  save  my  credit  in  the  shoot : 
Not  wounding,  pity  would  not  let  me  do  't; 
If  wounding,  then  it  was  to  show  my  skill, 
That  more  for  praise,  than  purpose,  meant  to  kill. 
&.nd,  out  of  question,  so  it  is  sometimes ; 
Gloiy  grows  guilty  of  detested  crimes ; 
Wlien,  for  fame's  sake,  for  praise,  an  outward  part. 
We  bend  to  that  the  working  of  the  heart : 
Ab  I,  for  praise  alone,  now  seek  to  spQl 


The  poor  deer's  blood,  that  my  heart  means  no  ill 
Boyet.    Do    not    curst    wives    hold   that    self- 
sovereignty 

Only  for  praise'  sake,  when  they  strive  to  bo 

Lords  o'er  their  lords  ? 

Prin.  Only  for  praise :  and  praise  we  may  afford 

To  any  lady  that  subdues  a  lord. 

JEnter  Costajxd. 

Boyet.  Here  comes  a  member  of  the  common- 
wealth. 

Cost.  God  dig-you-den  aU  !  Pray  you,  which  is 
the  head  lady  ? 

Prin.  Thou  shalt  know  her,  fellow,  by  the  rest 
that  have  no  heads. 

Cost.  Wliich  is  the  greatest  lady,  the  highest  ? 

Prin.  The  thickest,  and  the  tallest. 

Cost.  The  thickest,   and  the  tallest!   it  is  so; 
truth  is  truth. 
An  your  waist,  mistress,  were  as  slender  as  my  wit, 
One  o'  these  maids'  girdles  for  your  waist  should 

befit. 
Are  not  you  the  chief  woman  ?  you  are  the  tliickest 
here. 

Prin.  What 's  your  will,  sir  ?  what 's  your  will  ? 

Cost.  I  have  a  letter  from  monsieur  I5iron,  tc 
one  lady  llosahne. 

Prin.  0,  thy  letter,   thy  letter;  he  's  a  good 
fiiond  of  mine : 
Stand  aside,  good  bearer. — Boyet,  you  can  carve; 
Break  up  this  capon." 

Boyet.  I  am  bound  to  serve. — • 

Tliis  letter  is  mistook,  it  importeth  none  hero ; 
It  is  writ  to — Jaquenetta. 

Prin.  We  will  read  it,  I  swear : 

Break  the  neck  of  the  wax,  and  every  one  give  ear 

Boyet.  \_Reads.'\ 

By  heaven,  that  thou  art  fair  is  most  infallible;  tnie, 
that  thou  art  beauteous ;  truth  itself,  that  thou  ait  lov(  ly. 
More  fairer  than  fair,  beautiful  tliau  beauteous,  tiuer  than 
truth  itself,  have  commiseration  oo  'hy  heroital  vassal  I 
The  magnanimous  and  most  illustrate  king  Cophetua  set 
eye  upon  the  pernicious  and  induhitato  beggar  Penelophon 
and  ho  it  was  that  might  rightly  say,  veni,  viJi,  vici ;  whiuh 

283 


LOVE'S  LABOUE  'S  LOST. 


SCENB  I. 


'.0  annotaiiize  in  tho  Tulgar  (0  base  and  obscure  vulgar!^ 
cidtUcct.  he  came,  saw,  and  ovxiame  :  he  came,  one ;  saw, 
hvo;  overcame,  three.  Who  came?  the  king;  Why  did  he 
come?  to  see;  Why  did  he  see?  to  overcome:  To  whom 
came  he  ?  to  tlie  beggar ;  What  saw  he  ?  the  beggar ;  'WTio 
overcame  he  ?  the  beggar :  The  conchision  is  victory ;  On 
whose  side  ?  tho  kijg's  :  the  captive  is  enrich' d  ;  On  whose 
side?  the  beggar's:  The  catastrophe  is  a  nuptial;  On  whose 
B'de?  the  king's? — no,  on  both  in  one,  or  one  in  both.  I 
am  ihe  king ;  for  so  stands  the  comparison :  thou  the  beg- 
gar; for  so  witnesseth  thy  lowliness.  Shall  I  command  thy 
love  ?  I  may :  Shall  I  enforce  thy  love  ?  I  could :  Shall  I 
enti-eat  thy  love  ?  1  will :  What  shalt  thou  exchange  for 
rags  ?  robes ;  For  tittles,  titles  ;  For  thyself,  me.  Thus, 
expecting  thy  reply,  I  profane  my  lips  on  thy  foot,  my  eyes 
OT,  thy  pictiu"e,  and  my  heart  on  thy  every  part. 

Thine,  in  the  dearest  design  of  industry, 
Dox  Adri.ixo  de  Armado. 

"  Thus  dost  thou  hear  the  Ncmean  lion  roar 
'Gainst  thee,  thou  lamb,  that  standcst  as  his  prey ; 

■Submissive  fall  his  princely  feet  before. 
And  he  from  forage  will  incline  to  play : 

But  if  thou  strive,  poor  soul,  what  art  thou  then  ? 

Food  for  his  rage,  repasture  for  his  den." 

Prin.  What  plume  of  feathers  is  lie  that  indited 
tliis  letter? 
Wnat  vane?   what  weather-cock?  did  you  ever 
hear  hotter  ? 
Boyet.  I  am  much  deceived,  but  I  remember 

the  style. 
Prin.  Else  your  memory  is  bad,  going  o'er  it 

erewhile. 
Boyet.  This  Armado  is  a  Spaniard,  that  keeps 
here  in  court ; 
A  phantasm,  a  Monarcho,*^  and  one  tliat  makes  sport 
To  the  prince,  and  his  book-mates. 

Prin.  Thou,  feUow,  a  word : 

Wlio  gave  thee  this  letter  ? 

Cost.  I  told  you ;  my  lord. 

Prin.  To  whom  shouldst  thou  give  it  ? 
Cost.  From  my  lord  to  my  lady. 

Prin.  From  which  lord,  to  which  lady  ? 
Cost.  From  my  lord  Btron,  a  good  master  of  mine, 
To  a  lady  of  France,  that  he  caU'd  Kosaline. 
Prin.  Thou  hiist  mistaken  his  letter.      Come, 
lords,  away. 
Ecre,  sweet,  put  up  this ;  't  will  be  thine  another 
day.  \_JExctmt  PRn^cicss  and  Train. 

Boyd.  Who  is  the  shooter  ?  who  is  the  sliooter  ? " 
Pos.  Shall  I  teach  you  to  know  ? 
Boyet.  Ay,  my  continent  of  beauty. 
Ros.  Why,  she  that  bears  the  bow. 

^Finely  put  off! 

Boyet.  My  lady  goes  to  kill  horns ;  but,  if  thou 
marry, 
284 


Hang  me  by  the  reck,  if  horns  that  year  miscany. 
Finely  put  on ! 

Ros.  Well,  then,  I  am  the  shooter. 

Boyet.  And  who  is  your  deer  ? 

.Ros.  If  we  choose  by  the  horns,  yoirrself :  come 
not  near. 
Finely  put  on,  indeed ! 

Mar.  You  still  wrangle  with  her,  Boyet,  and 
she  strikes  at  the  brow. 

Boyet.  But  she  herself  is  hit  lower :  Have  I  hit 
her  now  ? 

Ros.  Shall  I  come  upon  thee  with  an  old  saying, 
that  was  a  man  when  king  Pepin  of  France  was  a 
little  boy,  as  touching  the  hit  it  ? 

Boyet.  So  I  may  answer  thee  with  one  as  old, 
that  was  a  woman  when  queen  Guinever  of  Britain" 
was  a  little  wench,  as  touching  the  hit  it. 

Ros.  \_Singing.~\ — 

Thou  canst  not  hit  it,  hit  it,  hit  it, 
Thou  canst  not  hit  it,  my  good  man. 

Boyet. 

An  I  cannot,  cannot,  cannot, 
An  I  cannot,  another  can. 

\_Exeunt  Eos.  and  Kath. 
Cost.  By  my  troth,  most  pleasant !  how  both 

did  fit  it ! 
Mar.  A  mark  marvellous  well  shot ;  for  they 

both  did  hit  it. 
Boyet.  A  mark!  0,  mark  but  that  mark!   A 

mark,  says  my  lady  ! 
Let  the  mark  have  a  prick  ia  't^  to  mete  at,  if  it 

may  be. 
Mar.  Wide  o' the  bow  hand !  I' faith  your  hand 

is  out. 
Cost.  Indeed,  a'  must  shoot  nearer,  or  he  '11  ne'oi 

hit  the  clout. 
Boyet.  An  if  my  hand  be  out,  then,  belike  youi 

hand  is  in. 
Cost.  Then  will  she  get  the  upshot  by  cleaving 

the  pin. 
Mar.  Come,  come,  you  talk  greasily ;  your  lips 

grow  foul. 
Cost.  She  's  too  hard  for  you  at  pricks,  sir 

challenge  her  to  bowl. 
Boyet.  I  fear  too  much  nibbing.      Good  night, 

my  good  owl.  [_Exe>mt  Boyet  and  lI.vKrA. 
Cost.    By  my  soul,   a  swain !    a  most  simple 

clown! 
Lord,  Lord !  how  the  ladies  and  I  have  put  him 

down ! 
0,  my  troth,  most  sweet  jests !  most  incony  vulgai 

wit! 


ACT    IV. 


LOVE'S  LABOUE  'S  LOST. 


SCENE  n. 


WTicn  it  comes  so  smoothly  off,  so  obscenely,  as  it 

■were,  so  fit. 
Aimatlin  o'  the  one  side, — 0,  .a  most  dainty  man  ! 
To  see  him  walk  before  a  lady,  ;md  to  bear  her  fan  ! 
To  see  him  kiss  his  hand !  and  how  most  sweetly 

a'  will  swear ! — 
And  his  page  at  other  side,  that  handful  of  wit ! 
Ah,  heavens,  it  is  a  most  pathetical  nit ! 
Sola,  sola  !      [_A  noise  raised  after  shootinff  is  heard 
within.]  [^Exit  Cost.,  running. 

SCEXE  11.— Another  part  of  the  Pari. 

Enter  noLOFEKNES,  Sra  NathJiNIel,  and  Dull. 

Nath.  Tory  reverent  sport,  tnily  ;  and  done  in 
Uie  testimony  of  a  good  conseienoc. 

Hoi.  The  deer  was,  as  you  know,  sanguis, — in 
blood ;  ripe  as  a  pomewater,''  who  now  hangeth 
Like  a  jewel   in  the  ear  of  cmh, — the    sky,    the 
welkin,  the  heaven ;  and  anon  falleth  like  a  cr.ab, 
on  the  face  of  terra, — the  soil,  the  land,  the  earth. 
Natli.  True,  master  Holofernes,  the  epithets  are 
sweetly  viuied,  like  a  scholar  at  the  least :  But, 
sir,  I  a'lsure  ye,  it  was  a  buck  of  the  first  head." 
Hoi.  Sir  Nathaniel,  hand  credo. 
Dull.  'T  ^as  not  a.  hand  credo ;  't  was  a  pricket 
Hoi.  Most  barbarous  intimation  !  yet  a  kind  of 
insinuation,  as  it  were  in  via,  in  way,  of  explica- 
tion; fncere,   as  it  wei-e,   replication,    or,   rather, 
ostentare,  to  show,  as  it  were,  his  inclination, — 
after  his  undressed,  unpolished,  uneducated,  un- 
pruned,   unti-ained,  or  rather  unlettered,  or,  ra- 
therest,  imconfirmcd  fashion, — to  insert  again  my 
ha^l§  credo  for  a  deer. 

Bull.  I  said,  the  deer  was  not  a  hawd  credo; 
t  was  a  pricket. 

Hoi.  Twice  sod  simplicity,  lis  eoctm  ! — 0  thou 
monster  Ignorance,  how  deformed  dost  thou 
look! 

Kath.  Sir,  he  hath  never  fed  of  the  didnties  that 
are  bred  in  a  book ;  he  hath  not  eat  paper,  as  it 
were ;  he  hath  not  drunk  inli :  his  intellect  is  not 
replenished ;  he  is  only  an  miimal,  only  sensible  in 
the  didlcr  parts;  And  such  barren  plants  are  set 
hefoi'e  us,  (hat  we  thankfid  should  be 
(Which  we  of  taste  and  feeling  are)  for  those  parts 

that  do  fructify  in  us  more  than  he. 
For  as  it  would  ill  become  me  to  be  vain,  indis- 
creet, or  a  fool. 
So,  were  there  a  patch  set  on  learning,  to  sec  him 
in  a  school : 


But,  omne  lene,  say  I ;  being  of  an  old  fathei'a 

mind. 
Many  can  brook  the  weather,  that  love  not  the 
wind. 
Dull.  You  two  are  book  men :  Can  )-ou  tell  liy 
your  wit, 
What  was  a  month  old  at  Cain's  birth,  that 's  not 
five  weeks  old  us  yet? 
Hoi.  Dictynna,  good  man  DiiU;  Dictynna,  good 
man  Dull. 

3ull.  What  is  Dictynna  ? 
Nath.  A  title  to  Phcebe,  to  Luna,  to  the  moon. 
Hhl.  The  moon  was  a  month  old,  when  Adam 
was  no  more ; 
And  raught™  not  to  five  weeks,  when  he  c.amo  to 

five-score. 
Th'  allusion  holds  in  the  exchange. 

Bull.  'T  is  true  indeed ;  the  collusion  h(jlds  in 
the  exchange. 

ITol.  God  comfort  thy  capacity !  1  say,  th'  allu- 
sion holds  in  the  exchinge. 

Bull.  And  I  say  the  poUusion  holds  in  the  ex- 
change ;  for  the  moon  is  never  but  a  month  ohl : 
and  I  say,  beside,  that  't  was  a  pricket  that  the 
princess  kill'd. 

Hoi.  Sir  Nathaniel,  will  you  hear  an  extemporal 
epitaph  on  the  death  of  the  deer  ?  and,  to  humour 
the  ignorant,  I  have  calTd  the  deer  the  princess 
kill'd-  a  pricket. 

JVath.  Perge,  i;ooi  master 'Kohtemcs,  pergc ;  so 
it  shall  please  you  to  abrogate  scunility. 

Hoi.  I  will  something  effect  the  letter;  for  it 
ai'gues  facility. 

The  praiseful  princess  pierc'd  ani  prick'd  a  pretty  pleasing 
pricket ; 
Some  say  a  sore ;    but  not  a  sore,  till  now  made  sort 
with  shooting. 
The  dogs  did  yell ;  p'.;t  L  to  sore,  then  Sorel  jumps  from 
thicket ; 
Or  pricket,  sore,  or  else  Sorel ;  the  people  fall  a  hooting 
If  sore  be  sore,  then  L  to  sore  makes  fifty  sores;  0  sore  L , 
Of  one  sore  I  an  hundred  make,  by  adding  but  one  more  L. 
Nath.  A  rare  talent ! 

Bull.  If  a  talent  be  a  claw,"  look  how  he  claws 
him  with  a  tident. 

Hoi.  This  is  a  gift  that  I  have,  simple,  simple  • 
a  foolish  extravagant  spirit,  full  of  fbmis,  figures, 
shapes,  objects,  ideas,  apprehensions,  motions,  revo- 
lutions :  these  are  begot  in  the  ventricle  of  memory, 
nourished  in  the  womb  oi pia  mater,  and  delivered- 
upon  the  mcUowing  of  occasion ;  But  the  gift  is 
good  in  those  in  whom  it  is  acute,  and  I  am  thank- 
ful for  it. 

285 


/ 


LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. 


3CESE   n. 


Nalh.  Sir,  I  praise  the  Lord  f-T  you,  and  so 
may  ni)  parisliioners ;  fur  theii  sods  are  well 
tutord  by  you,  and  their  daughters  profit  very 
iji'eatly  under  you :  you  are  a  good  mcuibcr  of  the 
commonwealth. 

llol.  Meherde,  if  their  sons  be  ingenious,  they 
sh;iU  want  no  instruction:  if  their  daughters  be 
japable,  I  will  put  it  t»  thera :  But,  vir  sapit  qui 
paiKa  loquitur.     A  soul  feminin(;  saluteth  us. 
Enter  jAatTKXKTTA  and  Costakd. 
■fiiq.  God  give  you  good  morrow,  master  person.** 
Ifol.  ilaster  person, — quasi  pers-on.     An  if  one 
shuidd  be  pierc'd,  which  is  the  one  ? 

Cost.  Marry,  master  schoolmaster,  he  that  is 
Ukcst  to  a  hogshead. 

JIol.  Of  piercing  a  hogshead !  a  good  lusti'c  of 
conceit  in  a  turf  of  earth ;  fire  enough  for  a  fliut, 
[■carl  euuugh  for  a  swue :  't  is  pretty;  it  is  well. 

Jaq.  Good  master  person,  be  so  jjood  as  read 
me  this  letter ;  it  was  given  me  by  Costard,  and 
sent  me  from  Don  Armatho;  I  beseech  you,  read  it. 

Eol. 
'    Faiiste,  precoi-  gulida  quando  pecus  oinne  sub  umbii 

Ktiminat — 
And  so  forth.     Ah,  good  old  Hantaan!     I  may 
Epeak  of  thee  as  the  traveller  doth  of  Venice  : 

Tincgia,  Vinegia, 

CJii  non  te  veile,  non  te  pregia. 
Old  Mantuanl  old  Jlantnan !  "Wlio  understandeth 
thee  not,  loves  thee  not. —  Ut,  re,  sol,  la,  mi,  fa. — 
Under  pardon,  sir,  what  are  the  contents  ?  Or 
rather,,  as  Horace  says  in  his — "Wliat,  my  soul, 
verses  ? 

Nath.  Ay,  sir,  and  very  learned. 
ITol.  Let  me  hear  a  staff,  a  stanza,  a  verse;  Lege, 
domiiie. 
Nath.  {Reads.'] 
If  iovc  make  me  forawora.^'  how  shall  I  sw'^ar  to  love? 

Ah,  never  faith  could  hold,  if  not  to  beauty  vow'd! 
Though  to  myself  forswoi-Ji,  to  thee  I  '11  faithful  prove ; 
Those  thoughts  to  me  were  oaks,  to  thee  like  osiers 
bow'd. 
Study  his  bias  leaves,  and  makes  liis  book  thine  eyes, 
Wliero  all  those  pleasui-cs  live  that  ai't  would  com- 
prehend. 
If  knowledge  be  the  mark,  to  know  thee  shall  suffice ; 

Well  lean:  ad  is  that  tongue  that  well  can  thco  commend ; 
AH  ignorant  th.it  soul  that  sees  thee  witliout  wonder  ; 

(Wliieh  is  to  mo  some  praise,  that  I  thy  parts  adir.u-e  ;) 
Thy  eye  Jove's  lightning  bears,  thy  voice  his  dreadful 
tbundci , 
Which-,  not  to  anger  bent,  is  music,  and  sweet  iiro. 
Celeatiul  as  thou  art,  oh  pardon,  love,  this  wrong, 
That  sing!  heaven's  praise  with  such  an  eaithly  tongue ! 
286 


JIol.  Tou  find  not  the  apostrophes,  and  bo 
miss  the  accent:  let  me  supervise  the  canzonet 
Here  are  only  numbers  ratified ;  but,  for  the  ele- 
gancy, facility  and  golden  cadeacc  of  poesy,  caret 
OWdius  Naso  was  the  man :  and  why,  indeed, 
Naso,  but  for  smelling  out  the  odoriferous  flower 
of  fancy,  the  jerks  of  invention?  Imitari  is 
nothing:  so  doth  the  hound  his  master,  the  ape  his 
keeper,  the  tired"-  horse  liis  rider.  But,  damosclla 
virgin,  was  this  directed  to  j-ou  ? 

Jaq.  Ay,  sir,  from  one  monsieur  Biron,  one  of 
the  strange  queen's  lords. 

Hol.  I  will  overglanoe  the  superscript.  "To 
the  tnow-white  hand  of  the  most  beauteous  lady 
llosaline."  I  will  look  again  on  the  intellect  of 
the  letter,  for  the  nomination  of  the  partj'  writing 
to  the  person  written  unto  : 

"Your  ladyship  's  in  all  desired  emijloyment,  Birox." 
Sir  Nathariiel,  this  Eiron  is  one  of  the  votaries 
with  the  king :  and  here  he  hath  framed  a  letter 
to  a  sequent  of  the  stranger  (lueen,  which,  acci- 
dentally, ov  by  the  way  of  progression,  liath  mis- 
carried.— Trip  and  go,  my  sweet;  deliver  this 
paper  into  the  royal  hand  of  the  king;  it  may  con- 
cern much.  Stay  not  thy  compliment ;  I  forgive 
thy  duty.    Adieu ! 

Jaq.  Good  Costard,  go  ^^dth  me. — Sir,  God  save 
your  life. 

Cost.  Have  with  thee,  my  girl. 

\Exeunt  Cost,  and  Jaq. 

Nalh.  Sir,  you  have  done  this  in  the  fc;ir  oi 
God,  very  religiously ;  and,  as  a  certain  father 
saith 

Uol.  Sir,  tell  not  me  of  the  fatlicr;  I  do  fear 
colourable  colours.  But,  to  return  to  the  verses : 
did  they  please  you,  sir  Nathaniel  ? 

Nath.  Marvellous  well  for  the  pen. 

Uol.  I  do  dine  to-day  at  the  father's  of  a  cer- 
tain pupil  of  mine ;  where  if,  before  I'cpast,  it 
shall  please  you  to  gratifj-  the  table  ■n'ith  a  grace, 
I  ■will,  on  ray  privilege  I  have  with  the  parents  of 
the  foresaid  child  or  pupil,  undertake  yoiu-  hen 
venuto  ;  where  I  wUl  prove  those  verses  to  be  very 
unlearned,  neither  savouring  of  poetry,  -svit,  nor 
invention :  I  beseech  your  society. 

Nath.  And  thaidi.  you  too:  for  society  (saith  tho 
text)  is  the  happiness  of  life. 

IIol.  And,  certes,  the  text  most  infallibly  con- 
cludes it.  Sir,  \to  Dull]  I  do  invito  you  too; 
you  .'shall  not  F.ay  me  nay:  pauca  verha.  Away; 
the  gentles  arc  at  their  game,  and  wo  M'ill  to  om' 
recreation.    .  \EjceunL 


iCT   IV. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR  'S  LOST. 


scicsE  m. 


SCENE  III. — Another  part  of  the  same. 

Miter  BiRON  with  a  paper. 

Biron.  The  king  he  is  lumting  the  door ;  I  am 
corn-sing  myself:  thoy  have  pitched  a  toil;""  I  am 
toiliii;;  in  a  jjitf.h;  pitch  that  defiles;  defile!  a 
f  jiil  word.  "Well,  Set  tlieo  down,  sorrow !  for  so 
(hey  say  the  fool  said,  and  so  say  I,  and  I  the  fool. 
Well  proved,  wit!  By  the  Lord,  this  lore  is  as 
mad  as  Ajax:  it  kills  sheep;  it  kills  me,  I  a  sheep : 
Well  pro^•ed  again  o'  my  side  !  I  will  not  love  :  if 
I  do,  hang  mo ;  i'  faith,  I  will  not.  0,  but  her 
3yc, — by  this  light,  but  for  her  eye,  I  would  not 
love  her ;  yes,  for  her  two  eyes.  "WeU,  I  do  no- 
tliiiig  in  the  world  but  lie,  and  Uo  in  my  throat. 
By  heaTcn,  I  do  love :  and  it  hath  taught  mo  to 
rhyme,  and  to  be  melancholy :  and  liero  is  part  of 
my  rhyme,  and  here  ray  melancholy.  "Well,  she 
hath  one  o"  my  sonnets  abeady:  tlie  clown  bore  it, 
the  fool  sent  it,  and  the  lady  hatli  it:  sweet 
clown,  sweeter  fool,  sweetobt  lady!    By  the  world, 

I  would  not  care  a  pin, 
If  the  other  tliree  were  in  I 

Jlere  comes  one  with  a  paper;  God  give  him  grace 
(o  groan.  \_Gds  up  into  a  tree. 

Enter  the  Kjnq  ivith  a  paper. 

King.  Ah  mo! 

Biion.  [-Js^ye.]  Shot,  by  heaven ! — Proceed, 
Bweet  Cupid;  thou  hasc  thumped  him  with  thy 
oird-bolt  under  the  left  pap  :•■ — In  faith,  secrets. — 

King.  [Reads r\ 

So  sweet  a  kiss  the  golden  sun  gives  not 

To  those  fresh  morning  drops  upon  the  rose, 
As  thy  eye-heams,  when  their  fresh  rays  havo  smot 

The  night  of  dew  that  on  my  cheeks  do«-n  flows : 
Nor  shines  the  silver  moon  one  half  so  bright 

Through  the  transparent  bosom  of  the  deep, 
As  doth  tliy  face  thi-ough  tears  of  mine  give  light : 

Thou  shin'st  in  every  tear  that  I  do  weep  ; 

Ko  drop  but  as  a  coach  doth  cany  thee. 

So  ridest  thou  triumphing  in  my  woe : 
Do  but  behold  the  tears  that  swell  in  me, 

And  they  thy  glory  tlu-ough  my  grief  will  show . 
But  do  not  lovj  thyself;  then  thou  wilt  keep 
My  tears  for  glasses,  and  still  make  me  weep. 
0  qv'.ocn  of  queens,  liow  far  dost  thou  excel ! 
No  thought  can  think,  nor  tongue  of  mortal  tell.— 

How  shall  she  know  my  griefs  ?     I  '11  drop  the 

paper, 
Swoct  leaves,  shade  folly!   Wbo  is  he  comes  here? 

I  Steps  aside. 


Enter  Longavili.k,  with  a  papw. 

Wliat,  Longaville !  and  reading !  listen,  eai'. 

Biro)i.  Now,  ia   thy  likeness,   one   more  fool 

appear !  [_Aside. 

Long.  All  me !  I  am  forsworn. 

Biron.  "Why,  he  comes  in  like  apcrJMcr,  wearing 

papers."'  [Aside. 

King.   In   love,   I  hope:    Sweet  fellowsliip  in 

shame !  [Aside. 

Biron.  One  drunkard  loves  another  of  the  name. 

[Anide 

Long.  Am  I  the  first  that  have  been  perjur'd  so? 

Biro)i.  [Aside.'\  I  could  put  thee  in  comfort; 

not  by  two,  that  I  know : 

Thou  mak'st  the  triumviry,"  the  corner  cap  of 

society, 
The  shape  of  Love's  Tyburn  (hut  liangs  up  sim- 
plicity. 
Long.  I  fear  these  stubborn  lines  lack  power  to 
move  : 
0  sweet  Maria,  empress  of  my  love ! 
Those  numbers  will  I  tear  and  -svrite  in  prose. 
Biron.  [Aside.']  0,  rhymes  are  guards"  on  wanton 
Cupid's  hose; 
Disfigure  not  his  slop. 

Long.  This  same  sliall  go. — [He  reads  the  sonnet. 
Did  not  the  heavenly  rhetoric  of  thine  eye 

('Gainst  whom  the  world  cannot  hold  argiunent) 
Persuade  my  heart  to  this  false  perjiuy .' 

Vows  for  thee  broke  deserve  not  punishment, 
A  woman  1  forswore ;  but,  I  wUl  prove. 

Thou  being  a  goddess,  I  forswore  not  thee : 
My  vow  was  earthly,  thou  a  heavenly  love ; 

Thy  grace  being  gaiu'd,  cures  all  disgrace  in  ma. 
"Vows  arc  but  breath,  and  breath  a  vapour  is : 

Then  tliou,  fair  sun,  which  on  my  earth  doth  shinO; 
Exhal'st  tills  vapoiu'  vow ;  in  thee  it  is : 
If  broken  then,  it  is  no  fault  of  mine, 
if  by  me  broke.     "WTiat  fool  is  not  so  wise, 
To  lose  an  oath  to  win  a  paradise .' 

Biron.  [Aside.]  This  is  the  liver  vein,    wtjch 
makes  flesh  a  deity ; 
A  green  goose,  a  goddess  :  pure,  pure  idolatry. 
God  amend  us,  God  amend!  we  are  much  out  o' 
the  way. 

Enter  Dctjiaix,  with  a  paper. 

Long.  By  whom  shall  I  scud  this?— Ccmpany  1 
stay.  [S.'<pp!ng  aside. 

Biron.  [Aside.]  .Ul-hiu,  all-hid,"'  an  old  ini'anl 
play: 
Like  a  demi  god  here  sit  I  in  the  sky, 
And  wretched  fools'  secrets  heedfuUy  c'er-cyo. 

287 


LOVE'S  LiJJOUK  'S  LOST. 


SCENE   in. 


More  sacks  to  the  mill  I  0  heavens,  I  have  my 

Tvish  ; 
Dumain  transform'd :  four  woodcocks  in  a  dish! 
Bum.  0  most  divine  Kate ! 
Biron.  0  most  profane  coxcomb!     \^Asir!e. 

Diim.  B}'  heaven,  the  wonder  of  a  mortal  eye ! 
Biron.  By  earth,  she  is  not,  corporal :  there  j-ou 
lie.  [Aside. 

Bum.  Her  amber  hairs   for   foul   have  amber 

coted."' 
Biron.  An  amber-colour'd  raven  was  wcU  noted. 

\_Aside. 
Bum.  As  upright  as  the  cedar. 
Biron.  Stoop,  I  say ; 

Ber  shoulder  is  with  child.  [Aside. 

Dam.  As  fair  as  day. 

Biron.  Ay,  as  some  daj-s;  but  then  no  sun  must 
shine.  \_Aside. 

Bum.  0  that  I  had  my  wish  I 
Long.  And  I  liaJ  mine !  \ Aside. 

King.  And  I  mine  too,  good  lord  !  [Aside. 

Biron.  Amen,  so  I  had  mine  :  Is  not  that  a  good 
word  ?  [Aside. 

Bum.  I  would  forget  her;  but,  a  fever,  she 
Eeigns  in  my  blood,  and  wiE  remember'd  be. 

Biron.  A  fever  in  your  blood !  why,  then  incision 
Would  let  her  out  in  saucers:  Sweet  misprision! 

[Aside. 
Bum.  Once  more  I'U  read  the  ode  that  I  have 

■writ. 
Biron.  Once  more  I  'U  mark  how  love  can  vary 
wit.  [Aside. 

Bum.     On  a  day,  (alack  the  day !) 

Love,  whose  month  is  ever  May, 
Spied  a  blossom,  passing  fair. 
Playing  in  the  wanton  air: 
Through  the  velvet  leaves  the  wind, 
AU  unseen,  'gan  passage  find ; 
That  the  lover,  sick  to  death, 
Wish'd  himself  the  heaven's  breath. 
Air,  quoth  he,  thy  cheeks  may  blow ; 
Air,  would  I  might  triumph  so ! 
But,  alack,  my  hand  is  sworn. 
Ne'er  to  pluck  thee  from  thy  tliom : 
Vow,  alaek,  for  youth  unmeet; 
Youth  60  apt  to  pluck  a  sweet. 
Do  not  call  it  sin  in  me, 
That  I  am  forewom  for  thee : 
Thou  for  whom  Jovo  would  swear 
Juno  but  an  Ethiopo  were ; 
And  deny  himself  for  Jove, 
Turning  mortal  for  tliy  love. 

Tliis  will  I  send;  and  something  else  more  plain, 
That  shidl  express  my  true  love's  lasting  pain. 
288 


0,  would  the  King,  Biron,  and  LongaviUc, 
Were  lovers  too  !    Ill,  to  exauple  iU, 
Would  from  my  forehead  wipe  a  perjur'd  note  ■, 
For  none  offend,  whore  aU  alike  do  dote. 

Lo7ig.    Dumain,    [advancing'\    thy   love   is    fat 
from  charity, 
That  in  lovo"s  grief  dcsir'st  society: 
Tou  may  look  pale,  but  I  should  blush,  I  know. 
To  be  o'erheard,  and  taken  napping  so. 

King.  Come,  sir,  [adcayicing'\  you  blush ;  af  his 
yom-  case  is  such; 
You  chide  at  him,  offending  twice  as  much: 
You  do  not  love  Maria ;  LongaviUe 
Did  never  sonnet  for  her  sake  compile; 
Nor  never  lay  his  wreathed  arms  athwart 
His  loving  bosom,  to  keep  down  his  heart. 
I  have  been  closely  shrouded  in  this  bush. 
And  mark'd  you  both  and  for  you  both  did  blush. 
I  heard  your  guHt)'  rhymes,  observ'd  your  fashion 
Saw  sighs  reck  from  you,  noted  well  your  passion. 
Ah  me!  says  one ;  0  Jove  !  the  other  cries; 
One,  her  hairs  were  gold,  crystal  the  other's  eyes: 
You  would  for  paradise  break  faith  and  troth; 

[To  Long. 
And  Jove,  for  yom-  love,  would  infringe  an  oath. 

[To  DniAiN, 
What  wiU  Biron  say,  when  that  he  sliaU  hear 
Faith  infi'inged  which  such  zeal  did  swear  ? 
How  will  he  scorn !  how  will  he  spend  liis  wit  I 
How  will  he  triumph.  It  ap,  and  laugh  at  it ! 
For  all  the  wealth  that  ever  I  did  see, 
I  would  not  have  him  know  so  much  by  me. 

Biron.  Now,  step  I  forth  to  wliip  hypocrisy.— 
Ah,  good  my  liege,  I  pray  thee  pardon  me : 

[Bescends  from  the  tree. 
Good  heart,  what  grace  Iiast  tliou,  thus  to  reprove 
These  worms  for  lo-sdng,  that  art  most  iu  love '' 
Your  eyes  do  make  no  coaclies  ;  in  your  tears 
There  is  no  certain  princess  that  appears : 
You  '11  not  be  peijiu-'d,  't  is  a  hateful  tiling; 
Tush,  none  but  minstrels  like  of  sonneting. 
But  arc  you  not  asham'd  ?  nay,  are  you  not, 
AU  three  of  you,  to  be  thus  much  o'ershot  ? 
You  found  his  mote ;  the  king  your  mote  did  eeo ; 
But  I  a  beam  do  find  in  each  of  three. 
0,  what  a  scene  of  fool'rj-  have  I  seen. 
Of  sighs,  of  groans,  of  sorrow,  and  of  teen ! 
0  me,  with  what  strict  patience  have  I  sat, 
To  see  a  king  transformed  to  a  gnat !™ 
To  sec  great  Hercules  whipping  a  gig," 
And  profound  Solomon  tuning  a  jig. 
And  Nestor  play  at  push-pin  with  the  boys,"' 


ACT    IV. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR  'S  LOST. 


BOEHB    m. 


And  critic  Timon  laugh  at  idle  toys ! 
VVlievo  lies  tliy  griol',  O  tell  lue,  good  Dumain' 
And,  gentle  Longavnlle,  where  lies  thy  pain  5 
And  where  my  liege's?  all  about  the  breast: — 
A  candle,  ho ! 

Kinff.  Too  bitter  is  thy  jest. 

Are  we  betray'd  thus  to  thy  over-view? 

Biron.  Not  you  by  me,  but  I  betray'd  to  you  : 
I,  that  am  honest ;  I  that  hold  it  sin 
To  uroak  the  vow  I  am  engaged  in ; 
I  am  betray'd  by  keeping  company 
With  men,  like  men,"  of  strange  inconstancy. 
When  shall  you  see  me  wi'ite  a  thing  in  rhyme? 
Or  groan  for  Joan  V*  or  spend  a  minute's  time 
In  pruning  me?     When  shall  you  hear  that  I 
Will  praise  a  hand,  a  foot,  a  face,  an  eye, 
A  gait,  a  state,  a  brow,  a  breast,  a  waist, 
A  leg,  a  limb? — 

Kinij.  Soft;  whither  away  so  fast? 

A  true  man,  or  a  thief,  that  gallops  so  ? 

Biron.  I  post  from  love ;  good  lover,  let  me  go. 

Enter  Jaquenetta  and  Costard. 

Jaq.  God  bless  the  king ! 
King.  What  present  hast  thou  there  ? 

Cost.  Some  certain  treason. 
King.  What  makes  treason  here  ? 

Cost.  Nay,  it  makes  nothing,  sir. 
King.  If  it  mar  nothing  neither. 

The  treason,  and  you,  go  in  peace  away  together. 
Taq.  I  beseech  your  grace,  let  this  letter  be  read ; 
Our  person  misdoubts  it ;  it  was  treason,  he  said. 
King.  Biron,  read  it  over. 

[Giving  him  the  letter. 
Where  hadst  thou  it? 
Jaq.  Of  Costard. 
Klnq.   Whpr^.  hads'  Aou  it  ? 
Cost.  Of  aun  Adramadio,  dun  Adramadio. 
King.  How  now !    what  is  in  you  ?   why  dost 

thou  tear  it? 
Biron.  A  toy,  my  liege,  a  toy ;  your  grace  needs 

not  fear  it. 
Long.  It  did  move  him  to  passion,  and  therefore 

let 's  hear  it. 
Dum.  It   is   Biron's  writing,  and    here   is  his 
name.  \_Picks  up  the  pieces. 

Birnr>.  Ah,  you  whoreson  loggerhead,  you  were 
born  to  do  me  shame. —  [To  Cost. 

Guilty,  my  lord,  guilty ;  I  confess,  I  confess. 
King.  "Wliat? 

Biron.  That  you  three  fools  lack'd  me  fool  to 
make  up  the  mess ;" 


He,  he,  and  you ;  and  yoii,  my  liege,  and  T, 
Are  jjick-purscs  in  love,  and  wo  deserve  to  die. 
O,  dismiss  this  audience,  and  I  shall  tell  }ou  more 

Dum.  Now  tli(!  number  is  even. 

Biron.  True,  true ;  we  arc  four . — 

Will  these  turtles  be  gone? 

King.  Hence,  sirs ;  away. 

Cost.  Walk  aside  the  true  folk,  and  lot  the 
traitors  stay.       [Jixeunl  Cost,  and  J.\o. 

Biron.    Sweet    lords,   sweet    lovers,   O   lot   itf 
embrace ! 

As  true  we  are,  as  flesh  and  blood  can  be : 
The  sea  will  ebb  and  flow,  heaven  show  his  face ; 

Young  blood  doth  not  obey  an  old  decree : 
We  cannot  cross  the  cause  why  we  are  bom ; 
Therefore,  of  all  hands  must  we  be  forsworn. 

King.  What,  did  these  rent  lines  show  Bomc 
love  of'thine? 

Biron.  Did  they,  quoth  you?     Who  sees  the 
heavenly  Rosaline, 
That,  like  a  rude  and  savage  man  of  Inde, 

At  the  first  opening  of  the  gorgeous  east. 
Bows  not  his  vassal  head ;  and,  strucken  blind. 

Kisses  the  base  ground  with  obedient  breast  ? 
What  peremptory  eagle-sighted  eye 

Dares  look  upon  the  heaven  of  her  brow, 
That  is  not  blinded  by  her  majesty  ? 

King.  Wliat  zeal,  what  fury  hath  inspir'd  tli06 
now? 
My  love,  her  mistress,  is  a  gracious  moon ; 

She,  an  attending  star,  scarce  seen  a  light. 

Biron.  My  eyes  are  then  no  eves,  nor  I  Biron : 

O,  but  for  my  love,  day  woulil  turn  to  night ! 
Of  all  complexions,  the  cull'd  sovereignty 

Do  meet,  as  at  a  fair,  in  her  fair  cheek ; 
Where  several  worthies  make  one  dignity; 

Where  nothing  wants,  that  want  itself  doth  sook. 
Lend  me  the  flourish  of  all  gentle  tongues ; 

Fie,  painted  rhetoric  I     0,  she  needs  it  not : 
To  things  of  sale  a  seller's  praise  belongs ; 

She  passes  praise :   then  praise  too  short  doth 
blot. 
A  wither'd  hermit,  five-score  winters  worn, 

Might  shake  ofl'  fifty,  looking  in  her  eyo : 
Beauty  doth  varnish  age,  as  if  new-bom, 

And  gives  the  cratch  the  cradle's  infancy. 
0,  'tis  the  sun  that  maketh  all  things  shinol 

King.  By  heaven,  thy  love  is  black  as  ebony. 

Biron.  Is  ebony  like  her  ?     0  wood  divino ! 

A  wife  of  such  wood  were  felicity. 
0,  who  can  give  an  oath  ?  where  is  a  book? 

That  I  may  swear,  beauty  doth  beauty  lack, 

28!) 


ACT  IV.                                            LOTE'S  LABOUR  'S  LOST.                                        scene  m. 

If  that  ste  learn  not  of  her  eye  to  look : 

Long.  0,  some  authoiity  how  to  proceed ; 

No  face  's  fair,  tliat  is  not  full  so  black. 

Some  tricks,  some  quillets,  how  to  cheat  the  aevu 

King.  0  paradox !     Black  is  the  badge  of  hell, 

Dum.  Some  salve  for  perjuiy. 

Tlie  hue  of  dungeons,  and  the  scroll  of  night ;™ 

Biron.                 0,  'tis  more  than  need ! — 

And  btv^uty's  ci-est  becomes  the  heavens  well. 

Have  at  you  then,  affection's  men  at  arms : 

Biron.  Dennis  soonest  tempt,  resembling  spirits 

Consider,  what  you  first  did  swear  unto ; — 

ofhght. 

To  fast, — to  study, — and  to  see  no  woman ; — 

0  if  in  black  my  lady's  brows  be  deck'd. 

Flat  treason  against  the  kingly  state  of  youth. 

It  mourns  that  painting,  and  usurping  hair, 

Say,  can  you  fast  ?  your  stomachs  are  too  youn^. 

Should  rariah  doters  with  a  false  aspect ; 

And  abstinence  engenders  maladies. 

And  therefore  is  she  born  to  make  black  fair. 

And  where  that  you  have  vow'd  to  study,  lords, 

Her  favour  turns  the  fashion  of  the  days. 

In  that  each  of  you  hath  foreworu  his  book : 

For  native  blood  is  counted  painting  now ; 

Can  you  still  dream,  and  pore,  and  thereon  look ! 

A  nd  therefore  red,  that  would  avoid  dispraise, 

For  when  would  you,  my  lord,  or  you,  or  you, 

Paints  itself  black  to  imitate  her  brow. 

Have  found  the  ground  of  study's  excellence. 

Dum.  To  look  like  her,  are  chimney-sweepers 

Without  the  beauty  of  a  woman's  face  ? 

black. 

From  women's  eyes  this  doctrine  I  derive : 

Long.  And,  .>-ince  her  time,  are  colliers  counted 

They  are  the  ground,  the  books,  the  academes. 

bright. 

From  whence  doth  spring  the  true  Promethean 

King.  And  Ethiops  of  their  sweet  complexion 

fu-e. 

crack. 

Why,  universal  plodding  prisons  up 

Dum.  D.ark  needs  no  candles  now,  for  dark  is 

The  nimble  spirits  in  the  arteries ; 

light. 

As  motion,  and  long-during  action,  tires 

Biron.  Your  mistresses  dare  never  come  in  rain, 

The  sinewy  vigom'  of  the  traveller. 

For  fear  their  coloms  should  be  wash'd  away. 

Now,  for  not  looking  on  a  woman's  fece. 

King.  'T  were  good,  youi-s  did :  for,  sir,  to  tell 

You  have  in  that  forsworn  the  use  of  e^-es ; 

you  plain, 

And  study  too,  the  causer  of  yom-  vow : 

I  '11  find  a  fairer  face  not  wash'd  to-d.ay. 

For  where  is  any  author  in  the  world. 

Biron.  I  '11  prove  her  fair,  or  talk  till  doomsday 

Teaches  such  learning  as  a  woman's  eye  ? 

here. 

Learning  is  but  an  adjunct  to  ourself. 

King.  No  devil  ^^^ll  friglit  thee  then  so  much 

And  where  we  are,  our  learning  likewise  is. 

as  she. 

Then,  when  om-selves  we  see  in  ladies'  eyes, 

■    Dum.   I  never  knew  man  hold  vile   stuft'  so 

With  ourselves 

dear. 

Do  we  not  likewise  see  our  learning  there  ? 

Long.  Look,  here 's  thy  love :  my  foot  and  her 

0,  we  have  made  a  vow  to  study,  lords ; 

face  SCO.                       [Showing  kis  shoe. 

And  in  that  vow  we  have  forsworn  our  hooka 

Biron.  0,  if  the  streets  were  paved  with  thine 

For  when  would  you,  my  liege,  or  you,  or  yoa. 

e3-es. 

In  leaden  conteinphation,  have  found  out 

Her  feet  were   much    too   dainty  for   such 

Such  fiery  numbers,  as  the  prompting  eyes 

tre^d ! 

Of  beauty's  tutors,  have  enrich'd  you  with  ? 

Dvm.  O  vile !  then  as  she  goes,  what  upward 

Other  slow  arts  entirely  keep  the  brain ; 

lies 

And  therefore,  finding  barren  practisers, 

Tlie  street  should  see,  as  she  walk'd  overhead. 

Scarce  show  a  harvest  of  their  heavy  toil : 

King.  But  what  of  this?     Are  we  not  all  in 

But  love,  first  learned  in  a  lady's  eyes. 

love  ? 

Lives  not  alone  immured  in  the  brain ; 

Biron.  0,  nothing  so  sure ;    ami   thereby  all 

But  with  the  motion  of  all  elements, 

forsworn. 

Courses  as  swift  as  thought  in  every  poww 

King.  Then  leave  this  chat ;  and,  good  Biron, 

And  gives  to  eveiy  power  a  double  power, 

now  prove 

Above  their  functions  and  flieir  ofl3ces. 

Our  loving  lawful,  and  our  faith  not  torn. 

It  adds  a  precious  seeing  to  the  eye :  , 

Du;n.  Ay,  marry,  there ; — some  flatter}'  for  this 

A  lover's  eyes  will  gaze  an  eagle  blind  *, 

evil. 
2t»0 

A  lover's  ear  will  hear  the  lowest  sound. 

— 5 1 

ACT   V. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR  'S  LOST. 


BOEKE  1. 


I 


When  the  suspicious  head  of  theft  is  stopp'd  : 
Love's  feeling  is  more  soft  and  sensible, 
Than  are  the  fetider  lionis  of  cockled  snails : 
Love's  tongue  proves  dainty  I^icchus  gross  in  taste : 
For  valour,  is  not  Love  a  Hercules, 
Still  climbing  trees  in  the  Hesperides  ?'' 
Subtle  as  spliyux ;  as  sweet  and  musical, 
As  bright  Apollo's  lute,  strung  with  his  hair; 
And  when  Love  speaks,  the  voice  of  all  the  gods 
Makes  heaven  drowsy  with  the  harmony.™ 
Never  durst  poet  touch  a  pen  to  write, 
Uutil  his  ink  were  temper'd  with  Love's  sighs. 
O,  then  his  lines  would  ravish  savage  ears, 
And  plant  in  tyrants  mild  humility. 
From  women's  e3'es  this  doctrine  I  derive  : 
They  sparlde  still  the  right  Promethean  fire ; 
They  are  the  books,  the  arts,  the  academes. 
That  show,  contain,  and  nourish  all  the  world ; 
Else,  none  at  all  in  aught  proves  excellent : 
Then  fools  you  were  these  women  to  forswear ; 
Or,  keeping  what  is  sworn,  3-ou  will  prove  fools 
For  wisdom's  sake,  a  word  that  all  men  love ; 
Or  for  love's  sake,  a  word  that  loves  all  men ;™ 
Or  for  men's  sake,  the  authors  of  these  women ; 
Or  women's  sake,  by  whom  we  men  are  men ; 
Let  us  once  lose  our  oaths,  to  find  ourselves. 
Or  else  we  lose  ourselves  to  keep  our  oaths : 
n  is  relim'on  to  be  thus  forsworn. 


For  charity  itself  fulfils  the  law ; 

And  who  can  sever  love  from  charity? 

Kin;/.  Saint  Cupid,  then  !  and,  soldiers,  to  tCr 
field! 

Biron.  Advanoe  your  standards,  and  upon  tlicm. 
lords ; 
Pell-mell,  down  with  them  !  but  be  first  advis'd, 
In  conflict  that  j-ou  get  the  sun  of  them. 

Long.  Now  to  plain-dealing;  lay  these  gloses  by; 
Shall  we  resolve  to  woo  these  girls  of  France  ? 

King.  And  win  them  too :  .herefore  let  us  devise 
Some  entertainment  for  them  in  their  tents. 

Biron.  First  from  the  park  let  us  conduct  them 
thither ; 
Then,  homeward,  eveiy  man  attach  the  hand 
Of  his  fair  mistress:  in  the  afternoon 
We  will  with  soiw  strange  pastime  solace  them, 
Such  as  the  shortness  of  the  time  can  shape ; 
For  revels,  danc«s,  masks,  and  merry  hours, 
Foi'crun  fair  Love,  strewng  her  way  with  flowers. 

King.  Away,  away  !  no  time  shall  be  omitted, 
That  will  be  time,  and  may  by  us  be  fitted. 

Biron.  Allons!   Allons ! — Sow'd  cockle,  reap'd 
no  corn ;'" 

And  justice  always  whirls  in  equal  meairare : 
Light  wenches  may  prove  plagues  to  men  forsworn  ', 

If  so,  car  copper  buys  no  better  treasure. 

\  Exeunt 


ACT   V 


I 


SCENE  I. — Another  part  of  the  same. 

Enter  HoLorERNESS,  Sir  Nathaniel,  and  Dull. 

Hoi.  Satis  quod  sufficit. 

iVat'A.  I  praise  God  for  you,  sir :  your  reasons  at 
dinner  have  be^n  sharp  and  sententious ;  pleasant 
without  scuri-ilitj  witty  without  affection,*'  auda- 
cious without  impudency,  learned  without  opinion, 
and  strange  without  heresy.  I  did  converse  this 
quondam  day  with  a  companion  of  the  king,  who 
is  intituled,  nominated,  or  called,  dou  Adriano  de 
Armado. 

Hoi.  yovi  hominem  ianquam  te:  His  humour  is 
lofty,  his  discouree  peremptory,  his  tongue  filed, 
his  eye  ambitious,  Iris  gait  majestical,  and  his  ge- 
neral behanour  vain,  ridiculous,  and  thrasonical. 


He  is  too  picked,  too  spruce,  too  affected,  too  odd, 
as  it  were,  too  peregrinate,  as  I  may  call  it. 

Nath.  A  most  singular  and  choice  epithet. 

[Takes  out  his  table-book. 

Hoi.  He  draweth  out  the  thread  of  his  verbosity 
finer  than  the  staple  of  his  argument.  I  abhoi 
such  fanatical  fiintasras,  such  insociable  and  poiiit- 
devise  companions;  such  rackers  of  orthography, 
as  to  speak,  dout,  fine,  when  he  should  say,  doubt ; 
det,  when  he  should  pronounce  debt ; — d,  e,  b,  t ; 
notd,  e,  t: — he  clepeth  a  calf,  cauf;  half,  hauf 
neighbour,  vacatur,  nebour ;  neigh  abbreviated,  ne. 
This  is  abhominable  (which  he  would  call  abomi- 
nable) :  it  insinuateth  me  of  insanie ;  JVe  intdligis^ 
domine?  to  make  frantic,  lunatic. 

Nath.  Ifaus  Deo!  bone  inteUigo. 

2Pt 


AST   V. 


LOVE'S  LABOUE  'S  LOST. 


SCENE    t. 


-lone  for  bene :  Priscian  a  little 


JIol.  Bo\d. 
af^ratcli'i! ;  't  will  wi've. 

Enter  Armapo,  Moth,  and  Costard. 

Nath.  Vitt.y.'iC  quii  venit? 

Hoi.  Video  et  jcudeo. 

Arm.  Cbirra !  [To  ^Ioth. 

Ifol.   Quare  Cbirra,  net  sirrali  ? 

Arm.  Men  of  peace,  well  encountered. 

Hoi.  Most  military  sir,  ca'.utation. 

Moth.  They  have  been  at  a  great  feast  of  lan- 
^ages,  and  stoFn  the  scraps.  \To  Cost,  aside. 

Cost.  0,  they  have  iiv'd  loLg  en  the  ahns-basket 
of  words'.'^  I  marvel  thy  master  hath  not  eaten 
;hee  for  a  word,  for  tbou  art  not  so  long  by  the 
head  as  honorificabilittidinitatihu'i ."  ihoii  art  easier 
swallowed  than  a  flap-dragon. 

Moth.  Peace  !  the  peal  begins. 

Arm.  Monsieur,  [to  Hol.]  are  you  utt  Uifer'd? 

Moth.    Yes,   yes;    he  teaches   boys  vhe   bom- 
book  ; — 
What  is  a,  b,  spelt  backward,  wiih  the  Lorn  on 
his  head  ? 

Hol.  "Ba,-  pueritia,  with  a  horn  added. 

Moth.  Ba,  most  silly  sheep,  with  a  horn. — You 
hear  his  learning. 

Hot.  Quis,  quis,  thou  consonant? 

Moth.  The  third  of  the  five  vowels,  if  you 
repeat  them ;  or  the  fifth,  if  I. 

Hol.  I  vn]\  repeat  them,  a,  e,  i — 

Moth.  The  sheep:  the  other  two  conclude  it;  o,  u. 

Arm.  Now,  by  the  salt  wave  of  the  Mediterra- 
neum,  a  sweet  touch,  a  quick  vcney  of  wit:  snip, 
snap,  quick,  and  home;  it  rejoiceth  my  intellect: 
true  wit. 

Moth.  Offer'd  by  a  child  to  an  old  man ;  which 
is  wit-old. 

Hol.  What  is  the  figure  ?  what  is  the  figure  ? 

Moth.  Horns. 

Hol.  Thou  disputest  like  an  infant:  go  whip 

tliy  gig- 

Moth.  Lend  me  your  horn  to  make  one,  and  I 
will  whip  about  your  infamy  circum  circa.  A  gig 
of  a  cuckoM's  hoiTi ! 

Cost.  An  I  had  but  one  penny  in  the  world, 
thou  shouldst  have  it  to  buy  gingerbread :  hold, 
there  is  the  very  remuneration  I  had  of  thy  master, 
thou  half-penny  purse  of  wit,  thou  pigeon  egg  of 
discretion.  O,  an  the  heavens  were  so  pleased  that 
Ihou  wert  but  my  bastard,  what  a  joj^ul  father 
wouldst  thou  make  me!  Go  to;  thou  had.st  it  ad 
iunr/hill,  at  th  i  fingers'  ends,  as  they  say. 
232 


Hol.  O,  I  smell  false  Latin !  dunghill  for  unrinew. 

Arm.  Kria-man prceamhulat  ;'*  we  will  be  singled 
from  the  barbarous.  Do  you  not  educate  youth  at 
the  charge-house  on  tlie  top  of  the  mountain? 

Hol.  Or,  mons  the  bill. 

Arm.  At  your  sweet  pleasure,  for  the  mountain, 

Hol.  I  do,  sans  question. 

Arm.  Sir,  it  is  the  king's  most  sweet  pleasure 
and  affection,  to  congratulate  the  princess  at  her 
pa^^lion,  in  the  posteriore  of  this  day,  which  the 
rude  muhitude  call  the  afternoon. 

Hol.  The  posterior  of  the  day,  most  generous 
sir,  is  liable,  congruent,  and  measm-able  for  the 
afternoon :  the  word  is  well  culled,  chose ;  sweet 
and  apt,  sir,  I  do  assure  you,  sir,  I  do  assure. 

Arm.  Sir,  the  king  is  a  noble  gentleman ;  and 
my  familiar,  I  do  assure  ye,  very  good  frieid : — 
For  what  is  inward  between  us,  let  it  pas»  .—I  do 
beseech  thee,  remember  not  thy  courte.'^;  :— I  be- 
seech thee,  apparel  thy  head  : — And  -jmong  other 
importunate  and  most  serious  de'.^^s, — and  of 
great  import  indeed,  too ; — but  let  that  pass- : — for 
I  must  tell  thee,  it  will  please  his  grace  (by  the 
world)  sometime  to  lean  upon  mv  poor  shoulder* 
and  with  his  royal  finger,  thus,  dally  with  my  ex- 
crement,'*  with  my  mustachio :  but,  sweet  heart, 
let  that  pass.  By  the  world,  I  recount  no  fahle ; 
some  certain  special  honours  it  pleaseth  his  greatness 
to  impart  to  Armado,  a  soldier,  a  man  of  travel,  that 
hath  seen  the  world :  but  let  that  pass. — The  very 
all  of  all  is, — but,  sweet  heart,  I  do  implore  secresy, 
— that  the  king  would  have  me  present  the  prin- 
cess, sweet  chuck,  with  some  delightful  ostentation, 
or  show,  or  pageant,  or  antic,  or  fire-work.  Now, 
understanding  that  the  curate  and  )'our  sweet  self 
are  good  at  such  eruptions,  and  sudden  breaking 
out  of  mirth,  as  it  were,  I  have  acquainted  you 
withal,  t(  the  end  to  crave  your  assistance. 

Hcl.  Sir,  you  shall  present  before  her  the  Nine 
Worthies.— Sir  Nathaniel,  as  concerning  some  en- 
tertainment of  time,  some  show  in  the  postei-ior  of 
this  day  to  be  rend'red  by  our  assistance, — the 
king's  command,  and  this  most  gallant,  illustrate, 
and  learned  gentleman, — before  the  princess,  1  say, 
none  so  fit  as  to  present  the  Nine  Worthies. 

Nath.  Where  will  you  find  men  worthy  enough 
to  present  them  ? 

Hol.  Joshua,  yourself;  m)'self,  or  this  gallant 
gentleman,  Judas  Maccabxnis ;  this  swain,  because 
of  his  great  limb  or  joint,  shall  pass  Pompey  the 
Great;  the  page,  Hercules. 

Arm.   Pardon,  sir,  error:    he  is  not  quantity 


LOVE'S  LABOUll  'S  LOST, 


SCSNB  n. 


enough  for  that  worthy's  thumb ;  ho  is  not  so  big 
as  the  euil  of  his  club. 

Jlid.  Sliall  I  have  audience  ?  he  shall  present 
ITiTcules  in  minority;  his  enicr  and  exit  shall  be 
itraiM^'ling  a  snake  ;  and  I  will  have  an  apology  for 
that  ]mrposo. 

Moth.  An  excellent  device !  so,  if  any  of  the 
audience  hiss, you  may  ciy,  '  Well  done,  Hercules! 
now  thou  crushest  the  snake  !'  that  is  the  way  to 
make  an  oflence  gracious,  though  few  have  the 
grace  to  do  it. 

-Inn.  For  the  rest  of  the  Worthies? — 

Ho!.  I  will  play  three  myself. 

Moth.  Thrice  worthy  gentleman  ! 

^■Icm.' Shall  I  tell  you  a  thing? 

JIoL  We  attend. 

Arm.  We  will  have,  if  this  tirdge'^  not,  an  antic. 
I  beseocli  you,  follow. 

Ilol.  Via!  Goodman  Dull,  thou  hast  spoken  no 
vord  all  this  while. 

Dull.  Nor  understood  none  neither,  sir. 

Hoi.  Allans!  we  will  employ  thee. 

Dall.  I  '11  make  one  in  a  dance,  or  so ;  or  I  will 
pla}'  on  the  tabor  to  the  Worthies,  and  let  them 
dance  the  hay." 

Hoi.  Mo.st  dull,  honest  Dull,  to  our  .sport,  away! 

\Exeiint. 

SCENE  II. — Another  2Mrt  of  the  same.    Befm-e  the 
Princess's  Pavilion. 

Enter  the  Princess,  Katharine,  Rosaline,  and 
Maria. 

Prin.  Sweet  hearts,  we  shall   be   rich  ere  we 
depart, 
[f  fairings  come  thus  plentifully  in : 
A  lady  wallVl  about  with  diamonds! 
Look  you,  what  I  have  from  the  loving  king. 

Po^.  Madam,  came  nothing  else  along  with  that? 

Prill.  Nothing  but  this  ?  yes,  as  much  love  in 
rhyme. 
As  would  be  cramm'd  up  in  a  sheet  of  paper, 
Writ  on  both  sides  the  leaf,  margent  and  all. 
That  he  was  fain  to  seal  on  Cupid's  name. 

Pos.  That  was  the  way  to  make  his  godhead  wax; 
For  ho  hatli  been  five  thousand  years  a  boy. 

Kaih.  Ay,  and  a  shrewd  unhappy  gallows  too. 

Ros.  You  '11  ne'er  be  fi-iends  with  him  ;  he  kill'd 
your  sister, 

Kath.  He  made  her  melancholy,  sad,  and  heavy; 
And  so  she  died  :   had  she  been  light,  like  you. 
Of  such  a  merry  nimble  stirring  spirit, 


She  might  a'  been  a  grandam  ere  she  (L'cd  : 

Ar.d  .?o  may  you,  for  a  light  heart  lives  long. 
Ros.  What 's  your  dark  meaning,  inoi«e,  of  thin 

light  word? 
Kath.  A  light  condition  in  a  beauty  dark. 
Ros.  We  need  more  light  to  find  your  meaning 

out. 
Kath.  You  '11  mar  the  light,  by  taking  it  in 
snuff; 
Therefore,  I  '11  darkly  end  the  argument, 

Ros.  Look,  what  you  do,  you  do  it  still  i'  th« 

dark. 
Kath.  So  do  not  you,  for  you  are  a  light  wench. 
Ros.  Indeed,  I   weigh  not  you,  and  therefore 

light. 
Kath.  You  weiglr  me  not, — 0,  that 's  you  care 

not  for  me. 
Ros.  Great  reason ;  for.  Past  care  is  otill  pa.st 

cure. 
Prin.  Well   bandied   both ;   a  set  of  wit  well 
play'd. 
But,  Rosaline,  you  have  a  favour  too : 
Who  sent  it  ?  and  w:hat  is  it  ? 

Ros.  L  would  you  knew  : 

An  if  my  face  were  but  as  fair  as  youre. 
My  favour  were  as  great ;  be  witness  this. 
Nay,  I  have  verses  too,  I  thank  Biron : 
The  numbers  true  ;  and,  were  the  numb'ring  too, 
I  were  the  fairest  goddess  on  the  ground : 
I  am  compar'd  to  twenty  thousand  fairs. 
O,  he  hath  drawn  my  picture  in  his  letter ! 
Prin.  Anything  like  ? 

Ros.  Much  in  the  letters ;  nothing  in  the  praise. 
Prin.  Beauteous  as  ink ;  a  good  conclusion. 
Kath.  Fair  as  a  text  B  in  a  copy-book. 
Ros.  'Ware  pencils !  How  ?  let  me  not  die  youi 
debtor, 
My  red  dominical,  my  golden  letter  :** 
O  that  your  face  were  not  so  full  of  O's  ! 

Kath.  A  pox  of  that  jest !  and  I  beshrew  all 

shi'ows ! 
Prin.  But,  Katharine,  what  was  sent  to  you 

from  fair  Dumain  ? 
Kath.  Madam,  this  glove. 
Prin.  Did  he  not  send  you  twain  ? 

Kath.  Yes,  madam ;  and  moreover, 
Some  thousand  verses  of  a  faithful  lover; 
A  huge  translation  of  hypocrisy, 
Vildly  compil'd,  profound  simplicity. 

Mar.  This,  and  these  pearls,  to  mc  sent  Longa' 
ville; 
The  letter  is  too  long  by  half  a  mile. 

•J  98 


ACT   V. 


LO\TS  LABOUR '«  LOST. 


Prin.  I  think  no  less.     Dost  tLou  not  wish  in 
heart, 
The  cha  u  were  longer,  and  the  letter  short  ? 

Mar.  Ay,  or  I  would  these  hands  might  never 
part. 

Prhi.  We  are  wise  girls  to  mock  our  lovers  so. 

Ros.  They  are  worse  fools  to  purchase  mocking  so. 
That  same  Biron  I  '11  torture  ere  I  go. 
0,  that  I  knew  he  were  but  in  by  the  week  1 
How  I  would  make  him  fawn,  and  beg,  and  seek ; 
And  wait  the  season,  and  observe  the  times, 
And  spend  his  prodigal  wits  in  bootless  rhymes ; 
And  shape  his  service  wholly  to  my  behests. 
And  make  him  proud  to  make  me  proud  that  jests ! 
So  potently  would  I  o'ersway  his  state, 
That  he  should  be  my  fool,  and  I  his  fate. 

Pnn.   None  are  so  surely  caught,  when  they 
are  catch'd, 
As  wit  turu'd  fool :  folly,  in  wisdom  hatch'd, 
Hath  wisdom's  warrant,  and  the  help  of  school. 
And  wit's  own  grace  to  grace  a  learned  fool. 

Ros.  The  blood  of  youth  burns  not  with  such 
excess, 
iVs  gi-avity's  revolt  to  wantonness. 

Mar.  Folly  in  fools  bears  not  so  sti'ong  a  note. 
As  fool'ry  in  the  wise,  when  wit  doth  dote ; 
Since  all  the  power  tliereof  it  doth  apply. 
To  prove,  b}'  wit,  worth  in  simj)licity. 

Enter  Boi'et. 

Prin.  Here  comes  Boyet,  and  mirth  is  in  his  face. 

Boyd.  0, 1  am  stabb'd  with  laughter !  WTiere  's 
her  grace  ? 

Prill.  Thy  news,  Boyet  ? 

Boyei.  Prepare,  madam,  prepare ! — 

Arm,  wenches,  arm !  encounters  mounted  arc 
Against  your  peace.    Love  doth  approach  disguis'd. 
Armed  in  arguments ;  you  '11  be  surpris'd  : 
Muster  your  wits ;  stand  in  your  own  defence  ; 
Or  hide  your  heads  like  cowards,  and  fly  hence. 

Prin.     Saint  Dennis  to  saint  Cupid !   Wliat  are 
they, 
That  charge  their  breath  against  us?  say,  scout,  say. 

Boyei.  Under  the  cool  shade  of  a  .sycamore, 
I  thought  to  close  mine  eyes  some  half  an  hour, 
When,  lo !  to  interrupt  my  puqws'd  rest, 
Toward  that  shade  I  might  behuld  addivss'd 
The  king  and  his  companions :  warily 
I  stole  into  a  neighbour  thicket  by. 
And  overheard  what  you  shall  overhear; 
Thal,bv  aiwl  by,  disguis'd  they  will  be  here. 
Tbi;iv  h'T.iJd  '"i  i  pretty  knavish  page, 


That  well  by  heart  hath  comi'd  his  embassage : 
Action,  and  accent,  did  they  teadi  him  there; 
"  Thus  must  thou  speak,  and  thus  thy  body  beat ; " 
And  ever  and  anon  they  made  a  doubt, 
Presence  majestical  would  put  him  out  • 
"For,"  quoth  the  king,  "an  angel  shalt  thou  see; 
Yet  fear  not  thou,  but  speak  audaciously." 
The  boy  reply'd,  "  An  angel  is  not  evil ; 
I  should  have  fear'd  her,  had  she  been  a  de\nl." 
With  that  all  laugh'd,  and   clapp'd  him   on  tht 

shoulder ; 
Making  the  bold  wag  by  their  praises  bolder. 
One   rubb'd   his   elbow,   thus;    and   fleer'd,   and 

swore, 
A  better  speech  wa-s  never  spoke  before : 
Another  with  his  finger  and  his  tliimib, 
Cry'd,  "  Via !  we  will  do 't,  come  what  will  come : " 
The  third  he  caper'd,  and  cried,  "  All  goes  well ; " 
The  fourth  turn'd  on  the  toe,  and  down  he  fell. 
With  that,  they  all  did  tumble  on  the  ground, 
With  such  a  zealous  laughter,  so  profound. 
That  in  this  spleen  ridiculous  appears, 
To  check  their  folly,  passion's  solemn  tears. 

Prin.  But  what,  but  what,  come  they  to  visit  us  ] 

Boyet.  They  do,   they   do;  and   are   ap].'ar<H'il 
thus, — 
Like  Muscovites,  or  Russians,  as  I  guess. 
Their  purpose  is,  to  parle,  to  court,  and  dance  • 
And  every  one  his  love-feat  will  advance 
Unto  his  several  mistress ;  which  they  '11  know 
By  favoure  several,  which  they  did  bestow. 

Prin.  And  will  they  so  ?  the  gallants  shall  be 
task'd  :— 
For,  ladies,  we  will  every  one  be  mask'd ; 
And  not  a  man  of  them  shall  have  the  grace, 
Despite  of  suit,  to  see  a  lady's  face. 
Hold,  Rosaline,  this  favour  thou  shalt  vrear. 
And  then  the  king  will  court  thee  for  his  deal' ; 
Hold,  take  thou  this,  my  sweet,  and  give  mo  thine 
So  shall  Biron  take  me  for  Rosaline. — 
And  change  your  favoui's  too;  so  shall  your  loves 
Woo  contrary,  deceiv'd  by  these  removes. 

Ros.  Come  on  then  ;  wear  the  favoiu's  most  in 
sight. 

Aath.    But,   in    this    changing,   wli.at    is   yow 
intent  ? 

Prill.  The  efl'ect  of  my  intent  is,  to  cross  theirs 
They  do  it  but  in  mocking  merriment; 
And  mock  for  mock  is  only  my  intent. 
Their  several  counsels  tliey  unbosom  shall 
To  loves  mistook ;  and  so  bo  inock'd  withal, 
Upon  the  next  occiision  that  we  meet. 


ACT  V. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR  'S  LOST. 


81'EKE   n. 


With  \'isages  display'd,  to  talk  and  greet. 

Jios.  Hut  sliall  we  ilauce,  if  they  desire  us  to  't? 

Prin.  No ;  to  the  death  we  will  uot  move  a  foot: 
Nor  to  their  penu'd  speech  render  wo  no  grace  : 
But,  while  't  is  sjioke,  each  turn  away  her  face. 

Jioijet.  Why,  thai  contempt  will  kill  the  speaker's 
heart, 
And  quite  divorce  his  memory  from  his  part. 

Prin.  Therefore  I  do  it ;  and,  I  make  no  doubt, 
The  rest  will  ne'er  come  in,  if  he  be  out. 
There's  no  such  sport  as  sport  by  sport  o'erthrowu  ; 
To  make  theirs  ours,  and  ours  none  but  our  owni : 
So  shall  we  stay,  mocking  intended  game  ; 
Aud  they,  well  mock'd,  depart  away  with  shame. 
[Trumpets  sound  loiihin. 

Boyet.   The   trumpet  sounds ;    be   uiask'd,   the 
maskers  come.  [The  ladies  mask. 

Enter  the  King,  Biron,  Longaville,  and  Dumain, 
in  Russian  habits  and  masked  ;  Moth,  Musicians, 
and  Attendants. 

Moth.  ''All  liail  the  lichest  beauties  on  the 

earth !" 
Boyet.  Beauties  no  richer  than  rich  tafi'ata." 
Moth.  "  A  holy  parcel  of  the  fairest  dames, 

\The  ladies  turn  their  backs  to  him. 
Jliat    ever    turu'd     their  " — backs — "  to     mortal 
views!" 
Biron.  "  Their  eyes,"  villain,  "  their  eyes  1 " 
Moth.  "That  ever  turn'd  their  eyes  to  mortal 
views ! 
Out"— 

Boyet.  True ;  out,  indeed. 
Moth.  "Out  of  your  favours,  heavenly  spirits, 
vouchsafe 
Not  to  beliold  "— 

Biron.  "  Once  to  behold,"  rogue. 
Moth.  "  Once  to  behold  with  your  sun-beamed 
eyes,"— 
''  With  your  sun- beamed  eyes  " — 

Boyet.  They  will  not  answer  to  that  epithet. 
You  were  best  call  it,  .daughter-beamed  eyes. 
Moth.  They  do  not  mark  me,  and  that  brings 

me  out. 
Biron.  Is  this  your  perfectness?    begone,  you 

rogue ! 
Ros.  What  would  these  strangei's  ?  know  their 
minds,  Boyet: 
£f  llioy  do  speak  our  language,  't  is  our  will 
That  some  plain  man  recount  thei".  ijurposes : 
Know  what  they  would. 


Boyd.  Wliat  would  you  with  the  princess? 
Biron.  Nothing  but  peace,  and  gentle  visitatioa 
lios.  What  would  they,  say  they  ? 
Boyet.  Nothing  but  peace,  and  gentle  visitation, 
Ros.  Why,  that  they  have ;  and  bid  them  so  ]«j 

gone. 
Boyet.  She  says,  you  have  it,  and  you  may  be 

gone. 
King.   Say  to   her,  we   liave   measur'd  many 
miles. 
To  tread  a  measure*'  with  her  on  the  grass. 

Boyet.  They  say  that  they  have  measur'd  many 
a  mile, 
To  tread  a  measure  with  you  on  this  grass. 

Ros.  It  is  uot  so  :  ask  them  how  many  inches 
Is  in  one  mile  :  if  they  have  measur'd  many. 
The  measure  then  of  one  is  ea,sily  told. 

Boyet.  If,  to  come  hither,  you  have  measur'd 
miles. 
And  many  miles,  the  princess  bids  you  tell 
How  many  inches  do  fill  up  one  mile. 

Biron.  Tell   her  we   measure  them  by  woary 

steps. 
Boyet.  She  hears  herself. 
Ros.  How  many  weary  steps, 

Of  many  weaiy  miles  you  have  o'ergone, 
Are  number'd  in  the  ti'avel  of  one  mile  ? 

Biron.  We  number  nothing  that  we  spend  lor 
you; 
Our  duty  is  so  rich,  so  infinite, 
That  we  may  do  it  still  without  accompt. 
Vouchsafe  to  show  the  sunshine  of  your  face. 
That  we,  like  savages,  may  worship  it. 

Ros.  My  face  is  but  a  moon,  and  clouded  too. 
King.  Blessed  are  clouds,  to  do  as  such  clouds  do  1 
Vouchsafe,  bright  moon,  and   these  thy  stars,  to 

shine 
(Those  clouds  remov'd)  upon  our  wateiyeyne. 

Ros.  0  vain  petitioner !  beg  a  gi-eater  matter ; 
Thou  now  rcquest'st  but  moonshine  in  the  water. 
King.  Then,  in  our  measure,  vouchsafe  but  one 
change : 
Thou  bidd'.st  me  beg ;  this  begging  is  not  strange, 
Ros.  V\-Aj,  music,  then :   ua}',  you  must  do  it 
soon.  [Music  plays. 

Not  yet ; — no  dance  : — thus   change  I  like   the 
moon. 
King.  Will  you  not  dance  ?     How  come  you 

thus  estrang'd  ? 
Ros.   You  took  the  moon  at  full ;  but  now  she  'a 

changed. 
King.  Yet  still  she  is  the  moon,  and  I  the  man. 

296 


ACT   V. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR  'S  LOST. 


BC'EKE    n. 


The  music  plays ;  vouchsafe  some  motion  to  it. 
lios.  Our  ears  vouchsafe  it. 
King.  But  yom'  legs  should  do  it, 

Bos.  Since  you  are  strangera,  and  come  here  by 
chance, 
We  '11  not  be  nice:   take  hands; — we  will  not 
dance. 
Ki7iff.  Wliy  take  we  hands,  then  ? 
Hos.  Only  to  part  fiiends : — 

Court'sy,  sweet  hearts ;  and  so  the  measure  ends. 
King.  More  measiu'e  of  this  measure :    be  not 

nice. 
Ros.  We  can  afford  no  more  at  such  a  price. 
King.  Prize  you  yourselves:    What  buys  your 

company  ? 
Ros,  Your  absence  only. 
King.  That  can  never  be. 

Ros.  Then  cannot  we  be  bought :  and  so  adieu ; 
Twice  to  your  visor,  and  half  once  to  you  ! 

King.  If  you  deny  to  dance,  let  's  hold  more 

chat. 
Ros.  Lj  j)rivate  then. 
King.  I  am  best  pleas'd  with  that. 

[TAcy  converse  apart. 
Biron.  ^Iiite-handed  mistress,  one  sweet  word 

with  thee. 
Prin.  Honey,  and  milk,  and  sugar ;   there  are 

tliree. 
Biron.  'Naj  then,  two  treys  (an  if  you  grow  so 
nice), 
Metheglin,  wort,  and  malmsey. — 'Well  run,  dice! 
There  's  half  a  dozen  sweets. 

Prin.  Seventh  sweet,  adieu ! 

Since  you  can  cog,"  I  '11  play  no  more  with  you. 
Biron.  One  word  in  secret. 
Prin.  Let  it  not  be  sweet. 

Biron.  Thou  gi-iev'st  my  gall. 
Prin.  Gall?— bitter. 

Biron.  Therefore  meet. 

[Theg  converse  apart. 
Dim.  Will  you  vouchsafe  with  me  to  change  a 

word  ? 
Mar.  Name  it. 
Bum.  V-MV  lady, — 

Mar.  Say  you  so  ?  Fair  lord, — 

Take  you  that  for  your  fair  lady. 
Burn.  Please  it  you. 

As  much  in  private,  and  I  '11  hid  adieu. 

\They  converse  apart. 
Kath.  What,  was  yoiu-  visor  made  without  a 

tongao  ? 
Long.  I  know  the  reason,  lady,  why  you  ask. 
29  B 


Kath.  O  for  your  reason  !  quickly  sir ;  I  long. 
Long.  You  have  a  double  tongue  within  your 
mask, 
And  would  afford  my  speechless  visor  half. 

Kath.  Veal,  quoth    the   Dutchman :'-— Is   not 

veal  a  calf? 
Lmig.  A  calf,  fair  lady  ? 
Kath,  No,  a  fair  lord  calf. 

Long.  Let 's  part  the  word. 
Kath.  No;  I  '11  not  be  your  half: 

Take  all,  and  wean  it ;  it  may  prove  an  ox. 

Long.  Look,   how  you   butt  yourself  in  these 

sharp  mocks ! 

Will  you  give  horns,  chaste  lady  ?  do  not  so. 

Kath.  Then  die  a  calf,  before  your  horns  do  grow. 

Long.  One  word  in  private  with  you,  ere  I  die. 

Kath.  Bleat  softly  then ;  the  butcher  hears  you 

cry.  .  [They  converse  apart. 

Boyet.  The  tongues  of  mocking  wenches  are  as 

keen 
As  is  the  razor's  edge  invisible, 
Cutting  a  smaller  hair  than  may  be  seen, — 

Above  the  sense  of  sense  :  so  sensible 
Seemcth   their   conference ;    their   conceits  have 

wings. 
Fleeter  than  aiTows,  bullets,  wind,  thought,  swifter 
things. 
Ros.  Not  one  word  more,  my  maids ;  break  off, 

break  --fF. 
Biron.   By  heaven,  all  dry-beaten  with   pure 

scoff! 
King.  Farewell,  mad  wenches ;  you  have  simple 
wits. 

[Exeunt  King,  Lords,  Moth,  Music,  and 
Attendants. 
Prin.  Twenty  adieus,  my  frozen  Muscovites. — 
Are  these  the  breed  of  wits  so  wonder'd  at  ? 

Boyet.  Tapers  they  are,  with  your  sweet  breaths 

puff'd  out. 
Ros.  Well-liking''  wits  they  liave ;  gross,  gross ; 

fat,  f^it ! 
Prin.  0  poverty  in  wit,  kingly-poor  flout! 
Will    they   not,  think  you,  hang  themselves   to- 
night ? 
Or  evei,  but  in  visors,  show  their  faces? 
This  \M\vi  IViron  was  out  of  countenance  quite. 
Ros.  0\  tliey  were  all  in  lainentable  cases! 
The  king  w.as  weeping-ripe  for  a  good  word. 
Prin.  Biron  did  swear  himself  out  of  all  suit. 
Mar.  Dumain  was  at  my  service,  and  his  sword . 
No  point,    quoth    I ;    my    servant   straight    was 
mute. 


ZCT  V. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR  'S  LOST. 


BCEKi:   IL 


Kalh.    Lord  Lougaville  suid,  I  came  o'er  his 
heart ; 
Aiid  trow  you  what  Wi  call'd  nie  ? 

Prin.  Quahn,  perhaps. 

Katk.  Yes,  iu  good  faith. 

Prill.  Go,  sickness  as  thou  art ! 

Ron.  \V<;il,  belter  wits  have  woru  plain  statute- 
crips.-^' 
But  will  you  hear  ?  the  king  is  my  love  sworn. 

Prin.  And  quick  Bii'on  hath  plighted  faith  to  me. 

Kalh.  And  Longaville  was  for  my  service  born. 

j^far.  Dumain  is  mine,  as  sure  as  bark  on  tree. 

Boyd.  Ma<lani,  and  pretty  mistresses,  give  ear : 
Lnmediately  they  will  again  be  here 
In  their  own  shapes ;  for  it  can  never  be, 
They  will  digest  this  harsh  indignity. 

Prin.  Will  they  return  ? 

Botjei.  They  will,  they  will,  God  knows, 

And  leap  for  joy,  though  they  are  lame  with  blows ; 
Therefore,  change  favours ;  and,  when  they  repair, 
Blow  like  sweet  roses  in  this  summer  air. 

Prin.  How  blow  ?  how  blow  ?  .speak  to  be  un- 
derstood. 

Boyel.  Fair  ladies  mask'd,  are  roses  in  their  bud : 
Dismask'd,  their  damask  sweet  commixture  shown, 
Are  angels  vailing  clouds,"'  or  roses  blown. 

Prin.  Avaunt,  perplexity  !    What  shall  we  do. 
If  they  return  in  their  own  shapes  to  woo  ? 

Ros.  Good  madam,  if  by  me  you'll  be  ad\'ised. 
Let 's  mock   them   still,  as  well,  known,   as  dis- 

guis'd : 
Let  us  complain  to  them  what  fools  were  here, 
Disguis'd  like  Muscovites,  in  shapeless  gear ; 
And  wonder  what  they  were ;  and  to  what  end 
Their  shallow  shows,  and  prologue  vildly  penn'd, 
And  their  rough  carriage  so  lidiculous. 
Should  be  presented  at  our  tent  to  us. 

Boyet.  Ladies,  withdraw :    the  gallants  are  at 
hand. 

Prin.  Wliip  to  our  tents,  as  roes  run  over  land. 
\_E.reunt  Prin.,  Ros.,  Kath.,  and  Mar. 

Enter  the  King,  BmoN,  Longaville,  and  Dumain, 
in  their  -proper  habits. 

Kinr/.  Fair  sir,  God  save   you  I    Where  's  the 

princess  ?  > 
Boyet.  Gone  to  her  tent:  Please  it  your  majesty, 
Command  me  any  ser\-ice  to  her  thither? 

Kinij.  That  she  vouchsafe  me  audience  for  one 

word. 
Boyet.  I  will ;    and    so  will  she,  I   know,  my 

lord.  [^Exit. 


Biron.    This   fellow  picks  up  wit,  iuj  pigeon6 

peas, 
And  utters  it  again  when  Jove  doth  please- 
He  is  wit's  peddler,  and  retails  his  wares 
At    wakes,    and    wassails,'"    meetings,    markets, 

fairs : 
And  we  that  sell  by  gross,  the  Lord  dotli  know 
Hath  not  the  grace  to  grace  it  with  such  show. 
This  gallant  pins  the  wenches  on  his  sleeve; 
Had  he  been  Adam,  ha  had  tempted  Eve : 
He  can  carve  too,  and  lisp  :  Why,  this  is  he, 
Tliat  kiss'd  away  his  hand  in  courtesy ; 
This  is  the  a])e  of  form.  Monsieur  the  Nice, 
That,  when  lie  plays  at  tables,  chides  the  dice 
In  honourable  terms ;  nay,  he  can  sing 
A  mean  most  meanly ;  and,  iu  ushering. 
Mend  him  who  can :  the  ladies  call  him,  sweet , 
The  stairs,  as  he  treads  on  them,  kiss  his  feet ; 
This  is  the  flower  that  smiles  on  every  one. 
To  show  his  teeth  as  white  as  whales'  bone :" 
And  consciences,  that  will  not  die  in  debt. 
Pay  him  the  due  of  honey-tongued  Boyet. 

Kiny.  A  blister  on  his  sweet  tongue,  with  iLj 

heart, 
That  put  Armado's  page  out  of  his  part! 

Enter  the  Puincess,  ushered  by  Boyet;  Rosaline, 
Maria,  Katharine,  and  Attendants. 

Biron.  See  where  it  comes  ! — Behaviour,  what 
wert  thou. 
Till  this  mad  man  show'd  thee  ?  and  what  art  thou 
now? 
Kiny.  All  hail,  sweet  madam,  and  fair  time  ol 

day ! 
Prin.  Fair,  in  all  hail,  is  foul,  as  I  conceive. 
King.  Construe  my  speeches  better,  if  you  may. 
Prin.  Then  wish   me   better,  I  will  give   you 

leave. 
King.  We  came  to  visit  you ;  and  purpose  now 
To  lead  you  to  our  court :  vouchsafe  it  then. 
Prin.  This  field  shall  hold  me ;  and  so  hold  your 
vow : 
Nor  God,  nor  I,  delight  in  perjur'd  man. 

King.  Rebuke  me  not  for  that  which  you  pro- 
voke ; 
The  virtue  of  your  eye  must  bre.ak  my  oath.* 
Prin.  You  nick-name  virtue :  \\co  you  sliouW 

have  spoke, 
For  \nrtue's  office  never  breaks  men's  troth. 
Now  by  my  maiden  honour,  yet  as  pure 
As  the  unsullied  hlv,  I  protest, 

391 


,          - -    -            -         ■    -           ,              -               ^                                                                                                            __                                                    ^ 

i^CT  V.                                           LOVE'S  LABOUR  'S  LOST.                                       scene  n. 

A  woiIJ  of  torments  though  I  should  endure, 

Ros.  Help !  hold  his  brows !  he  '11  swound.  Why 

I  would  not  yield  to  be  your  house's  guest : 

look  you  pale  ? — 

So  much  I  hale  a  breaking-cause  to  be 

Sea-sick,  I  think,  coming  from  Muscovy. 

Of  heavenly  oaths,  vow'd  with  integi'ity. 

Biron.  Thus  pour  the  stare  down  plagues  for 

Jiinff.  0,  you  have  liv'd  in  desolation  here, 

peijury. 

Unseen,  un\isited ;  mucli  to  our  shame. 

Can  any  face  of  brass  hold  longer  out  ? — 

Frill.  Not  so,  my  lord ;  it  is  not  so,  I  swear ; 

Here  stand  I,  lady ;  dart  thy  skill  at  me ; 

Wc  hare  had  pastimes  here,  and  pleasant  game ; 

Bniise   me  with   scorn,  confound   me  vnth   a 

A  mess  of  Russians  left  us  but  of  late. 

flout : 

jLiny.  How,  madam  ?  Russians  ? 

Thrust  thy  sharp  wit  quite  through  my  ignorance 

Prin.                 Ay,  in  truth,  my  lord ; 

Cut  me  to  pieces  with  thy  keen  conceit ; 

Trim  g.illants,  full  of  couitship,  and  of  state. 

And  I  will  wish  thee  never  more  to  dance, 

lios.  Madam,  speak  true: — It  is   not  so,  my 

Nor  never  more  in  Russian  habit  wait. 

lord ; 

0  !  never  will  I  trust  to  speeches  penn  d, 

My  lady  (to  the  manner  of  the  days), 

Nor  to  the  motion  of  a  schoolboy's  tongue ; 

[n  courtesy,  gives  undeserving  praise. 

Nor  never  come  in  visor  to  my  friend ; 

We  four,  indeed,  conft'oated  were  with  four 

Nor  woo  in  rhyme,  like  a  blind  harper's  soag: 

In  Russian  habit ;  here  they  stay'd  an  hour, 

Taffata  phrases,  silken  terms  precise,^ 

And  talk'd  apace ;  and  in  that  hour,  my  lord, 

Three-piPd  hyperboles,'™  spruce  affectation, 

They  did  not  bless  us  with  one  happy  word. 

Figures  pedantical ;  these  summer-flies 

[  dare  not  call  them  fools;  but  this  I  think, 

Have  blown  me  full  of  maggot  ostentation : 

UTjen    they    ai'e    thirety,   fools   would    fain   have 

I  do  forswear  them  :  and  I  here  protest, 

drink. 

By  this  white  glove  (how  white  the  hand,  God 

Biron.  This  jest  is  dry  to  me.     Gentle  sweet, 

knows !) 

your   wit  makes   wise   things  foolish ;    when  we 

Henceforth  my  wooing  mind  shall  be  express'd 

greet, 

In  russet  yeas,  and  honest  kersey  noes : 

With  eyes  best  seeing,  heaven's  fieiy  eye, 

And,  to  begin,  wench, — so  God  help  mo,  la ! 

By  light  we  lose  light :  Your  capacity 

My  love  to  thee  is  sound,  sans  crack  or  flaw. 

[9  of  that  nature,  that  to  your  huge  store 

Ros.  Sans  Sans,  I  pray  you. 

Wise  things  seem   foolish,  and  rich   things  but 

Biro7i.                 Yet  I  have  a  trick 

poor. 

Of  the  old  rage  : — bear  with  me,  I  am  sick 

Ros.  This  proves  you  wise  and  rich,  for  in  my 

I  '11  leave  it  by  degrees.     Soft,  let  us  see  ;— 

eye, — 

Write   "  Lord   have   mercy   on   us,'"""    on   those 

Biron.  I  am  a  fool,  and  full  of  poverty. 

three ; 

Ros.  B;:t   that  you   take  what   doth   to   you 

They  are  infected,  in  their  hearts  it  lies : 

belong. 

They  have  the  plague,  and  caught  it  of  your  oyca 

It  were  a  fault  to  snatch  words  from  my  tongue. 

These  lords  are  visited ;  you  are  not  free, 

Biron.  Oh,  I  am  yours,  and  all  that  I  possess. 

For  the  Lord's  tokens  on  you  do  I  see. 

Ros.  All  the  fool  mine  ? 

Prin.  No,  they  are  free  that  gave  those  tokens 

Biron.                  I  cannot  give  you  less. 

to  us. 

Ros.  Wiiich  of  the  visors  was  it  that  you  wore? 

Biron.  Our  states  are  forfeit ;  seek  not  to  undo 

Biron.  Where  1    when?    what  vnsor?   why  de- 

us. 

mand  you  this  ? 

Ros.  It  is  not  so.     For  how  can  this  be  true, 

Ros.  There,  then,  that  visor;  that  superfluous 

Tliat  you  stand  forfeit,  being  those  that  sue  ? 

case, 

Biron.  Peace !  for  I  will  not  have  to  do  with 

That  hid  the  worse,  and  show'd  the  better  face. 

you. 

ICijiff.  We  are  tlescried  :  they  '11  mock  us  now 

Ros.  Nor  shall  not,  if  I  do  as  I  intend. 

downright,                                     ) 

Biron.  Speak  for  yourselves ;  my  wit  is  at  an 

Diim.  Let  us  confess,  and  turn  it  to  a  >■  Aside. 

end. 

jest.                                               ) 

liinff.  Teach  us,  sweet  madam,  for  our   i  ide 

Prin.  Ainaz'd,  my  lord  ?  Why  looks  your  high- 

transgi'cssion 

ness  sad  ? 
298 

Some  fair  excuse. 

ACT   V. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR  'S  LOST. 


8C1SNE   n. 


Prin.  Tho  fairest  is  confession. 

Were  you  not  hoi'o,  but  even  now,  disguis'd  ? 
Kinc/.  iladaiii,  I  was. 
Prin.  And  were  you  well  advis'd  ? 

King.  I  was,  fair  madam. 
Prin.  When  you  then  were  herOj 

What  did  you  whisper  iu  your  lady's  ear? 

King.  That  more  tlian  all  the  world  I  diu  re- 
spect her. 
Pri7i.  When  she  shall  challenge  this,  you  will 

reject  her. 
King.  Upon  mine  honour,  no. 
Prin.  Peace !  peace !  forbe.ar ; 

STour  oath  once  broke,  you  force  not  to  forswear. 
King.  Despise  me,  when  I  break  this  oath  of 

mine. 
Prin.  I  will :  and  therefore  keep  it : — Rosaline, 
What  did  the  Russian  whisper  in  your  ear? 
Ros.  Madam,  be  swore  that  he  did  hold  me 
dear 
As  precious  eye-sight:  and  did  value  me 
Above  this  world :  adding  thereto,  moreover, 
That  he  would  wed  me,  or  else  die  my  lover. 

Prin.  God  give  thee  joy  of  him  !  the  noble  lord 
Most  honourably  doth  uphold  his  word. 

King.  What  mean  you,  madam  ?  by  my  life,  my 
troth, 
I  never  swore  this  lady  such  an  oath. 

Ros.  By  heaven,  you  did ;    and   to   confirm  it 
plain, 
Vou  gave  me  this :  but  take  it,  sir,  again. 

King.  My  faith,  and   this,   the  piincess  I  did 
give ; 
r  knew  her  bj-  this  jewel  on  her  sleeve. 

Prin.  Pardon  me,  sir,  this  jewel  did  she  wear ; 
And  lord  Biron,  I  thank  him,  is  my  dear : — 
What !  will  you  have  me,  or  your  pearl  again  ? 
Biron.  Neither  of  either :  I  remit  both  twain. 
[  see  the  trick  on  't : — Here  was  a  consent, 
(Knowing  aforehand  of  our  meniment,) 
To  dash  it  like  a  Chiistmas  comedy : 
Souu!  cany-tale,  some  please-man,  some  slight  zany, 
Rome  mumble  news,  some  trencher-knight,  some 

Dick,— 
That  smiles  his  cheek  in  years,  and  knows  the 

trick 
To  make  my  lady  iiiugh,  when  she  's  dispos'd — 
Told  our  intents  before  :  which  once  disclos'd, 
He  ladies  did  change  favoui's;  and  then  we. 
Following  the  signs,  woo'd  but  the  sign  of  she. 
Now,  to  our  perjuiy  to  aaJ  more  terroi-. 
We  are  again  forsworn, — in  will  and  error. 


Much  upon  this  it  is : — and  might  not  you 

[To  BOVKT 
Forestal  our  sport,  to  make  us  thus  untrue  ? 
Do  not  you  know  my  lady's  foot  by  the  squire."* 

And  laugh  upon  the  apple  of  her  eye  ? 
And  stand  between  her  back,  sir,  and  the  fire, 

ITolding  a  trencher,  jesting  meirily  ? 
You  put  our  page  out.     Go,  you  are  allow'd ; 
Die  when  you  will,  a  smock  shall  be  your  shroud 
You  leer  upon  me,  do  you  ?  there  's  an  eye, 
Wounds  like  a  leaden  sword. 

Bogct.  Full  merrily 

Hath  this  brave  manage,  this  career,  been  ruii. 

Biron.  Lo,  he  is  tilting  straight!     Peace!    1 
have  done. 

Enter  Costard. 

Welcome,  pure  wit !  thou  partest  a  fair  fray. 

Cost.  0  Lord,  sir,  they  would  know 
Whether  the  three  Worthies  sliall  come  in,  or  no. 

Biron.  Wliat,  are  there  but  three  ? 

Cost.  No,  sir ;  but  it  is  vara  fine. 

For  every  one  pursents  three. 

Biron.  And  three  times  thrice  is  nine. 

Cost.  Not  so,  sir ;  under  cerrection,  sir,  I  hope 
it  is  not  so : 
Yqu  cannot  beg  us,'°'  sir,  I  can  assure  you,  sir; 

we  know  what  we  know; 
I  hope,  sir,  three  times  thrice,  sir, — 

Biron.  Is  not  nine. 

Cost.  Under  correction,  sir,  we  know  whereuntil 
it  doth  amount. 

Biron.  By  Jove,  I  always  took  three  threes  for 
nine. 

Cost.  O  Lord,  sir,  it  were  pity  you  .should  get 
your  living  by  reck'ning,  sir. 

Biron.  How  much  is  it  ? 

Cost.  O  Lord,  sir,  the  parties  themselves,  the 
actors,  sir,  will  show  whereuntil  it  doth  amount : 
for  mine  own  part,  I  am,  as  they  say,  but  to  par- 
feet  one  man  in  one  poor  man ;  Ponipion  the 
Great,  sir. 

Biron.  Art  thou  one  of  the  Worthies? 

Cost.  It  pleased  them  to  think  me  worlhy  of 
Ponipion  the  Great :  for  mine  own  part,  I  know 
not  the  degree  of  the  Worthy;  but  I  am  to  stand 
for  him. 

Biron.  Go,  bid  them  prepare. 

Cost.  We  will  turB  it  finely  off,  sir;    we  wi.l 
take  some  care.  [Exit  Cost. 

King.  Biron,  they  will  shame  us,  let  them  not 
approach. 

299 


ACT   V. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR  'S  LOST. 


SOEKB   lU 


Biron.  We  are  shame  proof,  my  lord:  and  't  is 
some  policy 
To  have  one  show  worse  than  the  king's  and  his 
comjjany. 
King.  I  say,  they  shall  not  oome. 
Prin.  Nay,  my  g3od  lord,  let  me  o'er-rule  you 
now: 
That  sport  best  pleases  that  doth  least  know  how : 
Where  zeal  strives  to  content,  and  the  contents 
Die  in  the  zeal  of  that  which  it  pi'eseuts. 
The  form  confounded'"  makes  most  form  in  mirth, 
When  great  thing-s  labouring  perish  in  their  birth. 
Biron.  A  right  description  of  our  sport,  my  lord. 

Enter  Armado. 

Arm.  Anointed,  J  implore  so  much  expense  of 
thy  royal  sweet  breath,  as  will  utter  a  brace  of 
words.  [Armado  converses  with  the  King, 

and  delivers  a  j^aper  to  him. 
Prin.  Doth  this  man  serve  God  \ 
Biron.  Why  ask  you  ? 

Prin.  He  speaks  not  like  a  man  of  God's  making. 
Ann.  That  's  all  one,  my  fair,  sweet,  honey 
monarch ;  for,  I  pirotcst,  the  schoolmaster  is  ex- 
ceeding fantjistical ;  too-too  vain ;  too-too  vain ; 
but  we  will  put  it,  as  they  say,  to  fortuna  delta 
yucrra.  I  wish  you  the  peace  of  mind,  most 
royal  couplement !  \Exit  Arm. 

Kinij.  Here  is  like  to  be  a  good  presence  of 
^^'urthies.  He  presents  Hector  of  Troy  ;  the  swain, 
Pompey  the  Great ;  the  parish  curate,  Alexander ; 
Armado's  page,  Hercules ;  the  pedant,  Judas 
Maccabeus. 

And  if  these  four  Worthies  in  their  first  show  thrive, 
These  four  will   change   habits,   and  present  the 
other  five. 
Biron.  There  is  five  in  the  first  show. 
Kiwj.  You  are  deceived ;  't  is  not  so.       ' 
Biron.  The   pedant,   the   braggart,  the  hedge- 
priest,'"'^  the  fool,  and  the  boy : — 
Abate  a  throw  at  novum ;   and  the  whole  world 

again 
(Cannot  prick  out  five  such,  take  each  one  in  his 
vein. 
Ktr.y.   The  ship  is  under  sail,   and    here  she 
comes  amain. 
[iScate  bronr/h.lfor  the  King,  Prixcess,  <fv. 
Pageant  of  the  Nine  Worthies. 

Enter  Costard,  armed,  for  Pompey. 

Cost.  "  1  Pompey  am," — 
Boyd  You  lie,  you  are  not  ho. 

£00 


Cost.  "  I  Pompey  am," — 

Boyet.  With  libbard's'"^  head  on  knee. 

Biron.  W^ell  said,  old  mocker;    I  must  needs 

be  fi'iends  with  thee. 
Cost.  "I  Pompey  am,  Pompey  surnam'd   the 

big-" 
Bum.  The  Great. 

Cost.  It  is  Great,  sir ; — "  Pompey  sia-nam'd  the 
Great ; 
That  oft  in  field,  with  targe  and  shield,  did  make 

my  foe  to  sweat ; 
And  travelling  .along  this  coast,  I  here  am  como 

by  chance, 
And  lay  my  arms  before  th^  legs  of  this  sweet  lasa 

of  France." 
If  your  ladyship  would  s.ay,  "Thanks,  Pompey, 
I  had  done. 

Prin.  Great  thanks,  great  Pompey. 
Cost.  'T  is  not  so  much  worth ;  but,  I  hope,  I 
was  perfect.     I  made  a  little  fault  in  "great." 

Biron.  My  hat  to  a  halfiseuny,  Pompey  proves 
the  best  Worthy. 

Enter  Nathaniel,  armed,  for  Alexander. 

Nath.  "When  in  the  world  I  liv'd,  I  was  the 
world's  commander ; 
By  east,  west,  north,  and  south,  I  spread  my  con- 
quering might ; 
My  'scutcheon  plain  declares  that  I  am  Alisander.'' 
Boyet.  Your  nose  says,  no,  you  are  not ;  for  it 

stands  too  right. 
Biron.  Your  nose  smells,  no,  in  this,  most  ten- 

der-smellinsr  knig-ht. 
Prin.   The    conqueror   is   dismay'd.      Proceed, 

good  Alexander. 
Nath.  "  When  in  the  world  I  liv'd,  I  was  the 

world's  commander  ;"^ — 
Boyet.    Most    triie,  't  is   right ;    you    were   so, 

Alisander. 
Biron.  Pompey  the  Great, — 
Cost.  Your  servant  and  Ciistanl. 

Biron.  Take   away   the   conqueror,  take   away 

Alisander. 
Cost.  O,  sir,  [To  Nath.]  you  have  overtUro^m 
Alisander  the  conqueror!  You  will  bo  scrap'd 
out  of  the  painted  cloth""  for  this:  your  lion,  that 
holds  his  poll-ax  sitting  on  a  close  stool,  will  be 
rriven  to  AjaX :  ho  will  bo  the  ninth  Worthy.  A 
con(|ueror,  and  afeared  to  speak !  run  away  for 
shame,  Alisander.  [Nath.  retires.']  There,  an  'I 
shrdl  please  you ;  a  foolish  mild  man  ;  an  honest 
man,  look  you,  and  soon  da.shed  1     He  is  a  mar- 


LOVE'S  LABOUR  '8  LOST. 


6OBM1:  n. 


vt'lloua  good  neiglibour,  in  sooth ;  and  a  very  good 
bowler :  but,  f?r  Alisander,  alas !  you  see  how 't  Ls; 
— a  little  o'erparted :'" — But  there  are  Worthies  a 
coining  will  speak  their  mind  in  some  other  sort. 
Prill.  Stand  aside,  good  Poinpey. 

/irlcr  IToLOFERNES,  armed,  for  Judas,  and  Moxn, 
armed,  for  Ilercules. 

Hoi.  "  Great  Hercules  is  presented  by  this  imp, 
Whose   club   kill'd   Cerberus,   that   three-headed 

canis; 
A.n<\,  wlien  he  was  a  babe,  a  child,  a  shrimp. 

Thus  did  he  strangle  serjjeuts  in  his  viattus ; 
Quoniam,  he  seemeth  in  minority ; 
Ergo,  I  come  with  this  apology." — 
Keep  some  state  in  thy  exit,  and  vanish. 

[Exit  Moth. 
"Juias,  I  am,"— 

Bum.  A  Judas ! 

Hoi.  Not  Iscariot,  sir, — ■ 
"  Judas,  I  am,  y-cliped  ^Maccabeus." 

Dum.  .Juda-s  Maccabeus  dipt,  is  plain  Judas. 

Itiron.  A  kissing  traitor : — How  art  thou  prov'd 
Judas  ? 

Hoi.  "  Judas,  I  am,"— 

Dum.  The  more  shame  for  you,  Judas. 

Hoi.  Wliat  mean  you,  sir  ? 

Boyct.  To  make  Judas  hang  himself. 

Hoi.  Begin,  sir;  you  are  my  elder. 

Biron.  Well  follow'd  :  Judas  was  hang'd  on  an 
elder.™ 

Hoi.  I  will  not  be  put  out  of  countenance. 

Biron.  Because  thou  hast  no  face. 

Hoi.  What  is  this?  [Pointing  to  Ms  face. 

Boyet.  A  cittern-head. 

Dum.  The  head  of  a  bodkin. 

Biron.  A  death's  face  in  a  ring. 

Long.  The  face  of  an  old  Roman  coin,  scarce 
seen. 

Boyet.  The  pummel  of  Caesar's  falchion 

Dum.  The  carv'd-bone  face  on  a  flask. 

Biron.  St.  George's  half-cheek  in  a  brooch. 

Dum.  Ay,  and  in  a  brooch  of  lead. 

Biron.  Ay,  and  worn  in  the  cap  of  a  tooth- 
drawer."" 
Aiid   uow,  foiTvard ;   for   we   have   put   theo   in 
countenance. 

Hoi.  You  have  put  me  out  of  countenance. 

Biron.  False :  we  have  given  thee  faces. 

Hoi.  But  you  have  out-fec'd  them  all. 

Biron.  An  thou  wert  a  lion,  we  would  do  so. 

Bcyet.  Therefore,  as  he  is  an  ass,  let  him  go. 


And  so  adieu,  sweet  Jude !   nay,  wny  cloat  thou 

stay? 
Dum.  For  the  latter  end  of  his  name. 
Biron,  For  the  ass  to  the  Jude ;  give  it  hiju  :-  - 

Jud-as  away  1 
Hoi.  This  is  not  generous ;    not  gentle ;    not 

humble. 
Boi/el.  A  light  for  monsieur  Judas  1   it  grows 

dark ;  he  may  stumble. 
Frin.  Alas,  poor  Maccabeus,  how  liath  he  bwn 

baited ! 

Enter  AnMADO,  armed,  for  Hector. 

Biron.  Hide  thy  head,  Achilles ;  here  comes 
Hector  in  arms. 

Dum.  Though  ray  mocks- come  home  by  me,  I 
will  now  be  merry. 

Xing.  Hector  was  but  a  Trojan  in  respect  of 
this. 

Boyet.  But  is  this  Hector  ? 

King.    I    think    Hector    was    not    so    clean 
timber'd. 

Long.  His  leg  is  too  big  for  Hector. 

Du)n.  More  calf,  certain. 

Boyet.  No ;  he  is  best  endued  in  the  small. 

Biron.  This  cannot  be  Hector. 

Dum.  He  's  a  god  or  a  painter ;  for  he  makes 
faces. 

Arm.   "The   armipotent  Mars,  of  lances   the 
almighty, 
Gave  Hector  a  gift," — ■ 

Dum.  A  gilt  nutmeg. 

Biron.  A  lemon. 

Long.  Stuck  with  cloves.'" 

Dum.  No,  cloven. 

Arm.  Peace! 
"  The  armipotent  Mars,  of  lances  the  almighty, 

Gave  Hector  a  gift,  the  heir  of  Hion : 
A  man  so  breath'd,  that  certain  he  would  fight, 
yea. 

From  morn  till  night,  out  of  his  pavilion. 
I  am  that  i3ower," — 

Dum.  That  mint. 

Long.  That  columbine. 

Arm.  Sweet  lord  Longaville,  reign  thy  tongue 

Long.  I  must  rather  give  it  the  rein,  for  .i 
runs  against  Hector. 

Dur/i.  Ay,  and  Hector  's  a  greyhound. 

Arm.  The  sweet  war- man  is  dead  and  rotten ; 
sweet  chucks,  beat  not  the  bones  of  the  bmied : 
when  he  breath'd,  he  was  a  man — but  I  will  for- 
ward   wit,b    my   device :    Sweei   royally    [to   the 

801 


AUT    V. 


LOVE'S  LABOUR  'S  LOST. 


SCENE   n. 


Princess  ]  bestow  on  me  the  sense  of  hearing. 

[BiRON  whispers  Costard. 

Prin.  Speak,  bravo  Hector :  we  are  much  de- 
lighted. 

Arm.  I  do  adore  thy  sweet  grace's  slijiper."^ 

Boyet.  Loves  her  by  the  foot. 

Dutn.  He  may  not  by  the  yard. 

Arm.    "This    Hector    far    surmounted    Han- 
nibal,"— 

Cost.  The  party  is  gone  ;  fellow  Hector,  she  is 
gone ;  she  is  two  months  on  her  way. 

Arm.  What  meanest  thou  ? 

Cost.  Faith,  unless  you  play  the  honest  Trojan, 
the  poor  wench  is  cast  away  :  she  's  quick ;  the 
child  brags  in  her  belly  already ;  't  is  yours. 

Arm.  Dost  thou  infamonize  me  among  poten- 
tates ?  thou  shalt  die. 

Cost.  Then  shall  Hector  be  whipped,  for 
Jaquenetta  that  is  quick  by  him ;  and  hang'd,  for 
Pompey  that  is  dead  by  him. 

Bum.  Jlost  rare  Pompey  ! 

Boyet.  Renowned  Pompey ! 

Biron.  Greater  than  gieat,  great,  great,  great 
PoTnpey  !  Pompey  the  huge ! 

Dum.  Hector  trembles. 

Biron.  Pompey  is  moved  ; — More  Ates,  more 
ites;  stir  them  on!  stir  them  on  ! 

Dum.  Hector  will  challenge  him. 

Biron.  Ay,  if  'a  have  no  more  man's  blood  in  's 
belly  than  nill  sup  a  flea. 

Arm.  By  the  north  pole,  I  do  challenge  thee. 

Cost.  I  will  not  fight  with  a  pole,  like  a 
northern  man ;  I  '11  slash ;  I  '11  do  it  by  the 
Bword. — I  pray  you,  let  me  boiTow  my  anns 
again. 

Dum.  Room  for  the  incensed  Worthies. 

Cost.  I  '11  do  it  in  my  shirt. 

Dum.  Most  resolute  Pompey  ! 

Moth.  Ma.ster,  let  me  take  you  a  button-hole 
lower.'"  Do  you  not  see,  Pompey  is  uncasing  for 
the  combat  ?  What  mean  you  ?  you  will  lose 
j'our  reputation. 

Arm.  Gentlemen,  and  soldiei's,  pardon  me ;  I 
will  not  combat  in  my  shirt. 

Dum.  You  may  not  deny  it ;  Pompey  hath 
made  the  challenge. 

Arm.  Sweet  bloods,  I  both  may  and  will. 

Biron.  What  reason  have  you  for 't  ? 

Arm.  The  naked  truth  of  it  is,  I  have  no  shirt ; 
I  go  woolward  for  penance.'" 

Boyel.  Tiiii.',  and  it  was  enjoined  him  in  Rome 
for  waat  of  linen:  since  when,  I'll  be  sworn,  he 
303 


wore  none  but  a  dish-clout  of  Jaquenetta's ;  an(^ 
that  'a  weare  next  his  heart,  for  a  fa  rour. 

Enter  Mercade. 

Mer.  God  save  you,  madam ! 

Prin.  Welcome,  Mercade  ; 
But  that  thou  interruptest  our  meniment. 

Mer.  I  am  sorry,  madam ;  for  the  news  I  brir.g 
Is  hea^-y  in  my  tongue.     The  king,  your  father — 

Prin.  Dead,  for  my  life ! 

Mer.  Even  so ;  my  tale  is  told. 

Biron.  Worthies,  away ;    the  scene  begins  to 
cloud. 

Arm.  For  mine  own  part,  I  breathe  free 
breath:  I  have  seen  the  day  of  wrong"-'^  tlirough 
the  little  hole  of  discretion,  and  I  will  right  my- 
self like  a  soldier.  \Exeunt  Worthies. 

King.  How  fares  your  majesty  ? 

Prin.  Boyet,  prepare ;  I  will  away  tonight. 

King.  Madam,  not  so;  I  do  beseech  you  stay. 

Prin.  Prepare,  I  say. — I  thank  you,  giacious 
lords. 
For  aU  your  fair  endeavours ;  and  entreat. 
Out  of  a  new-sad  soul,  that  you  vouchsafe 
In  your  rich  wisdom,  to  excuse,  or  hide. 
The  liberal  opposition  of  our  spirits : 
If  over-boldly  we  have  borne  ourselves 
In  the  converse  of  V*cath,  your  gentleness 
Was  guilty  of  it— -?  are  well,  worthy  lord, 
A  heavy  heart  bears  not  a  humble  tongue : 
Excuse  me  so,  coming  too  short  of  thanks 
For  my  great  suit  so  easily  obtain'd. 

King.  The  extreme  parts  of  Time  extreme*  y 
form 
All  causes  to  the  purpose  of  his  speed ; 
And  often,  at  his  very  loose,  "  decides 
That  which  long  process  could  not  arbitrate  : 
And  though  the  mourning  brow  of  progeny 
Forbid  the  smiling  courtesy  of  love, 
The  holy  suit  which  fain  it  would  convince  ; 
Yet,  since  love's  argument  was  finst  on  foot. 
Let  not  the  cloud  of  sorrow  justle  it 
From    what   it   pui'pos'd ;    since,  to  wail   frienda 

lost, 
Is  not  by  much  so  whol-esome,  profitable, 
As  to  rejoice  at  friends  but  newly  found. 

Prin.  I  understand   you   not ;    my  griefs   arc 
dull. 

Biron.  Honest  plain  words  best  pierce  the  eare 
of  grief; — 
And  by  these  badges  understand  the  king. 
For  your  fair  sakes  have  we  neglected  timo, 


. 

iic-r  V                                           LOVE'S  LABOUR  'S  LOST.                                        scejib  u. 

Play'J   fmil   play  with  our  oaths.     Your  beauty. 

But  that  It  bear  this  trial,  and  la-st  love ; 

ladies, 

Then,  at  the  expiration  of  the  year. 

Elath  much  dofovm'd  us,  fashioning  our  humours 

Come  challenge,  challenge  me  by  these  deserts, 

Even  to  the  opposed  end  of  our  intents' 

And,  by  this  virgin  palm,  now  kissing  thine. 

/        ^Vid  what  in  us  hath  seem'd  ridioulou.^, — 

I  will  be  thine ;  and,  till  that  inst.ant,  shut 

1       As  love  is  full  of  unbefitting  strains ; 

My  woful  self  up  in  a  mourning  house. 

All  wanton  as  a  child,  skipping,  and  vain; 

Raining  the  tears  of  lamentation 

Forin'd  by  the  eye,  and,  therefore,  like  the  eye, 

For  the  remembrance  of  my  father's  death. 

Full  of  strange  shapes,'"  of  habits,  and  of  forms. 

If  this  thou  do  deny,  let  om-  hands  part; 

Varying  in  subjects,  as  the  eye  doth  roll 

Neither  intitled  in  the  other's  heart. 

To  every  varied  object  in  his  glance : 

Xiny.    If  this,   or  more    than    tliis,   I   would 

Which  party-coated  presence  of  loose  love, 

deny. 

Put  on  by  us,  if,  in  your  heavenly  eyes. 

To    flatter    up    these    powers    of   mine   with 

Have  luisbeeom'd  our  oatus  and  gravities. 

rest,"' 

Those  heavenly  eyes,  that  look  into  these  faults. 

The  sudden  hand  of  death  close  up  mine  eye! 

Suggested  us  to  make.     Therefore,  ladies, 

Hence  ever  then  my  heart  is  in  thy  breast. 

Our  love  being  yours,  the  error  that  love  makes 

Dvm.  But  what  to  me,  my  love  ?  but  what  to 

Is  likewise  yours :  we  to  ourselves  prove  false, 

me? 

By  being  once  false  for  ever  to  be  true 

liatk.    A    wife! — A    beard,    ftir    health,    and 

To  those  that  make  us  both, — fair  ladies,  you : 

honesty ; 

And  even  that  falsehood,  in  itself  a  sin. 

With  three-fold  love  I  wisli  you  all  these  three. 

Thus  purifies  itself,  and  turns  to  grace. 

Bum.    0,   shall    I   say,    I    thank   you,    gentle 

Fri7t.  We   have   receiv'd   your  letters   full   of 

wife? 

love ; 

Kath.  Not  so,  my  lord ; — a  twelvemonth  and  a 

Your  favours,  the  ambassadors  of  love ; 

day 

And,  in  our  maiden  council,  rated  them 

I  'D    mark    no   words    that   smooth-fac'd    wooere 

At  courtship,  pleasant  jest,  and  courtesy. 

say: 

As  bombast,'"  and  as  lining  to  the  time: 

Come  when  the  king  doth  to  my  lady  come. 

But  more  devout  than  this,  in  our  respects, 

Then,  if  I  have  much  love,  I  '11  give  you  some. 

Have  we  not  been  ;  and  therefore  met  your  loves 

Bnm.  I  '11   serve  thee   true   and  faithfully  ti"[l 

In  ilieir  own  fashion,  like  a  meiriment. 

then. 

Dum.  Our  letters,  madam,  jhow'd  much  more 

Xath.  Yet  swear  not,  lest  ye  be  forsworn  again. 

than  jest. 

Lonff.  What  says  Maria? 

Loni/.  So  did  our  looks. 

Mar.                  At  the  twelvemonth's  end. 

jBos.                 We  did  not  cote  them  so. 

I  '11  change  my  black  gown  for  a  faithful  fi'iend. 

Jiinff.  Now,  at  the  latest  minute  of  the  hour. 

Lonff.  I  '11  stay  with  patience ;  but  the  time  is 

Grant  us  your  loves. 

long. 

Prin.                 A  time,  methinks,  too  short 

Mar.  The  liker  you ;  few  taller  are  so  young. 

To  make  a  world-without-end  bargain  in  : 

Biron.   Studies   my  lady?    mistress,    look   on 

No,  no,  my  lord,  your  grace  is  perjur'd  much. 

me  ? 

Full  of  dear  guiltiness ;  and,  therefore,  this  ;■ — 

Behold  the  window  of  my  heart,  mine  eye, 

If  for  my  love  (as  there  is  no  such  cause) 

What  humble  suit  attends  thy  answer  there ; 

You  will  do  aught,  this  shall  you  do  for  me : 

Impose  some  service  on  me  for  thy  love. 

Your  oath  I  will  not  trust ;  but  go  with  speed 

Bos.  Oft  have  I  heard  of  you,  my  lord  Biron, 

To  some  foi'lorn  and  naked  hermitage. 

Before  I  saw  you :  and  the  world's  large  tongue 

Remote  from  all  the  pleasures  of  the  world ; 

Proclaims  you  for  a  man  replete  with  mocks ; 

There  stay  until  the  twelve  celestial  signs 

Full  of  comparisons  and  wounding  flouts, 

Have  brouglit  about  their  annual  reckoning : 

Which  you  on  all  estates  will  execute, ' 

If  this  austere  insociable  life 

That  lie  within  the  mercy  of  your  wit : 

Change  not  your  ofl'er  made  in  heat  of  blood  ; 

To    weed    this    wormwood    from     your    fruitfiJ 

If  frost.s,  and  fasts,  hard  lodging,  and  thin  weeds. 

brain. 

Nip  not  the  gaudy  blossoms  of  your  love, 

And,  therewithal,  to  win  me  -f  you  please, 

803 

••                                                                                                                                                                   ■                 1 

.OVE'S  LABOLT.  'S  LOST. 


SCENE    n. 


(Without  the  which,  I  am  not  to  be  won,) 

V©u  shall    this  twelvemonth  term,  from  day  to 

Visit  the  speechless  sick,  and  still  converse 
With  groaning  wretches;  and  your  task  shall  be, 
With  all  the  fierce  endeavour  of  your  wit, 
To  enforce  the  pained  impotent  to  smile. 

Biron.  To  move  wild  laughter  in  the  throat  of 
death  ? 
It  cannot  be ;  it  is  impossible : 
Mirth  cannot  move  a  soul  in  agony. 

Bos.  Why,  that 's  the  way  to  choke  a  gibing 
spirit. 
Whose  influence  is  begot  of  that  loose  grace 
Which  shallow  laughing  hearer's  give  to  fools : 
A  jest's  prosperity  lies  in  the  ear 
Of  him  that  hears  it,  never  in  the  tongue 
Of  him  that  makes  it :  then,  if  sickly  ears, 
Deaf'd   with   the   clamours    of   their   own   dear 

groans. 
Will  hear  yom'  idle  scorns,  continue  then. 
And  I  ynW  have  you,  and  that  fault  withal ; 
But,  if  they  will  not,  throw  away  that  spirit, 
And  I  shall  find  you  empty  of  that  fault. 
Right  joyful  of  your  refonnation. 

Blron.  A  twelvemonth  ?    well,  befal  what  will 
befal, 
1  '11  jest  a  twelvemonth  in  an  hospital. 

Prin.  Ay,  sweet  my  lord;  and  so  I  take  my 
leave.  \To  the  King. 

King.  No,  madam,  we  will  bring  you  on  your 
way. 

Biron.  Our  wooing  doth  not  end  like  an  old 

pi.iy;^ 

Jack  hath  not  Jill :  these  ladies'  courtesy 
Might  well  have  made  our  sport  a  comedy. 

King.  Come,  sir,  it  wants  a  twelvemonth  and  a 
day, 
And  then  't  will  end. 

Biron.  That 's  too  long  for  a  play. 

Enter  Armado. 

Arm.  Sweet  majesty,  vouchsafe  me, — 

Prin.  Was  not  that  Hector? 

Dum.  The  worthy  knight  of  Troy. 

Arm.  T  will  kiss  thy  royal  finger,  and  take 
leave.  I  am  a  votary:  I  liavo  vow'd  to  Jaque- 
uetta  to  hold  the  plough  for  her  sweet  love  three 
)-ears.  But,  most  esteemed  greatness,  will  you 
bear  the  dialogue  that  the  two  leanied  men  have 
compiled  in  praise  of  the  owl  and  the  cuckoo?  it 
should  have  followed  in  the  end  of  our  show 

804 


King.  Call  them  forth  quick  tj";  we  will  do  so. 
Arm.  Holla !  approach. 

Enter  Holofernes,  Nathaniej,,  Motii,  O.-'w.-n. 
and  others. 

This  side  is  Hiems,  winter :  Th.s  Ver,  the  spring ; 
the  one  maintained  by  the  owl,  the  other  by  tlic 
cuckoo.     Ver,  begin. 

SONG. 


Spring.    When  daisies  pied,  and  violets  blue, 
And  lady-smoeVs  all  silver  white, 
And  cuckoo-buds  of  yellow  hue,"" 

Do  paint  the  meadows  with  delight, 
The  cuclioo  then,  on  every  tree, 
Mocks  married  meu,  for  thus  singa  he 

Cuckoo ; 
Cuckoo,  cuckoo, — 0  word  of  fear, 
Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear  I 


When  shepherds  pipe  on  oaten  straws, 
And  merry  larks  are  ploughmen's  clocks, 

Wlien  turtles  tread,  and  rooks,  and  dawo. 
And  maidens  bleach  their  summer  smocks 

The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree. 

Mocks  married  men,  for  thus  sings  he* 
Cuckoo ; 

Cuckoo,  cuckoo, — 0  woid  of  fear, 

Unpleasing  to  a  married  earl 


WniTER.  When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall, 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  hie  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  tlie  hall, 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail. 
When  blood  is  nipp'd,  and  ways  be  foul. 
Tlien  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl. 

To-who ; 
Tu-whit,  to-who,  a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot."' 


When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow, 

And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw, 

And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow. 
And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw; 

When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bcwl,'" 

Then  nightly  sings  the  stariLg  owl, 
To-who ; 

Tu-whit,  towho,  a  merry  note. 

Wliilo  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  (he  pot. 

yir/i>.  The  words  of  Mercury  are  harsh  after  the 
sotigs  of  Apullo.     You,  that  way;  we,  this  way. 

lEzeunL 


NOTES  TO  LOVE'S  LABOUR  'S  LOST. 


>  In  Uie  disgrace  of  death. 

Ihtyraee  aoems  to  be  )iere  used  for  ohfcvrity.  "To 
lj.!jriicc,  to  obscure  and  mako  darke  a  thing,"  Baret's 
AJveiirio,  1680. 

'  Our  court  shall  be  a  little  aeademe. 

Nor  hath  fair  Enrop  lier  vast  bounds  throughout 
Au  academe  of  note  I  found  not  out. 

HoweWs  Familiar  Letters^  1650. 

'  Fat  paunches  have  lean  pates. 

This  couplet  wab  provoib„il.  It  is  quoted,  with  slight 
v.iriations,  iu  Head's  Protoun  Ecdivivus,  1675,  p.  55,  in 
Llustration  of  the  remark, — '*  a  fat  belly  bespeaks  a  little 
irtre'**^,  because  the  subtile  spirits  are  atfcctcd  with  gross 
and  turbulent  fumes,  which  darken  the  understanding." 
Bankrupt  quite,  ed.  1598;  the  folio  reading  hankerout. 

*  With  all  these  living  in  philosophy. 

Tlint  is,  living  in  philosophy,  which  includes  all  the  love, 
wealth,  and  pomp,  lie  is  anxious  for. 

*  Doth  falsely  blind  the  eyesight  of  hie  look. 

Pr.  -Johnson  makes  a  curious  observation  on  this  tauto- 
logical passage.  "The  whole  sense,"  he  says,  "of  this 
pingling  declamation  is  only  this,  that  a  man  by  too  close 
study  iniy  read  himself  blind  ;  whicli  might  have  been 
told  wiih  less  obscurity  iu  fewer  words." 

0  An  envious  sneaping  frost. 

Sneaping,  i.  o.  nipping.  "Snaped,  checked,  nipped  with 
cold,"  Craven  Glos.  ii.  142.  Fit  you  out,  prepare  for  your 
journey. 

'  A  dangerous  law  against  gentility. 

Gentility  here  corresponds  to  the  French  gentilesse,  po- 
liteness, uri:)anity,  Theobald  explains  the  passage  thus, — 
'*  Such  a  law  for  banishing  women  from  tlie  court  is  dan- 
peroub,  or  injurious,  to  politeness,  urbanity,  and  tlie  more 
refined  pleasures  of  life.  For  men  without  women  would 
lurn  brutal  and  savage  in  their  natures  and  behaviour." 

■*  She  must  liif  here. 

That  is,  slic  must  reside  here.  Sir  H.  Wotton,  perfectly 
innocent  of  any  equivoque,  thus  defines  an  ambassador — 
"  ar  honest  man  sent  to  lie  abroad  for  the  good  of  his 
country."  AJffCts,  loves,  atfeclioni.  Suggestions,  tenipta- 
tiouB.  Qi/ici,  livel.v,  spirited. 
8!» 


•  A  man  of  eompUments. 

Complements  are  well  explained  by  Minsheu,  "cfcrcrii.> 
uies,  accomplishments,  making  that  pericct  which  was 
wanting."  The  king  means  to  say  that  Armado  was  a 
person  of  such  exquisite  accomplishments,  that  he  was  the 
umpire  in  all  questions  of  elegant  etiquette,  llight,  'is 
called. 

"  Lost  in  tlie  world's  debate. 

"  Our  author,  in  my  humble  judgment,  meant  no  more 
than  that  stories  of  chivalry  were  unattended  to  by  persona 
who  lived  in  the  bustle  of  cities,  but  would  be  admirabio 
recreations  occasionally  in  a  life  of  "seclusion  from  the 
world,  to  which  he  and  his  lords  were  about,  for  a  certain 
period,  to  devote  tliemselves,"  MS.  note  by  Thomas  Hull, 
circa  1778. 

»•  /will  use  him  for  my  minstrelsy. 

Douce  explains  this,  "I  will  mako  a  minstrci  ./  2.im 
whose  occupation  was  to  relate  fabulous  stories." 


»2  A  man  ofjire-neiD  words. 

Fire-ne^o,  new  from  the  forge,  quite  new.  "  Or  fire-new 
fashion  in  a  sleeve  or  slop,"  Du  Bartas,  p.  516.  Tharht- 
rough,  tlih-dborough  or  constable.  A  high  hope  for  a  low 
heaven-,  alluding  to  Armado's  lofty  words  being  far  too  high 
for  the  low  heaven  of  his  meaning. 


"  I  was  taken  with  the  manyier. 

A  technical  legal  phrase  for  being  t.aken  in  the  com- 
mission of  the  deed,  with  the  stolen  property  on  the  person. 


"  It  is  y-cliped  thy  park. 

Y-cliped,  called ;  from  the  Anglo-Saxon  cUopian,  to  call. 
The  letter  y  or  i  was  very  commonly  used  in  early  Engliab 
as  an  augment  or  prefix  to  the  imperfects  and  participles  0) 
verbs,  being  merely  a  corruption  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  go ' 
but  it  was  an  antiquated  form  even  in  Shakespeare's  time 


*^  IJear  imp. 

Imp  is  properly  the  shoot,  cutting,  or  bud  of  a  tree ;  bul 
the  term  is  frequently  metaphorically  applied  to  n  olilld  oi 
young  person.  "Au  impe,  or  a  yong  slip  of  d  ;r«e.'' 
Caret's  Alveajio,  1580.    Juvenal,  youth. 

8«') 


NOTES  TO  LOVE'S  LABOUR  '8  LOST. 


19  Pretty  and  apt. 

That  is,  in  Armado's  piiraseology,  pretty  apt.    Motli  per- 
vorte  tlie  meauiug,  and  is  humoured  by  Armado. 

Hor.  IIow  do  you  feel  yourself 
Oris.  Pretty  and  well,  I  thauk  you. 

Ben.  JorirSOTi's  Poetaster ^  1602. 


1'  Crosses  love  not  him. 

An  alius. on  to  his  poverty.  "A  cross,  coin,  nummus" 
Coles,  1677. 

'«  The  dancing-Tiorse  will  tell  you. 

Au  allusion  to  a  celebrated  horse  which  was  brought 
np  by  a  person  named  Banks,  who  taught  it  to  perform  such 
extraordinary  leats,  tliat  it  is  said  he  was  taken  and  burnt 
for  a  conjuror,  after  he  had  e.xhibited  the  animal  at  Korae. 
According  to  Sir  Kenelm  Digby,  the  horse  "  would  restore 
r.  glove  to  the  due  owner,  after  the  master  had  whispered 
the  man's  name  in  his  ear;  would  tell  tlie  just  number  of 
pence  in  any  piece  of  silver  coin,  newly  showed  him  by  his 
master,  &c."  Decker  mentions  tlie  horse,  who  was  called 
Morocco,  as  having  walked  to  the  top  of  old  St.  Paul's  in 
the  year  1600,  in  a  note  to  his  Dead  Tearnie,  1608;  an 
exfJoit  also  alluded  to  in  the  Bhicke  Booke,  1604;  and  tlie 
author  of  Pecle's  Jests,  1627,  seems  to  imply  that  he  had 
oeen  taught  to  play  on  the  lute  !  Banks  was  encouraged  by 
Prince  Henry,  in  whose  book  of  payments,  preserved  at  the 
Rolls  House,  is  the  following  eutry  under  Jan.  1st,  lCOS-9, 
"Tj  Banks  for  teaching  of  a  lith>  naig  to  vaut,  be  his 
highnes  comand,  2  W." 

Banks  narrowly  escaped  in  France,  as  we  learn  from 
Bishop  Morton's  answer  to  Theophilus  Higgins,  1609; 
"  Which  bringeth  into  my  remembrance  a  storie  wliich 
Banks  told  me  at  Frankeford,  from  his  own  experience  in 
France  among  the  Capucliins,  by  whom  he  was  brought 
into  suspicion  of  magicke,  because  of  tlie  strange  feates 
which  his  horse  Morocco  plaied  i,as  I  take  it)  atOrleance; 
where  he,  to  redeem  his  credit,  promised  to  manifest  to  the 
world  that  his  horse  was  nothing  lesso  tlian  a  divell.  To  this 
end  he  commanded  his  1  orse  to  seek  out  one  in  the  preasse 
of  the  people,  who  had  a  nrucifixe  on  his  hat ;  which  done, 
he  bad  him  kneele  downe  unto  it;  and  not  this  only,  but 
alsotoriseupagaincand  to  kisseit.  And  now, gentlemen, 
(quotli  he)  I  think  my  horse  hath  acquitted  both  me  and 
himself;  and  solus  adversaries  rested  satisfied  :  conceiving 
(as  it  might  sceme)  tliat  the  divell  had  no  power  to  come 
neare  the  crossc." 

lint  'mongst  these  Tiberts,  who  do  yoa  think  there  was  ? 
Old  Banks  the  juglcr,  our  Pythagoras, 
(jrave  tutor  to  tlie  learned  horse  ;  both  %vhich, 
Being,  beyond  sea,  burned  for  one  witch, 
Their  spirits  tr.nnsmigrated  to  a  cat. 

Bin  Ji/n£f>n^8  Epigravis^  Works,  viii.  216. 

•  nhali  never  forget  my  fellow  humourist  Banks,  the 
vintiicr  in  Cheapside,  who  taught  his  horse  to  dance,  and 
Bhooed  him  with  silver,"  Life  and  Death  of  Mrs.  Mary 
Frith,  1662,  p.  75. 

But  never  yet  wa«  seen  in  Spaino  or  Franco 

A  horse  like  Bancks  his,  that  to  th'  pipe  would  dance. 

Tell  niony  with  his  feet ;  a  tiling  which  you, 

Qcod  Bosinante  nor  Quixot,  o'r  could  doo. 

GaytorCs  Pleasant  Notes  upon  Bon  Quixot,  1654. 
SOS 


13  Most  maculats  thougTits. 

Maculate,  impure.  "To  maculate,  maeuh,  polluo^'' 
Coles'  Diet.  1677.  Owe,  own,  postw-"  Natim  she  doth 
owe,  possesses  naturally. 


■^  A  ballad,  boy,  of  the  King  and  the  Beggar. 

This  ballad  is  more  particularly  alluded  to  in  Arinado's 
letter  in  the  fourth  act;  and  as  it  is  also  mentioned  by 
Shakespeare  in  other  plays,  a  copy  of  it  may  appropriately 
find  a  place  here : — 

I  read  that  once  in  Afl'rica 

A  princely  wight  did  raine. 
Who  had  to  name  Coplietua, 

As  poets  they  did  faine ; 
From  natures  lawes  he  did  decline, 
For  sure  he  was  not  of  my  mind, 
He  cared  not  for  women-kiude, 

But  did  them  all  disdaine. 
But,  marke,  what  hapned  on  a  day, 
As  he  out  of  his  Y."indow  lay, 
He  saw  a  beggar  all  in  gray, 

The  which  did  cause  his  paino. 

The  blinded  boy,  that  shootes  so  trim, 

From  heaven  downe  did  hie  ; 
He  drew  a  darl  and  shot  at  him. 

In  place  wheie  he  did  lyo  : 
Which  soone  did  picrse  him  to  the  qulcEt, 
And  when  he  felt  the  arrow  pricke. 
Which  in  his  tender  heart  did  sticke. 

He  looketh  as  he  would  dye. 
What  sudden  chance  is  this,  quoth  he, 
That  I  to  love  must  subject  be. 
Which  never  thereto  would  agree, 

But  still  did  it  defie  ? 


Then  from  the  window  he  did  come. 

And  laid  him  on  his  bed ; 
A  thousand  heapcs  of  care  did  runno 

Witliiu  his  troubled  head : 
For  now  he  meanes  to  crave  her  love, 
And  now  lie  seekes  which  way  to  prooi'''* 
How  he  bis  fancie  might  remoove. 

And  not  tliis  beggar  wed. 
But  Cupid  had  him  so  in  snare, 
Tliat  tills  poor  beggar  must  preparo 
A  salve  to  cure  him  of  his  care, 

Or  els  ho  would  be  dead. 


And,  as  he  musing  thus  did  lye, 

He  thought  for  to  devise 
How  lie  might  have  her  companyo, 

That  so  did  'maze  his  eyes. 
In  thee,  quoth  he,  doth  rest  my  life ; 
For  surely  thou  slialt  be  my  wife. 
Or  else  this  hand  with  bloody  knifo 

The  gods  sliall  sure  suffice. 
Then  from  his  bed  he  soon  aroso. 
And  to  his  pallacc  gate  he  goes ; 
Full  little  then  lliis  bcgger  kuowes, 

When  she  the  king  capiea. 


The  Gods  preserve  your  raajoBt(y, 

The  bcggcrs  all  gau  cry : 
Vouchsafe  to  give  your  charity 

Our  childrens  food  to  buy. 
The  king  to  them  his  imrso  did  cast, 
And  they  to  part  it  made  great  huatft, 
This  silly  woman  was  the  laist 

That  lifter  them  did  hyo. 
Tlio  king  lie  cal'd  her  buck  againo, 
And  unto  her  he  gave  his  chaine,^ 
And  said,  With  us  you  slial  remaino, 

Till  eucli  time  as  wo  dyo : 


NOTES  TO  LOVE'S  LABOUR  'S  LOST. 


For  tliou,  quoth  ho,  slialt  be  my  wife, 

And  lioiioured  fi)r  my  quceno  ; 
With  tlice  1  ineuiio  lo  k'lid  my  life, 

A9  shortly  shall  ho  scene : 
jlvir  wctldin^  sliull  appoiutod  bo, 
And  evorythinsj  in  its  dotrree: 
Coino  on,  quoth  he,  and  follow  me, 

Thou  slialt  go  eliift  thoo  cleano. 
What  is  tliy  name,  fairc  niaido  ?  quoth  he. 
Fouelophon,  O  kinfj,  quoth  she : 
With  that  she  made  a  lowe  eourtsey, 

A  trim  one  as  1  weeno. 


Thu-^  hand  in  liand  alonjj  tJicy  walkc 

Unto  the  king's  pallaco: 
The  kiniT  with  courteous  comely  talko 

Tills  bejfger  doth  imbraoe ; 
The  bejrger  blushcth  scarlet  red. 
And  straight  againe  as  pale  as  lead. 
But  not  II  word  at  all  she  said, 

She  w;is  in  suoh  amaze. 
At  last  she  spake  with  trembling  voyce, 
And  said,  O  king,  I  doe  rejoyce 
That  you  wil  take  me  for  your  choyco, 

And  my  degree  s  so  base. 


And  when  the  wedding  di>.y  was  como, 

The  king  commanded  strait 
The  noblemen,  both  all  and  some. 

Upon  the  queene  to  wait. 
And  she  Iiehaved  herself  that  day. 
As  if  she  had  never  walkt  the  way  : 
She  had  forgot  her  gowne  of  gray. 

Which  she  did  wearc  of  late. 
The  proverbe  old  is  come  to  passe, 
The  priest,  when  he  begins  his  masse. 
Forgets  that  ever  clerke  he  was ; 

He  knoweth  not  his  estate. 


Here  you  may  read,  Cophetua, 

Though  long  time  faneie-fed. 
Compelled  by  "the  blinded  boy 

The  begger  for  to  wed : 
He  that  tiiil  lovers  lookes  disdaine, 
To  do  the  same  was  glad  and  faine, 
Or  el.se  he  would  himselfe  have  slaino, 

In  storie  as  we  read. 
Disdaine  no  whit,  U  lady  deere, 
But  pitty  now  thy  servant  heero. 
Least  that  it  hap  to  thee  this  yeare, 

As  to  that  king  it  did. 


And  thus  they  led  a  quiet  life 

During  their  princely  raigne ; 
And  iu  a  tombe  were  buried  both, 

As  writers  sliowetli  plaiue : 
The  lords  they  tooke  it  grievously, 
The  Ladies  took  it  heavily. 
The  commons  cried  pitiously, 

Their  death  to  them  was  paine, 
Their  fame  did  sound  so  passingly 
That  it  did  pierce  the  starry  skv. 
And  throughout  all  the  world  did  fiye 

To  every  princes  rcalme. 


^'  Yet  a  hetter  love  than  my  master. 

That  is,  yet  she  deserves  a  better  lover  than  my  master 
Armado. 

"  Sh4  is  allotcedfor  the  day-woman, 

A  day-  woman  was  a  dairy-woman,  one  who  had  the 
oharge  of  the  dairy.  A  dairy  is  still  called  a  day-liouse  in 
the  West  of  England.  ^^Ca^^eale^  a  dey-house  where  cheese 
l£  made,"  Elyot's  Diotionarie,  1553. 


s'  With  that  face. 

This  cant  phrase  has  oddly  lasted  till  the  piesent  time; 
and  is  used  by  people  who  have  no  more  raaanw^^  annexed 
to  it,  than  Fielding  had  ;  who  putting  it  into  the  mouth  of 
Beau  Didapper,  thinks  it  necessary  to  apologize  (in  a  noto) 
for  its  want  of  sense,  by  adding — "  that  it  was  taken  ver- 
batim from  very  polite  conversation."    Stevens. 

"^  Ciipi^Ts  hutt-slut/l  is  too  /lard/or  Hercules^  club. 

The  butt-shaft  is  explained  by  Nares  to  bo  a  kind  o< 
arrow,  used  for  shooting  at  butts,  furrned  without  a  barb,  so 
as  to  stick  into  the  bulls,  and  yet  to  be  easily  c.'clraeted. 

">  Utter' d  by  base  sale  of  chapmen? s  tongues. 

She  means  to  say  tliat  beauty  is  not  liable  to  the  decoiv- 
ing  sale  effected  by  the  praises  of  the  seller.  The  itinerant 
hawker  is  still  called  a  chapman  in  some  of  the  provinces. 
BoU  of  your  worthiness,  contideut  in  it. 

"  Atid  mvch  too  little  of  that  good  I  saw. 

This  is  well  explained  by  Heath, — "And  my  report  of 
that  good  I  saw  is  nmch  too  little  compared  to  his  great 
worthiness." 

^  Competitors  in  oath. 

Competitors,  confederates.  Addressed,  prepared.  Lon^ 
of  yon,  owing  to  you. 

*'  Which  we  much,  rather  had.  depart  mthal. 

Depart  is  here  used  for,  part  icith,  **  I  can  hardly  depart 
with  ready  money,"  Ben  Jonson.  Tills  sense  of  the  word 
also  occurs  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  but  it  is  usually 
followed  by  the  preposition. 

»  So  point,  with  my  hnife. 

No  point,  not  in  the  least ;  a  negation  borrowed  from  tho 
French.  "Panto  punio,  never  a  whit;  no  point,  as  tho 
Frenchmen  say,"  Florio,  1611. 

s"  My  lips  are  no  common,  though  several  they  be. 

A  play  upon  the  words,  several  meaning  both  separate,  ea 
in  Ben  Jonson's  Poetaster,  ed.  Gilford,  ii.  .'SOS,  and,  accord- 
ing to  Mr.  Hunter,  a  portion  of  common  assigned  for  a  term 
to  a  particular  proprietor,  the  other  commoners  waiving  for 
a  time  their  right  of  common  over  it.  Malone,  however, 
explains  several  to  be,  in  uninclosed  lands,  a  certain  portion 
of  ground  appropriated  to  either  corn  or  meadow,  adjoining 
tho  common  field. 

"  All  impatient  to  speak  and  not  see. 

That  is,  according  to  an  anonymous  critic,  his  tongue 
envied  tho  quickness  of  his  eyes,  and  strove  to  be  aa 
rapid  in  its  utterance  as  they  in  their  perception.  Margenif 
margin. 

"  Boyet  is  dUpos'd. 

Disposed,  inclined  to  be  merry.  Sea  Nares's  Glossary, 
and  the  examples  quoted  by  him.  Boyet  pretends  to  accept 
it  in  its  literal  sense,  and  follows  the  speech  of  the  princess. 
"  Wend  thee  from  mee,  Venus,  1  am  not  disposed,"  Eng- 
land's Helicon,  1600.    Mr.  Dyce  says  disposed  means.  In 

807 


NOTES  TO  LOVE'S  LABOUR  'S  LOST. 


this  play,  wantonly  incny.  inclined  to  wanton  mirtli :  but 
eurely  this  is  exceeding  the  meaninsr  intended  by  the  poet, 
ikiyet  is  merely  expressing  liis  strong  opinion  of  the  extent 
of  the  king's  affection.  It  is  the  ^int/'s  eye  who  is  supposed 
io  sat/, — 

I  '11  give  you  A:iuitain,  and  all  that  is  his, 

An  you  give  him  for  my  sake  but  one  loving  kiss. 

Adopting  this  view,  we  have  the  expression  of  a  fine 
poetical  idea  completely  in  unison  with  what  precedes  and 
what  follows.  Why  sliAuld  Boyet  say,  "for  my  sake,"  if 
this  were  not  the  case  ?  Concollncl,  apparently  is  the 
name  or  commencement  of  a  song  now  lost.  Festinately, 
hastily. 

35  fFin  your  love  with  a  French  hrawl. 

Cotgrave  translates  hransU,  "  a  brawle  or  daunce,  wherein 
many  men  and  women,  holding  by  thi  hands,  sometimes 
in  a  ring,  and  otherwhiles  at  length,  move  altogether."  It 
is  thus  described  by  Marston, — "  The  Irawl!  why  'tis  but 
two  singles  to  tlie  left,  two  on  the  right,  three  doubles 
forwards,  a  traverse  of  six  rounds  :  do  this  tv/ice,  three 
Bingles  side  galliard  trick  of  twenty  coranto  pace  :  a  figure 
of  eight,  tliree  singles  broken  down,  come  up,  meet  two 
doubles,  fiUl  back,  and  then  Lu'iour." 


SI  With  your  hat  pentliouse-like. 

The  characteristics  of  tho  ''complete"  man,  bo  well 
ridiculed  in  this  speech,  are  noticed  by  several  of  our 
early  dramatists.  '*  I  do  not  despair,  gentlemen  ;  you 
see  I  do  not  wear  my  hat  in  my  eyes,  crucify  my  arms," 
Bhirley'e  Bird  in  a  Cage,  1033. 


35  The  hohhy-horse  is  forgot. 

This  expression,  probably  borrowed  from  an  old  ballad, 
became  proverbial.  The  hobby-horse  consisted  of  a  light 
frame  of  wicker-work,  fastened  to  the  body  of  the  person 
who  performed  the  character,  whosi  '»gs  were  concealed 
ny  a  housing,  which,  with  a  false  head  a::d  neck,  gave  the 
appearance  of  a  liorsc.  Thus  equipped,  ho  performed  all 
Borto  of  antics,  imitating  the  movements  of  a  horse,  and 
executing  juggling  tricks  of  various  kinds.  A  ladle  was 
Bometimcs  suspended  from  the  horse's  mouth  for  the  pur- 
pose of  collecting  money  from  the  spectators.  The  Puritans 
waited  a  violent  crusade  against  the  morris  dance,  and  the 
hobby-horse,  which  properly  belonged  to  it,  was  frequently 
onritted. 

"With  hey  and  ho,  through  thick  and  thin^ 

The  hobby-horse  quite  forgotten, 
I  follow'd,  as  I  did  begin, 

Although  the  way  were  rotten. 

Kemp'' s  Nine  Daies  fCoTit/*?/*,  1600. 


3"  7'he  hohhy-horse  is  hut  a  colt. 

A  colt,  savf)  Dr.  Johnson,  is  a  liot,  mad-brained,  unbroken 
yjung  fellow.  A  hackney  was  a  cant  term  for  a  woman  of 
tftd  character. 


3"  A  Costard  hroken  in  a  shin. 

A  coHtard  was  a  cant  term  for  the  head,  and  licnce  the 
■  wondsr." 

308 


*8  Come, — thy  Venvoy. 

Cotgrave  explains  Venvoy,  the  "  conclusion  of  a  balk-t  oi 
sonnet  in  a  short  stanzo  by  itselfe,  and  serving,  oftentimcH, 
as  a  dedication  of  the  whole."  No  salve  in  them  all  \» 
Tyrwhitt's  emendation;  but  the  old  reading,  no  salve  it, 
the  male,  or  budget,  will  make  sense.  The  meaning  is  the 
f*ime,  whichever  we  adopt.  Costard,  not  understanding 
the  word  Venvoy^  cries  out  against  any  salve  but  the  plan- 
tain leaf  wbich  was  supposed  to  be  of  great  efficacy.  I 
doubt  whether  the  Latin  salve  is  intended  in  Moth's  next 
speech,  the  pronunciation  not  justifying  an  approach  to  a 
quibble.  Sai/ij  said.  It  is  properly  say,  being  the  present 
tense;  but  is  put  hero  evidently  for  the  perfect. 

9»  The  hoy  hath  sold  him  a  bargain. 

That  is,  has  made  a  fool  of  him.  It  was  a  commoti  pro- 
verbial phrase.  '■'■  Battler  foin  en  corne,  to  give  one  the 
boots,  to  sell  him  a  bargaine,"  Cotgrave. 

*"  Lil'c  the  sequel,  I. 
That  is,  says  Heath,  I  follow  you  as  close  as  the  seqaol 


does  the  premises. 


^1  My  incony  Jew  I 


Incony  is  a  term  of  endearment  often  met  with  in  old 
plays.     So,  in  Doctor  Doddipol,— 

Farewell,  Doctor  Doddy, 
In  niinde  and  in  borly 
An  excellent  noddy: 
A  coxcomb  incony. 
But  that  he  wants  money. 

InTde,  a  sort  of  inferior  tape. 


"  A  fairer  name  than  a  French  crown. 

There  is  a  double  meaning  here,  as  when  the  same  term 
is  used  in  Measure  for  Measure,  i.  2.  Collier  and  Knight 
omit  the  article  before  French;  why  I  know  not. 


*3  Eleven-pence  farthing  better. 

The  following  curious  extract  from  Markham's  Health 
to  the  Gentlemanly  Profession  of  Servingmen,  4to.  159S, 
shows  either  that  the  joke,  such  as  it  is,  was  not  invented 
by  Shakespeare,  or  that  Markham,  who  was  a  great  plagia- 
rist, luul  made  the  tale  np  from  what  he  had  heard  CoslarJ 
say  at  the  theatre  : — 

"There  was,  sayth  he,  a  man,  (but  of  wliut  estate,  degree, 
or  calling,  I  will  not  name,  least  thereby  I  might  incurro 
displeasure  of  any,)  that  connning  to  his  friendcs  liouse, 
who  was  ft  gentleman  of  good  reckoning,  and  being  thero 
kindly  entcrtayned,  and  well  used,  ns  well  of  his  friendo, 
the  gentleman,  as  of  his  servantcs ;  one  of  the  sayde  ser- 
vantes  doing  him  some  cxtraordinarie  pleasure  during  his 
abode  there,  at  his  departure  he  comes  unto  the  eayd  ser- 
vant, and  saiUi  unto  him,  Hold  thee,  hccrc  is  a  remurura^ 
lion  for  thy  payncs  ;  whicJi  the  servant  rcceyving,  gave  him 
utterly  for  it  (besides  his  payncs)  thankcs,  for  it  was  but  u 
three -farihinges  piece:  and  I  holde  thankcs  for  the  same  a 
small  price,  howsoever  the  market  goes.  Now,  another 
coming  to  the  sayd  genlh-men's  liouse,  it  was  the  forcsayd 
sorvant/s  good  luip  to  be  ncaro  him  at  his  going  away,  who, 
calling  tho  uer-AUt  unto  him«  sayd,  Hold  thco,  hcoru  Ia  a 


NOTES  TO  LOVE'S  LABOUK  'S  LOST. 


gvordon  for  l.iy  dcsnrtes:  now  the  servant  pnyd  no  docrer 
for  tlio  guerdon,  tlian  he  did  for  the  remuneratiouj  inon;^h 
iho  guerdon  was  xid.  farthing  better ;  for  il,  was  a  shiUijig, 
nnd  the  otlier  but  a  three-fa rthin(/es.^'' 

-■*  A  very  headlc  to  a  humorous  sigh. 

TTumorous  is  here  used  in  tlic  eenso  of  fantastic^  the 
meaninf?  given  to  the  word  by  Minsheu,  or,  perliiips, 
peevish,  wayward,  as  Coles  1ms  it,  transhitin^  it  hymorosus. 
Cotgrave  has,  ^^  AvertineiiXjiDOodley  humorous."  It  has 
been  suggested  we  Bhcald  read,  an  amoro'iis  sigh;  one  of 
those  emendations  rendered  mischievous  by  tlieir  ingenu- 
ity, imposing  on  those  wlio  prefer  a  meaning  in  modern 
phraseology  to  a  more  antique  one  in  the  language  rcuUy 
employed  by  the  poet. 

*ft  This  wimpled^  whining. 

The  wimpio  was  properly  a  kind  of  tape  or  tippet  cover- 
ing the  ncok  and  shoulders ;  hut  was  also  applied  to  a  kind 
of  veil  or  hood,  from  which  latter  sense  the  verb  here  used 
is  fonned. 

"  Dread  prince  of 'plackets. 

A  placket  was  a  pocket  attached  to  a  woman's  petticoat. 
The  term  was  often  used  metaphorically.  Pariiors,  offi- 
cers of  the  ecclesiastical  court,  who  carried  out  citations, 
chiefly  on  matters  of  divorce,  and  hence  the  allusion.  Ac- 
cording to  Blount,  tlie  word  was  "most  commonly  used 
for  an  inferior  officer,  that  summon'd  in  delinquents  to  a 
spiritual  court." 

"  And  wear  his  colours  like  a  k/mhler^s  hoop. 

Tumbler's  hoops  were  and  are  adorned  with  various 
coloured  ribbands. 

«  A  woTnaUj  that  is  like  a  German  chch. 

Allusions  to  the  cumbersome  and  complicated  German 
clocks  of  Shakespeare's  time  are  very  numerous.  "  She 
takes  herself  asunder  still  when  she  goes  to  bed,  into  some 
twenty  boxes ;  and  about  next  day  noon  is  put  together 
again,  like  a  great  German  clock  ;  and  so  comes  forth,  and 
rings  a  tedious  larum  to  the  whole  house,  and  then  is  quiet 
again  for  an  hour,  but  for  her  quarters,"  Ben  Jonson's 
Silent  "Woman.    Compare  Middleton,  ii.  385, — 

Being  ready,  she  consists  of  hundred  pieces, 
Mucli  like  your  German  clock,  and  near  ally'd  ; 
Both  are  so  nice,  they  cannot  go  for  pride : 
Beside  a  greater  fault,  but  too  well  known, 
They  '11  strike  to  ten,  when  they  should  stop  at  one. 

*B  A  stand  where  you  may  make  the  fairest  shoot. 

According  to  Mr.  Hunter,  there  is  here  an  allusion  to  a 
building  with  a  flat  roof  called  a  stand  or  standing,  erected 
in  the  park  for  the  purpose  of  sheltering  the  deer-shooters. 
Goldingham,  in  a  poem  in  MS.  Ilarl.  6902,  mentions  a 
"standing  made  to  shoot  at  stately  deer."  The  sport  of 
shooting  at  deer  with  a  cross-bow  was  formerly  aristo- 
cratic, and  practised  by  ladies. 

60  Here^  good  my  glass. 

Referring,  of  course,  to  the  forester,  who,  by  her  banter- 
ing, has  been  the  looking-glass  of  her  supposititious  imper- 
foctions.     Pr.  Johnson  very  erroneously  takes  it  in  the 


literal  sense,  and  remarks  that  ladies  formerly  wore  mir- 
rors suspended  from  their  girdles,  by  which  they  ooca- 
sionally  viewed  their  faces,  or  adjusted  their  hair  !  W  hen 
so  eminent  a  writer  is  detected  in  a  blunder  of  such  mag- 
nitude, the  smaller  critics  may  well  bear  the  infliction  of 
the  discovery  of  their  errors.  That  my  heart  Tneana  no  iU^ 
to  whom  my  heart  means  no  ill.  Self-soriereignty,  sove- 
reignty in  themselves.  Dig-^jou-den,  a  corruption,  as  Ma- 
lone  observes,  o^  give  you  good  even. 

^*  Break  up  this  capon. 

Break  vp  was  a  technical  phrase  in  carving.  The  prin- 
cess humorously  means  to  say, — "  open  this  letter."  Jl- 
lustrate,  illustrious.  Annotauize,  according  to  Mr.  Knight, 
is  a  pedantic  form  oi  annotate. 

*2  A  phantasm,  a  Monarchc. 

Monarcho  was  the  assumed  name  of  an  Enirlishman  who 
iiflccted  Italian  manners,  and  amused  the  court  by  his  fan- 
tastic proceedings.  Mr.  Knight  erroneously  terms  him  a 
mad  Italian,  but  Nash,  in  his  Have  With  You  to  Saffron 
Walden,  15'J6,  says  he  "  quite  renounst  his  nnturall  Eng- 
lish accents  and  gestures,  and  wrested  hiniselfe  whtdy  to  the 
Italian  puntilios;"  and  it  was,  perhaps,  for  this  reason 
that  lieginald  Scot  (quoted  V)y  Douce)  terms  him  an  Italian. 
tMuirchyard  thus  describes  him  in  his  Chance,  4to.  Lond, 
15SL1,— ' 

No  matche  for  fooles,  if  wise  men  were  in  place ; 

No  mate  at  niealc  to  sit  with  common  sort: 
Both  grave  of  looks  aiid  father-like  of  face, 

Of  judgement  quicke,  of  comely  forme  and  port. 
Moste  bent  to  words  on  hye  and  solenipne  dales, 
Of  diet  tine,  and  dalntic  diverse  waics  ; 
And  well  disposde,  if  Prince  did  pleasure  take, 
At  any  mirthe  that  he,  poore  man,  could  make. 

"The  actors  were  that  Bergamasco,  for  his  phantastick 
humors  named  Monarcho,  and  two  of  the  Spanish  embas 
sadors  retinue,  who  being  about  ^bu re  and  twentie  yeare^ 
past  in  Paules  Church  in  London,  contended  who  waa 
soveraigne  of  the  world  :  the  Monnrcho  maintained  him- 
self to  be  he,  and  named  their  king  to  be  but  his  viceroj 
for  Spain  :  the  other  two  with  great  fury  denying  it.  At 
which  myself,  and  some  of  good  account,  now  dead,  won- 
dred  in  respect  of  the  subject  they  handled,  and  that  want 
of  judgment  we  looked  not  for  in  the  Spaniards.  Yet 
this,  moreover,  we  noted,  that  notwithstanding  the  weight 
of  their  controversie,  they  kept  in  their  walk  the  Spanish 
turne ;  which  is,  that  he  which  goeth  at  the  right  hand, 
shall  at  every  end  of  the  walke  turne  in  the  midst;  the 
which  place  the  Monarcho  was  loth  to  yeald  but  as  they 
compelled  him,  though  they  gave  him  sometimes  that 
romthe,  in  respect  of  his  supposed  majestic  ;  but  I  would 
this  were  the  worst  of  their  ceremonies;  the  same  keeping 
some  decorum  concerning  equalitie." — A  Brief e  Discourse 
of  the  Spanish  State,  ivith  a  Dialogue  anneued,  intituled 
Fhilobasilis,  4to.  1590. 

*3  Who  is  the  shooter  f 

Suitor  and  shooter  were  pronounced  alike,  and  some  or 
the  commentators  ttiink  there  is  here  a  quibble  on  the 
word. 

6*  Queen  Guincver  of  Britain. 

Guinever  was  the  queen  of  King  Arthur,  and  hrw  ehe 
deceived  her  husband  is  well  known  to  every  reader  of  the 

S09 


NOTES  TO  LOVE'S  LABOUR  'S  LOST. 


old  romances.  Dr.  Forman,  the  astrologer,  in  one  of  his 
absurd  manuscripts  in  the  Ashmolean  Museum  at  Oxford, 
Bays,  '  she  was  twelve  foote  longe,  and  went  all  in  white ; 
a  longe  leane  visage,  mixed  of  red  and  white,  and  a  crown 
on  her  hed ;  a  whileish  flaxen  haire,  a  clear  complection,  a 
hrod  and  hie  forhed,  a  round  forhed,  fraie  eyes,  a  full 
round  eye  ;  a  lyttle  ghorte  nose  and  slender ;  a  gren  Jewell 
in  her  lefte  eare;  a  straight  bodied  gown  of  whit  silk,  and 
a  whit  mantell ;  a  hie  collor  in  her  gowne,  and  a  plain 
falicg  band,  brod  without  lace,  and  her  gown  buttoned  up 
close  before.  She  had  noe  hoope,  noe  fardingalle;  asmallo 
long  hand.  She  lived  almost  a  hundred  years." — MS. 
AsTimoU,  802. 

Bs  Let  the  marh  have  a  prich  in,  H. 

The  prick  was  a  small  piece  of  wood  or  mark  in  the 
centre  of  a  target.  Mete,  to  measure.  Wide  o'  the  hoio 
hand,  left  of  the  mark.  Clout  and  pin  are  nearly  synony- 
mous v;\\h  priclc ;  but  these  terms  in  archery  are  not  here 
used  quite  literally.  Ruliing,  a  term  at  bowls,  when  one 
call  touched  another. 

6fl  }ilpe  as  aviytnewater. 

Gerard  gives  a  drawing  of  tlie  pomewater-tree  in  his 
account  of  apple-trees.  The  Latin  name  for  it  was  mains 
tarhonaria.  The  pomatum  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  accord- 
ing to  this  writer,  was  "  an  ointment  made  witli  the  pulpe 
of  apples  and  swines  grease  and  rose-water,  which  is  used 
to  beautifiethe  face,  and  to  take  away  the  roughues  of  tlie 
ekin,  which  is  called  in  shops  pomatum,  of  the  apples 
whereof  it  is  made." 


6'  A  hud  oftJie^rst  head. 

In  old  hunting  phraseology,  the  name  of  the  hart,  buck, 
Ac.,  changed  in  every  year  of  its  age.  The  buck  in  its 
fifth  year,  and  the  roebuck  in  its  fourth  year,  was  termed 
a  bueh  of  the  first  head.  The  buck,  in  its  second  year,  was 
calied  apricket  f  and,  in  its  third  year,  a  sorrel. 

«8  Raught,  i.e.  reached.    Affect  the  letter,  use  alliteration. 


^^  If  a  taUnt  he  a  claw. 

Talon  was  almost  always  written  and  pronounced  talent. 
The  quibble  is  a  favourite  one  in  old  plays.  Claio,  to  flat- 
ter; another  quibble. 

80  Good  morrow,  master  person. 

Person  is  the  arcliaic  form  of  parson.  The  **  good  old 
Mantuan  "  is  Mantnanus,  the  C.irmelite,  whose  Eclogues 
were  translated  into  Englisii  by  Tnrbevile,  12mo.  Lond. 
1567.     Ut,  re,  <tc.,  are  the  notes  of  the  gamut. 


«'  If  Love  Tnake  m^forstcorn. 

This  poem  waa  printed,  with  some  variations,  in  the 
Passionate  Pilgiimo,  1599,  where  the  two  last  lines  are  as 

foloWi, — 

Celestial  as  thou  art,  0 1  do  not  love  that  wrong, 

To  Bing  the  heavens'  praiso  with  such  an  earthly  tongue. 


"  Tired,  attired     Farmer  tlnnks  this  is  another  allusion 
to  nankfi'  celebrated  horse. 
310 


«3  They  havepUcJitd  a  toil. 

The  toil  was  an  enclosure  into  which  game  was  drivOD. 
I arn  toiling  in  a  pitch,  a  quibble  in  allusion  to  Rosaline's 
dark  complexion. 

•*  Under  the  left  pap. 

"  That  left  pap,  where  heart  doth  hop,"  is  mentioned  in 
the  Midsummer  Night's  Dreas;,  v.  1.    Smol,  smote. 

'•*  Like  a  perjurer,  'wearing  papers. 

Dr.  Johnson  observes  that  the  punishment  of  perjury 
was  to  wear  a  paper  on  the  breast  expressing  the  crime. 

•"  Ttiou  mai'st  the  triumviry. 

An  allusion,  says  Douce,  to  the  gallows  of  the  time, 
which  was  occasionally  triangular.  The  comer-cap  was  a 
cap  whose  top  was  triangular. 

As  there  are  three  nooks  in  a  corner'd  cap. 
And  three  comers  and  one  in  a  map. 

Wits  Secreationi,  1640 

•'  Guards,  facings,  trimmings. 

«»  All-hid,  alUhid. 

The  game  of  hide-and-seek.  "  Wlioop  all  liid,  or  hide 
and  seek,  where  they  hide  and  seek  one  another,"  Comenii 
Janua  Linguarum,  1662,  p.  252.  "  Our  tinhansome  fac'd 
poet  does  play  at  bo-peeps  with  your  grace,  and  cries  all 
hid,  as  boys  do,"  Deckers  Untrussing  of  the  Humorous 
Poet,  1602.  More  sacks  to  the  mill,  a  proverbial  phrase 
quaintly  implying  addition.  "  Who  were  oppress'd  and 
overladen  with  heavie  packs,  and  ought  not  to  havo  laid 
more  sacks  to  the  mill."  Gayton's  Pleasant  Notes  upon 
Don  Qui.xot,  16.54,  p.  65. 


"  Eer  amher  hairs  for  foul  have  amOer  coted. 

Coted,  i.e.  quoted.  Iler  amber  hairs  have  quoted,  inter- 
preted, or  marked  amber  foul.  '*  Cuter,  to  quote,"  Cot- 
grave,  Cote  has  already  occurred  in  this  play,  act.  ii.  sc.  1, 
altered  most  inconsistently  by  Mr.  Knight  and  others  to 
quote  ;  and  the  same  variation  has  also  been  made  in  act  v. 
sc.  2.  If  we  alter  cote  to  quote  in  one  instance,  we  should 
of  course  in  all ;  but  I  scarcely  think  it  is  in  an  editor's 
discretion,  if  fairly  exercised,  so  to  modernize  an  archaism 


■0  A  king  transformed  to  a  gnat. 

That  is,  a  sovereign  transformed  to  a  most  insignificant 
and  foolish  insect, — the  "  foolish  gnat,"  as  Sliakespearo 
elsewhere  terms  it.  The  commentators  have  much  un- 
necessary discussion  on  this  simple  passage. 

"  Whipping  a  gig. 

A  gig  was  a  kind  of  top.  "  Carlo,  a  top  or  giggo  that 
children  play  with  in  Lent,"  Florio,  1611. 

"  And  Nestor  play  at  push-pin  with  Vu  hoys. 

Push-pin  is  translated  by  Miego,  jeu  d^epingles.  Ash 
explains  it,  "  a  chiM's  play  in  which  pins  are  pushed  with 
an  endeavour  to  cross  them."     But  from   tlie   foUowiag 


NOTES  TO  LOVE'S  LABOUR  'S  LOST. 


possago,  it  would  rather  appear  to  Iiave  been  merely  played 
by  aiming  pins  at  a  mark. 

Play  at  push-pin  there,  sir? 

It  was  well  aiinM ;  but,  plasjue  upon  't,  you  Bhot  short, 
And  Lflul  will  lose  your  game. 

JieaunwiU  and  Fktcher,  Woman,  Pleased,  ii.  8. 


"  With  men,  like  men,  of  strange  inconstancy. 

That  is,  with  men,  like  common  men  are,  of  inconstancy. 
The  second  folio  rtnv\s  strange  inconstancy,  sacri ficin;^  tlio 
sense  to  the  metre;  but,  on  the  whole,  I  retain  this  read- 
inij,  although  stranite  was  probably  not  the  word  used  by 
tlio  poet.    I  much  prefer  Ticck's  suggestion,  such. 


"  Or  groan  for  Joan. 

Joan  was  the  generic  name  for  a  rustic  girl.  The  jingle 
was  evidently  intentional,  and  exactly  suits  Biron's  merry 
character.  Mr.  Collier  reads  groan  for  love,  on  the  autho- 
rity of  a  single  copy  of  the  edition  of  159S. 

"  To  malee  up  tTie  mess. 

A  mess  was  a  set  of  fonr  people,  properly  a  party  dining 
together,  but  used  more  generally.  Compare  act  v.  bo.  2, 
"a  mesf  of  Ruseians." 

'"  And  the  scroll  of  night. 

The  old  editions  corruptly  read  school  of  night,  and  I  am 
not  satisfied  with  any  emendation  yet  proposed.  In  pro- 
posing scroll,  it  must  be  observed  that  it  harmonizes  with 
J<adi]e,  hue,  and  crest;  but  I  question  its  correctness. 

"  Stm  climling  trees  in  the  Eespcrides. 

Hesperides  is  here  used,  by  a  licence  not  unusual  with 
old  writers,  for  the  garden  of  the  ITesperidcs.  It  is  the 
fashion  to  light  up  Sliakespeare^s  ignorance  by  means  of 
tills  passage,  but  Gabriel  Harvey,  whose  learning  will  not 
be  disputed,  introduces  Hesperides  in  an  exactly  similar 
manner  in  his  Pierce's  Supererogation,  159:'..  Greene, 
also,  in  his  Orlando  Furioso,  1594,  mentions  "the  plot 
Hesperides.' 

78  Makes  heaven  drowsy  with  the  harmony. 

Heath  explains  this  passage, — "  Whenever  Love  speaks, 
oil  the  gods  join  their  voices  with  his  in  harmonious  con- 
cert."   Voice  is,  perhaps,  the  murmur  of  approbation. 

The  tongue  that 's  able  to  rock  heaven  asleep. 
And  make  the  music  of  the  spheres  stand  still. 
To  listen  to  the  happier  airs  it  makes. 
And  mend  their  tunes  by  it. 

Shirley's  Love  Triekt,  act  iv.  so.  2. 

"  A  word  that  loves  all  num. 

Lovts  13  here  equivalent  to  pleases.  In  the  same  manner, 
we  have  it,  it  likes  Tne,  it  pleases  me. 

^  Sow'd  cockle,  reaped  no  corn. 

The  passage  is  elliptical,  and  may  thus  be  paraphrased, — 
"  oockic  being  sown,  no  com  is  reaped ;"  in  other  words, 
U  Tio  do  not  lay  a  good  foundation  we  shall  not  succeed. 


■^  Witty  loitliout  affection. 

Afffct.ien,  i.e.  artectaticn.  Audacious,  spirited.  "Slio 
that  shall  be  my  wife  must  ho  accomplished  with  court;y 
and  avdacvjut  ornaments,"  Ben  .Tonson's  Silent  Woman. 
Impvflency,  impudence.  "  0  unlimitablo  iinpudencie,'' 
Marston's  Malcontent,  1604.  Filed,  ccliahed.  /'icked, 
neat.  Point-devise,  most  exact.  So  'n  the  Miller  of 
Abington, — 

The  wenehe  she  was  full  proper  and  nyco, 
Amonge  all  other  she  hare  great  price, 
For  sclie  coudo  tricko  it  point  device. 
But  fewe  like  her  in  that  countrce. 


»'  On  the  alms-basket  rf  words. 

The  alms-basket  was  the  basket  of  broken  meat  prcsen-ed 
for  the  poor. 

Thy  tongue,  and  not  unwlttily  ncrluaps. 
One  likened  to  th'  olms-hasket  fillM  with  scraps ; 
It  feeds  our  ears  with  mix'd  and  broken  words, 
Just  like  the  poor  with  bits  from  sev'rall  boards. 

Prestwick-s  Hippolitus,  1651,  p.  75. 

I  know  the  time  thou  wouldst  have  ick'd  thy  chaps 
From  out  an  almes-basket  to  get  some  scraps. 

Workes  of  Taylor  the  Water  Poet,  1630. 


•5  HoncrifieaMlUudinitatibus. 

This  absurd  word,  described  by  Marston  as  conveying 
"  a  great  deal  of  sound  and  no  sense,"  is  often  mentioned 
as  the  longest  word  known.  A  flap-dragon  is  a  small  sub- 
stance, such  as  a  r.aisin,  set  afloat  lighted  in  a  cup  of  wine 
or  spirits,  to  be  snatched  by  the  mouth  in  its  burning 
state.  This  amusement  is  not  quite  obsolete,  but  is  now 
usually  termed  snap-dragon.  The  horn-book,  which  has 
been  out  of  use  for  about  half  a  century,  consisted  of  a  leai 
containing  the  alphabet,  numerals,  &o.,  and  generally  the 
Lord's  Prayer,  mounted  on  wood,  and  protected  by  a 
piece  of  transparent  horn.  It  was  headed  by  a  large  cross 
called  the  Christ-cross,  and,  held  in  the  hand,  was  not  a 
bad  assistant  in  preliminary  education.  O,  U,  a  double 
meaning,  oh  you !  Veney  ;  see  note  25  to  the  Merry  Wives 
of  Windsor. 


"  Arts^man  prceamhulat. 

The  arts-man,  or  mar  of  art,  walks  before,  takes  the 
precedence.  I  follow  the  old  copies,  but  modern  editors 
read  praiambula,  an  unneoess.ary  departure  from  the  ori- 
ginal text. 

A  garment,  made  by  cunning  arts-men^s  skill. 
Hides  all  defects  that  Nature's  swerving  hand 
Hath  done  amiss. 

EeywoodH  Fair  Maid  of  the  Exchange,  1607. 


«  DaHy  with  my  excrement. 

The  hair  or  beard  was  often  so  termed.  Hair  is  called 
"so  plentiful  an  excrement"  in  the  Comedy  of  Errors, 
ii.  2. 

"  If  thisfadge  not. 

Fadge,  to  suit,  or  agree.    So  in  the  Beggar's  Ape, — 

For  whoso  beares  simplicities  true  badge. 
To  live  in  Prince's  c^'irta  dje  seldom  fadgo 

Sil 


NOTES  TO  LOVE'S  LABOUR  'S  LOST. 


"  Let  them  dance  the  liay. 

The  hay  was  a  round  country  dance.    It  is  mentioned 
iu  England's  Helicon,  p.  228, — 

Shall  we  ^oe  dnnnce  tl>e  hay  ? 
Never  pipe  could  ever  play 
Better  shepheard's  roundelay. 


88  My  red  dominical,  my  golden  letter. 

The  dominical  letters  were  printed  in  red  ink,  and  the 
O's  refer  to  the  marks  of  the  small-pox. 

89  beauties  no  richer  than  rick  iaffaUl. 

This  line  is  improperly  given  to  Biron  in  the  original, 
which  is  blindly  I'ollowed  by  CoUier  and  Knight;  as  if 
Biron,  who  was  impatiently  anxious  that  Moth's  address 
should  be  well  spt'ken,  would  interrupt  him. 

00  To  tread  a  Tneasure. 

We  have  already  had  a  notice  of  this  dance  in  Much 
Ado  about  Nothinj,  but  perhaps  the  following  additional 
account  of  it  by  Keed  may  not  be  unacceptable  to  the 
reader. 

"The  measure.x  were  dances  solemn  and  slow.  They 
were  performed  at  court,  and  at  public  entertainments  of 
the  societies  of  law  and  equity,  at  tlieir  halls,  on  particular 
occasions.  It  was  formerly  not  deemed  inconsistent  with 
propriety  even  for  the  gravest  persons  to  join  in  them  ; 
and  accordingly  at  the  revels  which  were  celebrated  at  the 
inns  of  court,  it  has  not  been  unusual  for  the  first  cha- 
racters in  the  law  to  become  performers  iu  treading  the 
ineavures.  See  Dugdale's  Origines  Juridiciale.s.  Sir  John 
Davics,  in  his  poem  called  Orchestra,  1622,  describes  tliem 
in  tliis  manner : 

"  But,  after  these,  as  men  more  civil  grew. 

He  did  more  grave  and  soUmn  measures  frofme : 
With  such  fair  order  and  proportion  true. 

And  correspondence  ev'ry  way  the  same, 
That  no  fault-finding  eye  did  ever  blame. 

For  every  eye  was  moved  at  the  sight, 
"With  sober  wond'ring  and  with  sweet  delight. 

Not  those  young  students  of  the  lieavenly  book. 
Atlas  the  great,  Prometheus  the  wise, 

Which  on  the  stars  did  all  their  life-time  look, 
Could  ever  find  such  measure  in  the  skies, 

So  full  of  change,  and  rare  varieties ; 
Yet  all  the  feet  u'hereon  these  measures  go, 

Are  only  spondees,  solemn,  grave,  and  slow." 

"  Cog,  to  load  dice ;  to  cheat. 

"  Veal,  quoth  tlie  Dutchman. 

This  absurd  joke  may  not  be  detected.  Feal  is  the 
Dutchman's  pronunciation  oTwell, 

"  Wf.ll-liking,  in  good  condition,  fat. 

M  Better  wits  have  worn  plain  statute-caps. 

That  is;  better  wits  have  been  found  among  those  who 
wear  statute  caps,  i.e.  citizens.  It  was  ordered  by  a 
Btatute  of  Queen  Klizabeth  that  citizens  should  wear  wool- 
len caps  on  Sundays  and  liolidays,  with  a  view  of  en- 
couraging the  trade  of  cappers.  "  Why,  'tis  a  law  enacted 
by  the  Oomraon  Council  of  statute-caps,"  Familio  cf  Love, 

loot. 

812 


»»  Are  an/;els  vaiUng  cloudt. 

Ladies  unmask'd,  says  Boyet,  are  like  aiagels  vailing 
clouds,  or  letting  those  clouds,  wliich  obscuitd  tlieirbright- 
nesR,  sink  from  before  them.     Johnson. 


•«  At  walces  and  wassails. 

Wassails  wore  merry-meetings  or  festivities.  The  term 
is  derived  from  the  Anglo-Saxon  w(^s  h(El,  bo  in  health, 
which  was  anciently  the  drinking  pledge-word. 


"  As  white  as  whalers  ione. 

This  is  a  very  old  simile,  common  in  the  ancient  ro- 
mances. The  tooth  of  the  walrus  was  used  in  the  place 
of  ivory,  and  some  of  our  old  writers  appear  to  have 
thought  it  was  whale's-boue.  So,  in  the  Thornton  Ro- 
mances, p.  154, — 

Then  come  letturs  to  Artas, 
That  the  worme  in  Rome  slayn  was, 
A  knyght  then  hath  hym  sloon. 
So  longe  at  leche-crafte  can  he  dwelle, 
A  mau-chylde  had  Crystyabelle, 

As  whyte  as  whnllys  boon. 
The  erle  had  made  to  God  a  vowe, 
"  Doghtur,  iu-to  the  see  selialt  thoa 

Yn  a  schypp  allone ; 
And  that  bastard  tliat  to  the  ys  dere, 
Crystyndome  sch.ille  he  non  have  here !" 

Hyf  maydenys  wepte  everychon. 


fi8  Xhe  virtue  of  your  eye  must  hredk  my  oath. 

That  is,  the  virtue  or  power  of  youi  eye  compels  me  tt 
break  my  oath. 

"  Taffata  phrases,  silken  terms  predse. 

Taffata  was  a  kind  of  thin  silk,  formerly  much  esteemed. 
"Bissines,  silken  words,  spruce  tearmos,"  Cotgrave. 

™  Three-piVd  hyperboles. 

A  similar  metaphor  occurs  in  Decker's  Wonder  of  a 
Kingdom, — "most  piteously  complaining  against  th'S 
three-pile  rascal." 

10"  Zord  have  mercy  on  tw. 

This  was  the  touching  inscription  placed  on  all  houses 
infected  with  the  plague.  "Let  him,  I  s.ay,  take  heedo 
least,  his  flesh  now  falling  away,  his  carcas  be  not  plagudo 
witli  leane  ones,  of  whom,  whilst  the  bill  of  Lord  hava 
mercy  upon  vs  wa.s  to  be  denied  in  no  place,  it  was  death 
for  him  to  heare,"  Decker's  Wonderful!  Yeare,  :603. 

'M  I'ou  inow  my  lady'' s foot  hy  the  sguirf. 

Squire,  a  rule  or  square.  According  to  Heath,  .-ne  sonse 
is  nearly  the  snnio  as  that  of  tlie  proverbial  expression,  he 
hath  got  the  length  of  her  foot,  i.e.  he  hath  humoured  her  so 
long  that  he  can  persuade  her  to  what  he  pleases.  Alloio'd, 
licensed  to  say  what  you  like. 

'■'  Tou  cannot  leg  u*. 

That  is,  wo  are  not  fools.  See  note  18  to  the  Comedy  of 
EiTors 


NOTES  TO  LOVE'S  LABOUR  'S  LOST. 


'"  TJi^form  confounded. 

The  original  rends  (heir,  being  one  of  the  many  !nslau.:os 
in  ShakcspoAro  where  tlie  grammar  Is  inaccurato.  I  fol- 
low Mr.  Kuiglit's  reaJing,  with  a  slight  dinorcnco  in  the 
punctuation. 


"»  The  braggart  .he  /Mjge-priest. 

Hedge,  \n  composition,  generally  implied  deterioration. 
Hedge-priest,  an  ignorant  priest;  a  stupid  fellow.  "Up- 
braide  the  parson  full  irreverently,  calling  him  hed-ge- 
priest,"  Brathwait's  Strappado  for  the  Divcll,  1615,  p.  36. 
Nomm  was  a  game  at  dice  played  by  six  persons.  Ac- 
cording to  Douce,  the  two  principal  throws  were  nine  and 
five,  a  circumstance  which  makes  Biron's  meaning  per- 
fectly evident. 


11'  With  lihbarSe  head  on  knee. 

Lihbard,  i.e.  leopard.  Tlie  passage  in  the  text  is  illus- 
trated by  Cotgrave's  translation  of  Masquine,  "  the  roprc- 
Bontation  of  a  lyon's  head,  &c.  ttpon  the  elbow  or  hnee  of 
BOmo  ohl-fashioned  garments." 

Tlion  owte  starte  a  Lumbarte, 
Felle  he  was  as  a  lykirte. 

MS.  Pull.  Liir.  Camhr.  xv.  cent. 


'"  Tttu  mil  he  scraped  out  of  the  painted  doth. 

Vflinted  cloth  was  cloth  or  canvas,  on  which  paintings,  in 
ji!  were  depictured.  It  often  took  the  place  of  hangings 
Df  tnpestrj-,  as  appears  from  a  passage  in  Brathwait's 
Strappado  for  the  Divcll,  1615.  Robert  Arden,  Shake- 
speare's maternal  grandfather,  had  several  painted  cloths 
m  his  house  at  Wilmecote,  near  Stratford-on-Avou. 


""  A  little  o^erparted. 

Tliat  is,  says  Malone.  the  part  or  character  allotted  to 
him  in  this  piece  is  too  considerable. 


'<"•  Judas  was  hanq''d  on  an  elder. 

It  was  an  old  tradition  that  Judas  hung  himself  on  an 
elder-tree.  '*  Our  gardens  will  prosper  the  better,  when 
they  have  in  them  not  one  of  these  elders,  whereupon 
BO  many  covelons  Judasses  hang  themselves,"  Nixon's 
Strange  Foot-Post,  1613.  Fleoknoe,  m  nis  Diarium,  1G58, 
mentioning  this  tree,  says,^ 

It  had,  he  said,  such  vertnous  force, 
AVhere  vertue  oft  from  .Judas  came, 
Who  hang'd  himself  upon  the  same. 
For  which,  in  sootli,  he  was  to  blame. 

Gerard,  in  his  Herbal,  1597,  p.  1240,  describing  the 
arbor  .JudcB,  says,  "  it  may  be  called  in  Englisli  Judas  tree, 
whereon  Judas  did  hang  himselfe,  and  not  upon  the  elder 
tree,  as  it  is  saide." 

The  quibbling  on  the  face  ol  Holofernes  requires  a  little 
explanation.  The  heads  of  citterns  and  bodkins  (or  dag- 
gers) were  frequently  terminated  with  grotesque  faces. 
A  death's  face  in  a  ring  was  a  favourite  ornament,  and  is 
often  alluded  to  as  being  worn  by  procuresses ;  but  there 
was  not  necessarily  any  disgrace  or  ridicule  attached  to 
the  ornament.  The  flask  here  mentioned  is  the  soldier's 
powder-honi. 

V) 


""  Worn  in  the  cap  of  a  toothnirawer. 

"In  Quoene  Elizabetli's  doves,  there  was  a  fellow  thut 
wore  a  brooch  in  his  Iiat,  Uke  a  tooth^drawer,  with  a  rtHC 
and  crowne,  and  two  letters,"  Taylor's  Workes,  1630,  Wit 
and  Mirth,  p.  194. 

'"  Stuch  with  cUtei. 

It  was  nsual  to  insert  cloves  on  the  surfaces  of  oranges 
or  lemons.  "Betraics  her  teeth,  which  stand  one  by 
another  as  if  that  they  were  cloves  stuck  in  an  orcnge," 
Cartwright's  Sicdge,  1651.  The  practice  of  gilding  nut- 
megs is  alluded  to  by  Ben  Jonson,  in  his  Gipsies  Meta- 
morphosed,— "  I  have  lost  an  inchantcd  nutmeg,  all  gilded 
over,  was  inchanted  at  Oxford  for  me,  to  put  in  my  sweet- 
heart's ale  a'  mornings." 

"3 1  do  adore  thy  sweet  grace's  slipper. 

The  extravagance  of  the  language  of  courtship  in  fonr.ei 
days  is  almost  past  belief.  This  is  said  in  all  seriousnees. 
So  Ben  Jonson,  in  the  Poetaster, — "  Your  courtier  cannot 
kiss  his  mistress's  slipper  in  quiet  for  them." 

"'  Let  me  tuic  you  a  button-hole  lower. 

A  play  upon  words.  "  Yea,  and  take  her  downe  tuo  a 
button-hole  lower,"  Shoemaker's  Holyd.ay,  1631.  It  is 
equivalent  to  the  modem  phrase,  taking  one  "down  a 
peg   ' 

in  I  go  wcolward  for  penance. 

To  go  woolward  was  to  go  without  a  shirt,  with  the 
wootlcn  of  the  outer  dres;i  next  the  skin.  "Wclwardc, 
withc'Ut  any  lynnen  nexte  ones  body,  sans  chemijse,'^  I'als- 
grave,  1530.  "  Wolleward  and  weet-shoed  weute  I  forth 
after,"  Piers  Ploughman,  ed.  Wright,  p.  369. 

Cautus,  th.at  woollward  went,  was  wondred  at ; 

Which  he  excus'd,  as  done  tlirough  pure'contritioD 
But  who  so  simple,  Cautus,  credits  that? 

Tis  too  well  known  thou  art  of  worse  condition. 
And  therefore  if  no  linnen  thee  begirt, 
Tlie  naked  truth  will  prove  thou  hast  no  shirt. 

Wits  Recreations,  1640 


"*  Iliave  seen  the  day  of  wrong. 

That  is,  I  have  seen  by  a  little  discretion  or  reflection 
the  wrong  I  have  suffered,  and  X  will  right  myself  like  a 
soldier. 

"•  At  his  very  loose. 

Loose  is  the  technical  term  for  the  moment  the  arrow 
is  loosed  by  the  archer.  It  is  here  metaphorically  equiva- 
lent to,  onset.  The  verb  decides  is,  of  course,  governed  by 
Time-. 

""  Full  of  strange  shapes. 

The  old  copies  corruptly  read  straying  shapes.  The 
same  misprint  occurs  in  Promos  and  Cassandra,  iii.  1,  "0 
straying  effcctes  of  blinde  alTeeted  love." 

'I'  As  bombast  and  as  lining  to  the  time. 

The  metaphor  is  sufficiently  evident.  The  term  bomhasi 
was  originally  applied  to  cotton,  and  hence  to  the  stuffing 
out  of  dress,  because  usually  done  with  that  material. 

SIS 


NOTES  TO  LOVE'S  LABOUR 'S  LOST. 


I 


"•  To  flatter  vp  i?iese  pMcer)  of  mine  with  reef. 

The  preposition  np  is  here  rerlundant,  and  Johnson  and 
Warburton  wouUl  have  experienced  little  difficulty  in  the 
explanation  of  this  passage,  had  they  remembered  or 
known  how  usual  it  was  in  works  of  Shakespeare's  time 
to  employ  the  preposition  in  a  similar  manner.  The  king 
evidently  means  to  say,  "  If  I  would  deny  this,  or  more 
than  this,  to  flatter  my  soul  with  the  hope  of  rest,  let  me 
immediately  perLsh." 

1™  And  cuckoo  -iuds  of  yellow  hue. 

There  is  a  dispute  on  the  exact  meaning  of  cuckoo-buds 
in  this  passage,  but  I  believe  they  refer  to  the  beautiful 
wild  lychnis jlosciili,  the  cuckoo-flower  of  the  East  of  Eng- 
land. Gerard,  p.  4S0,  says,  "  the  cukowe  flower  I  have 
comprehended  under  the  title  of  sisimbrium,  Englished 
ladies-smocks,  which  plant  hath  beene  generally  taken  for 

ios  CUGuli.''' 

"'■  While  greaey  Joan  doth  Heel  the  pot. 
Th^t  is,  while  greasy  Joan  dotli  oool  the  pot ;  BOmo  say 
8U 


she  keels  the  pot,  by  preventing  the  pot  boiling  over  by 
means  of  effectively  using  her  ladle.  However  this  may 
be,  Iceel  certainly  means  to  cool,  and  is  constantly  used  ir 
that  sense  by  our  early  writers. 


»w  When  roasted  crahs  hiis  in  the  hcnvl. 

A  delightful  rural  allusion,  almost  causing  one  to  re- 
gret not  to  have  lived  in  former  times.  Turnin/j  a  crab 
was  roasting  a  crab-apple,  and  throwing  it,  when  quite 
liot,  into  a  bowl  of  nut-brown  ale,  into  which  liad  been 
previously  put  a  toast  with  spice  and  sugar.  Warner, 
describing  a  shepherd,  says, — 

And  with  the  sun  doth  folde  againe ; 

Then,  jogging  home  betime. 
He  turnes  a  crab,  or  tunes  a  round. 

Or  sings  some  merrie  ryme. 

And,  in  Gammer  Gurton's  Needle,  1575: 

I  love  no  rost  but  a  nut-brown  tocte, 
And  a  crab  laydo  in  the  fyT». 


%  Illifeiuimirr-ligljtAi  Dmiiii 


Such  siffhts  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves,  by  haunted  stream. 

^S  far  as  is  at  present  known,  tlie  plot  of  tlie  Midsummer-Night's  Dream  is  one  of  tbc  veiy  few 
invented  by  Shakespeare  himself.  It  is  true  that  a  few  sHght  poitions  of  the  ground-work  are 
ilerived  from  other  sources,  but  the  tale  and  its  construction  are  believed  to  be  original.  The  transla- 
tion of  Plutarch's  Life  of  Theseus  and  Chaucer's  Knight's  Tale  appear  to  have  furnished  little  more  than 
the  names  of  the  characters ;  but  it  is  just  possible  that  a  passage  at  the  close  of  the  latter,  which  lias 
been  overlooked  by  the  commentators,  may  have  suggested  the  introduction  of  the  interlude  of  Ihe 
clowns : — 

ne  how  the  Grekes  play 

The  wake-pUiies  ne  kepe  I  not  to  say : 

Who  wrestled  best  naked  with  oile  enoint, 

Ne  who  tliat  bare  him  best  in  no  disjoint. 

I  woll  not  tellen  eke  how  they  all  gon 

Horn  till  Athenes,  whan  the  play  is  don. 

Golding's  translation  of  Ovid  has  better  claims  to  the  honour  of  having  been  used  by  Shakespeare 
in  the  constructioc  cf  a  part  of  his  play,  the  similarities  between  the  tale  of  Pyramus  and  Thisbe  in 
that  work  and  the  interlude  being  sufficiently  striking  to  warrant  the  belief  of  its  being  the  orioinal 
source  of  the  latter.  The  following  extract  from  Golding  will  probably  not  be  uninteresting  to  the 
reader,  wl  en  viewed  in  connexion  with  this  subject : — 

Within  the  towne  (of  whose  huge  walles  so  monstrons  higii  and  thicko, 

The  fame  is  given  Semiramis  for  making  them  of  bricke) 

Dwelt  hard  together  two  young  folke  in  houses  joynde  so  nere, 

That  under  all  one  roofe  well  nie  both  twaine  convaycd  were. 

The  name  of  him  was  Pyramiis,  and  Thisbe  called  was  she ; 

So  faire  a  man  in  all  the  East  was  none  alive  as  he. 

Nor  nere  a  woman,  mayde,  nor  wife,  in  beautie  like  to  her. 

This  neigh-brod  bred  acquaintance  first ;  this  neigh-brod  first  did  ster 

The  secret  sparkes :  this  neigh-brod  first  an  entrance  in  did  show 

For  love  to  come  to  that  to  which  it  afterward  did  grow. 

And  if  that  right  had  taken  place,  they  had  beene  man  and  wife ; 

But  still  their  parents  went  about  to  let  which  (for  their  life) 

They  could  not  let.    For  both  their  hearts  with  equal  fiame  did  bumo ; 

S16 


A  MIDSUMMER-NIGnX'S  DREAM. 


No  man  was  privie  to  their  thoughts.     And  for  to  serve  their  turne, 

Insteftd  of  tallie  they  used  signes  :  the  closlier  tliey  supprest 

The  fire  of  love,  the  fiercer  still  it  raged  in  their  brest. 

The  wall  that  parted  house  from  house  had  riven  therein  a  cranie, 

Which  shroonke  at  making  of  tlie  wall :  this  fault  not  markt  of  anio 

Of  many  hundred  yeeres  before  (what  doth  not  love  espie?) 

Tliese  lovers  first  of  all  found  out,  and  made  a  way  whereby 

To  talks  together  secretly,  and  through  tlie  same  did  go 

Their  loving  wliisprings  very  light  and  safely  to  and  fro. 

Now,  as  at  one  side  Pyraynus^  and  Th'tshe  on  the  tother. 

Stood  often  drawing  one  of  them  the  pleasant  breath  from  other : 

0  thou  envious  wall  (they  sayed),  why  letst  thou  lovers  thus ; 

What  matter  were  it  if  that  thou  permitted  both  of  us 

In  armes  each  other  to  embrace:  or  if  thou  think  that  tliis 

Were  over-much,  yet  mightest  thou  at  least  make  roomo  to  kisse. 

And  yet  thou  shalt  not  finde  us  churles  :  we  thinke  our  selves  in  dot, 

For  the  same  piece  of  curtesie,  in  vouching  safe  to  let 

Our  sayings  to  our  friendly  eares  thus  freely  come  and  go. 

Thus  having  where  they  stood  in  vaine  complained  of  their  wo, 

When  nigiit  drew  neare  they  bad  adue,  and  ech  gave  kisses  swoeto, 

Unto  the  parget  on  their  side  the  which  did  never  meete. 

Next  morning  with  her  cheerful  light  had  driven  tlie  starres  aside, 

And  Phoebus  with  i  is  burning  beames  the  dewie  grasse  liad  drido. 

These  lovers  at  their  wonted  place  by  fore-appointment  met, 

Where,  after  much  complaint  and  mone  they  covenanted  to  got 

Away  from  such  as  watched  them,  and  in  tlie  evening  late 

To  ste;de  out  of  their  father's  house,  and  eke  tlie  citie  gate. 

And  to  th'  intent  tliat  in  the  fields  they  strayd  not  up  and  downc, 

They  did  agree  at  Ninus  Tombe  to  meet  without  tlie  townc. 

And  tarry  underneath  a  tree  that  by  the  same  did  grow ; 

Which  was  a  faire  higli  mulberie  with  fruite  as  white  as  snow. 

Hard  by  a  coolo  and  triolding  spring.    This  bargaine  pleased  them  both 

And  60  day-light  (which  to  their  thouglit  away  but  slowly  gothj 

Did  in  the  ociau  fall  to  rest,  and  night  from  tlience  did  rise. 

As  eoone  as  darkenesse  once  was  come,  straiglit  Thlvbe  did  devise 

A  shift  to  winde  her  out  of  doores,  that  none  that  were  within 

Porceived  her :  and  muffling  licr  witli  clothes  about  her  chin, 

That  no  man  might  discerne  her  face,  to  Ninus  Tombe  she  came 

Uuto  the  tree :  and  set  her  downe  there  underneath  the  same. 

Lovo  made  her  bold.    But  see  the  chance  ;  there  comes  besmerdo  with  blood, 

Abont  the  chappes,  a  lyonesse  all  foming  from  the  wood. 

From  slaughter  lately  made  of  kiitf,  to  staunch  her  bloody  thirst 

With  water  of  the  foresaid  spring.     Whom  Thisbe  spying  firet, 

Afarre  by  moone-light,  thereupon  with  fearful  steps  gan  flio, 

And  in  a  darke  and  yrkesome  cave  did  hide  herselfe  thereby. 

And  as  she  fled  away  for  haste  slie  let  her  mantle  fall. 

The  which  for  feare  she  left  behinde,  not  looking  backo  at  all. 

Now  when  the  cruell  lyonesse  her  thirst  had  staunched  well. 

In  going  to  the  wood  she_found  the  slender  weede  that  fell 

From  Tliisbe,  which  with  bloodie  teeth  in  pocces  he  did  tearo ; 

The  night  was  somewh.at  further  spent  ere  Pyramus  came  there, 

Who  seeing  in  the  Buttle  sand  the  print  of  lyon's  paw, 

Wa.\t  pale  for  foare.     But  when  also  the  blodio  cloko  he  saw 

All  rent  and  torne  :  one  night  (ho  sayed)  shall  lovers  two  oonfounJ, 

Of  which  long  life  deserved  she  of  all  that  live  on  ground;  ^ 

My  Boule  deserves  of  this  niiscliaunce  the  peril!  for  to  bcare. 

I,  wretch,  liave  been  the  death  of  thee,  which  to  this  place  of  foorc 

Did  cause  thee  In  the  night  to  come,  and  came  not  there  before. 

My  wicked  lim»  and  wTetched  guts,  with  cruell  teeth  therefore, 

Devoure  ye,  0  ye  Joyous  all  that  in  this  rocko  doe  dwell. 

But  cowards  use  to  wish  for  death.    The  slender  wccdo  that  foU 


816 


A  MIDSUMMER-NIGUTS  DKEAM. 


From  Tliisbo  up  ho  takes,  and  straight  doth  bonro  it  to  tlie  troo, 

Which  wa»  appointed  erst  tlie  place  of  meeting  for  to  bco. 

And  when  lie  liad  bewept,  and  kiat  the  garment  wliicli  lie  knew, 

Eeeoivo  thon  my  blood  too  (qnoth  he) ;  and  therewithall  he  urcvr 

His  sword,  tlio  which  among  his  guts  ho  thrust,  and  by  and  bic 

Did  draw  it  from  the  bleeding  wound,  beginning  for  to  die. 

And  oast  himsolfe  upon  his  backc,  the  blood  did  spinne  on  Mo 

As  when  a  conduito  pipe  is  crackt,  the  water  bursting  ou 

Doth  shote  it  selfe  a  great  way  off,  and  pierac  the  ayre  about ; 

The  leaves  that  were  upon  the  tree  besprinkled  with  his  bloo<l. 

Were  died  black.     The  roote  also  bestained  as  it  stood, 

A  deepc  dark  purple  colour  straight  upon  the  berries  cast. 

Anon  scarce  ridded  of  her  feare  with  which  she  was  agast, 

For  doubt  of  disapoynting  him  comes  Thisbe  forth  in  hast. 

And  for  her  lover  lookes  about,  rcjoycing  for  to  tell 

How  hardly  she  had  scnpt  that  night  tlic  danger  that  befell 

And  as  she  knew  right  well  the  place  and  faeion  of  the  tree, 

(As  which  she  saw  so  late  before) :  even  so  when  she  did  seo 

The  colour  of  the  berries  tiirn'd,  she  was  uncertaine  whither 

It  were  the  tree  at  whicli  they  both  agreed  to  meet  togither. 

While  in  tliis  doubtful!  stound  she  stood,  she  cast  her  eye  aside. 

And  there  beweltred  in  his  blood  liir  lover  she  espide. 

Lie  sprawling  with  his  dying  lims :  at  whicli  she  started  backe. 

And  looked  pale  as  any  bo.\-,  a  sliuddriug  through  her  stracke. 

Even  like  the  sea  which  suddenly  with  wliissiug  noyse  doth  niovo. 

When  with  a  little  blast  of  wind  it  is  but  toucht  above. 

But  when  approching  nearer  him  she  knew  it  was  her  love, 

SLe  beate  her  breast,  she  shriked  out,  she  tare  her  golden  heares, 

And  taking  liim  betweene  hor  armes,  did  wash  his  woundes  with  lenros. 

She  meynd  her  weeping  with  his  blood,  and  kissing  all  his  face, 

(Which  now  became  as  cold  as  yse)  she  cryde  in  wofull  case, 

Alas,  what  chaunce  my  Pijramus  hath  parted  thee  and  meo  ? 

Make  answere,  0  my  Pyramas:  it  is  thy  Thish.  even  shoe 

Whom  thou  doost  love  most  hartily,  that  speaketh  unto  thee ; 

Give  eare  and  raise  tliy  lieavie  head.     He  hearing  Thislc'a  name. 

Lift  up  his  dying  eyes,  and  liaving  scene  her,  elosd  the  same. 

But  when  slie  knew  her  mantle  there,  and  saw  his  scabcrd  lie 

Without  the  sworde :  Unhappy  man,  thy  love  hath  made  thee  die  ■ 

Thy  love  (she  said)  liath  made  thee  slea  thyselfe.     Tliis  hand  of  mine 

Is  strong  inougli  to  doe  the  like.     My  love  uo  lesso  than  thine 

Shall  give  me  force  to  worke  my  wound,  I  will  pursue  thee  dead, 

And  wretched  woman  as  I  am,  it  shall  eft' me  be  sed. 

That  like  as  of  thy  death  I  was  the  onely  cause  and  blame. 

So  am  I  thy  companion  eke  and  partner  in  the  same. 

For  death  which  onely  could  alas  !  asunder  part  us  twaine, 

Shall  never  so  dissever  us  but  we  will  mcete  againe ; 

And  you  tlie  parent?  of  us  both,  most  wretched  folke  alive. 

Let  this  request  that  I  shall  make  in  both  our  names  belive, 

Intreate  you  to  permit,  that  we  whom  chaste  and  stedfast  love, 

And  whom  even  death  hath  joyned  in  one,  may  as  it  doth  behove 

In  one  grave  be  together  layd.    And  thou,  unhappie  tree 

Which  shouldest  now  the  corse  of  one,  and  shalt  anon  through  moe 

Sliroude  two,  of  this  same  slaugliter  hold  the  sicker  sinnes  for  ay, 

Blacke  be  the  colour  of  thy  fruito  and  mourning  like  alway, 

Snch  as  the  murder  of  us  twaico  may  evermore  bewray. 

This  said,  she  took  the  sword  yet  warme  with  slaughter  of  her  love 

And  setting  it  beneath  her  brest  did  to  the  heart  it  shove. 

Hor  prayer  with  the  Gods  and  with  their  parents  tooke  effect. 

For  when  the  fruite  is  thoroughly  ripe,  the  berrie  is  bespect 

With  colour  tending  to  a  bljicke.    And  that  which  atter  firo 

Bomaiued,  rested  in  one  tombe,  as  Thiaie  did  desire. 


811 


A  WIDSUMMEIi-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


The  faiut  similarities  to  be  traced  between  Cbaucer  and  Golding,  and  Shakespeare's  play,  are 
important  as  tending  to  the  conclusion  that  the  Midsummer-Night's  Dream  does  not  owe  its  existence 
to  a  more  ancient  drama,  but  was,  properly  speaking,  the  poet's  own  invention.  It  is  mentioned  by 
Meres  in  1598,  and  two  editions  appeared  in  IGOO;  but  it  is  generally  supposed  that  the  description 
of  the  seasons  given  by  Titania  in  act  ii.  scene  1  refers  to  the  winterly  summer  of  1594,  in  which  the 
months  of  June  and  July,  according  to  Dr.  Forman,*  "  were  very  wet  and  wonderfull  cold  like  wibter, 
that  the  10.  dae  of  Julii  many  did  syt  by  the  fyer,  yt  was  so  cold ;  and  soe  was  yt  in  Maye  and  June; 
and  scarce  too  fair  dais  together  all  that  tyme,  but  yt  rayned  every  day  more  or  lesse  :  yf  yt  did  not 
raine,  then  was  yt  cold  and  cloiidye."  The  coincidence  is  rather  remarkable,  and  admitting  the  allusion, 
(ve  may  assign  the  date  of  the  play  to  1594  or  1595  ;  but  the  more  one  examines  this  kind  of  evidence, 
the  less  real  weight  it  possesses ;  and  the  drama  is  so  highly  finished,  I  am  not  inclined  to  place  the  date 
of  its  composition  long  before  1598,  when  the  poet  was  in  his  34th  year. 

The  principle  of  the  composition  of  A  Midsummer-Night's  Dref.m  has  exercised  the  ingenuity  of 
several  critics,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  the  great  difBculties  which  surround  all  aesthetic  commentary  on 
this  pla)  arise  in  some  measure  from  its  unity  of  action  and  of  purpose  hawng  been  considered  axio- 
matical. If,  however,  we  approach  the  subject  without  any  preconceived  opinion  formed  upon  tho 
results  of  an  examination  of  other  plays  of  the  great  dramatist,  and  regard  this  play  sui  generis,  an 
anomaly  not  regulated  by  ordinary  laws,  we  shall  find  the  discussion  less  intricate.  In  point  of  fact, 
our  chief  perplexity  will  consist  in  the  necessity  of  disconnecting  some  particular  action  from  the  rest, 
and  regarding  it  as  a  siibsequent  invention.  The  fairies,  undoubtedly,  constitute  the  main  action. 
Remove  them  ^from  the  scene,  and  the  play  would  be  a  mere  skeleton  adorned  with  a  few  narrow 
robes  of  exquisite  poetry.  How,  or  in  what  manner  the  poet  formed  his  fi-ame-work — and  a  beau- 
tiful and  gracefu'.  fiame  it  is — is  a  question  accenaible  only  to  conjecture.  The  permutations  o( 
Shakespeare's  fancr  Trero  infinite,  and  here,  as  elsewhere,  they  have  resolved  themselves  into  a 
systematic  whole. 

It  must,  however,  be  admitted  that,  in  the  discussion  of  questions  of  this  kind,  the  social  position 
of  Shakespeare,  as  efiecting  the  form  of  his  works,  has  never  been  properly  considered.  It  would  seem, 
after  what  we  have  been  told  by  a  recent  school,  little  better  than  heresy  to  doubt  the  perfection  of  the 
results  of  the  poet's  genius ;  yet  who  can  venture  to  say  that  his  plays,  as  they  have  descended  to  us, 
are  the  same  that  would  have  been  presented  to  the  world,  had  not  the  author  been  in  some  degree 
dependent  on  popular  favour  ?  Shakespeare's  chief  object  iu  writing  was  to  please  an  audience — to  fill 
a  theatre :  and  the  fact  that  he  accDmplished  so  much  more  than  this  must  be  ascribed  to  his  surpassing 
genius  and  to  the  tendency  uf  his  mind.  But  we  cannot  suppose  that  he  disregarded  the  opinion  of 
the  multitude,  or  would  have  ventured  to  introduce  a  play,  composed  entirely  of  etherial  poetry,  before 
an  audiencfi  not  sufficiently  refined  to  appi'eciate  it.  May  not  the  "  clowns "  be  the  result  of  these 
external  circumstances ;  and  can  we  be  certain  that,  under  other  conditions,  Bottom  the  weaver,  inim- 
lable  as  he  is,  would  not  have  been  exchanged  for  a  more  poetical  character  ? 

In  adopting,  or  rather  suggesting,  this  line  of  argument,  I  am  not  losing  sight  of  the  dramatic  an 
of  the  play ;  neither  do  I  dissent  in  the  least  from  the  opinion  of  its  absolute  harmony  and  congruity 
as  a  work  of  art.  But  tlie  poet's  genius  could  have  adjusted,  had  it  been  necessary,  far  more  discor- 
dant elements  than  these.  All  thai  I  am  venturing  to  suggest  is  the  possibility  of  the  introduction  of 
the  artizans  ha\ing  been  occasioned  by  the  external  circumstances  in  which  the  author  liimself  was 
placed.  With  respect  to  the  drama  itself,  we  are  somewhat  in  Miranda's  position  when  she  first  saw 
Ferdinand,  and  cannot  believe  in  the  existence  of  a  lovelier  object,  l^ut  the  hand  that  wronglit  tiiat 
fairy  picture,  and  introduced  into  it  a  company  of  illiterate  workmen  witliout  shocking  the  ideal — 
what  would  he  have  accomplished,  liad  he  furllier  isohited  his  encliantnipnts  from  the  external  world  I 
As  it  is,  the  reader  must  perforce  admit  that  unnatural  combinations  have  been  formed  to  harmonize 
the  conditions  of  the  various  actions. 

The  minor  incousistcncies  are,  indeed,  sufficiently  numerous,  but  they  do  not  affect  the  argument, 


*  In  Ills  MS.  diary  preserved  in  tlio  Asliinoloim  Museum,  0.\for(l.     It  wiia  first  prmtod  in  Mr.  IlalliwclI'B  Iniro- 
lucLion  to  tlieeasiy,  8vo.  1841. 
,U3 


A  MIDSUMMER-NIGHTS  DREAIL 


and  are  uot  peculiar  to  this  play.  Oue  mistake  of  time  may  bo  mentioned,  as  it  lias  escajx;d  the  notice 
of  the  editors.  The  period  of  the  action  of  the  play  is  four  days,  concluding  with  the  night  of  the  now 
moon.  But  Hermia  and  Lysander  receive  the  edict  of  Theseus  four  days  before  the  new  moon ;  they 
fly  fiom  Athens  "to-morrow  night;"  they  become  (lie  sport  of  the  fairies,  along  with  Ileleiia  and 
Demetrius,  during  one  night  only,  for  Oberon  accomplishes  all  in  one  night,  before  "  the  first  cock 
crews ;"  and  the  lovers  are  discovered  by  Theseus  the  morning  before  that  which  would  have  I'endered 
(his  portion  of  the  plot  chronologically  consistent.  A  careful  perusal  will  convince  the  reader  tliat  the 
action  of  the  remaining  part  of  the  play  is  not  intended  to  consist  of  two  days. 

The  Midaummer-Night's  Dream  contains  the  sweetest  poetry  ever  composed  in  any  language.  It 
influenced  the  fancy  of  Fletcher  and  Milton ;  and  its  production  has  become  an  era  in  the  history  of 
Euglish  poetical  composition.  Although  a  finished  dramatic  piece,  it  is  unquestionably  better  fitted 
for  the  closet  than  the  stage ;  yet  the  portion  appropriated  to  the  hard-handed  men  of  Athens  i^  in 
iiself,  an  admirable  farce ;  joined  with  the  action  of  the  fairies,  it  becomes  an  artistic  comedy.  The 
play  is  adapted  to  the  st.ige  by  the  introduction  of  the  clowns.  Deprived  of  the  latter,  it  would  bavo 
pal  taken  of  the  chiu'actor  of  a  masque;  and,  like  'Oomus,'  would  not  have  been  appreciated  by  ucoui- 
oioa  audience. 

81U 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED 


TuEs^vs,  Duke  of  Athens. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.    Act  IV.  so.  1.    Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Egeub,  father  to  Hermia. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.    Act  IV.  so.  1. 

Ltsander,  in  love  with  Hermia. 

Appears,  Act  I.  so.  1.    Act  II.  se.  2.    Act  III.  so.  2. 
Act  IV.  so.  1.    Act  V.  BO.  1. 

Demetkids,  in  love  with  Heimia. 

Appears,  Act  I.  so.  1.    Act  II.  uo.  1 ;  so.  2.    Act  III.  so.  2. 
Act  IV.  BO.  1.     Act  V.  so.  1. 

Philostrate,  master  of  the  revels  to  Theseus. 
Appears,  Act  I.  BC.  1.    Aot  V.  bo.  1. 

Quince,  the  carpenter. 

Appears,  Act  I.  bo.  2.    Aot  III.  so.  1.     Act  IV.  so.  2. 
Acts  the  Prologue  in  Act  V.  ac.  1. 

Sncg,  thejoir^). 

Appears,  Act  I.  so.  2.    Aot  HI.  so.  1.    Act.  IV.  so.  2. 
Acts  the  Lion  in  Act  V.  Bc.  1." 

Bottom,  the  iveaver. 

Appears,  Act  I.  so.  2.    Aot  III.  sc.  1.    Act  IV.  so.  1 ;  so.  2. 
Acts  Pyramus  iu  Act  V.  so.  1. 

Flute,  tlie  hellows-mender. 

Appears,  A  ct  I.  so.  2.    Act  III.  sc.  1.    Act  IV.  so.  2. 
Acts  Tliisby  in  Aot  V.  so.  1. 

Snodt,  the  tinker. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.    Act  III.  so.  1.    Aot  IV.  so.  2 
Acts  tlio  Wall  in  Aot  V.  so.  1. 

Starveling,  the  tailor. 

Appears,  Aot  I.  bo.  2.    Act  III.  so.  1.    Act  IV.  «o.  2. 
Act*  Moonsliine  in  Aot  V.  bo.  1. 
820 


HippoLTTA,   Queen  of  the  Amazons,  betrothed  to 

Theseus. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.    Act  IV.  so.  1.    Aot  V.  so.  1. 

Hermia,  daughter  to  Egeus,  in  love  with  Lysandei 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.    Aot  II.  sc.  2.     Act  III.  sc.  2. 
Aot  IV.  so.  1.     Aot  V.  BC.  1 

Helena,  in  love  with  Demstnus. 

Appears,  Act  I.  so.  1.    Act  11.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  IIL  so.  Z 
Act  IV.  sc.  1.    Act  V.  80. 1. 

Oberon,  kinff  of  the  fairies. 

Appears,  Aot  II.  so.  1 ;  so.  2.    Aot  III.  so.  2.    Act  IV.  so.  1 
Act  V.  BO.  1. 

Titania,  queen  of  the  fairies. 

Appears,  Aat,ll.s-->.l;  BC.2.    Act  III.  so.  1.    Act.  IV.  so.  1 
Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Puck,  or  Robin  Goodfellow,  a  fairy. 

Appears,  Act  11.  sc.  1 ;  BO.  2.    Act  III.  so.  1 ;  sc.  2. 
Aot  IV.  so.  1.    Act  V.  80.  1. 

Peas-blossom,    Codweb,    Moth,    Mustard-seed, 

fairies. 

Appear,  Act  III.  sc.  \.    Act  IV.  so.  1. 

Pyranuis,  Thisby,  Wall,  Moonshine,  Lion,  characteis 

in  the  lutei-kide  performed  by  the  Clowns. 

Appear,  Act  V.  so.  1. 

Other  Fairies  attending  their  King  and  Queen. 

Attendants  on  Theseus  and  Hippolyta. 

SCENE, — Athens,  and  a  Wood  near. 


1  ^itiifeiiiiiiiipr-liigtjfs  Driniin 


ACT  I. 


FiCEN  li  L — ^Athens.     A  Room  in  the  Palace  of 

Theseus. 

Biiter  Tdeseds,  Hippolyta,  Philostrate,  and 
Attendants. 

The.  Now,  fair  Hippolyta,  our  nuptial  hour 
Draws  on  apace ;  four  happy  days  bring  in 
Another  moon :  but,  oh,  methinks,  how  slow 
This  old  moon  wanes !  she  lingers  my  desires, 
Like  to  a  step-danie,  or  a  dowager. 
Long  withering  out  a  young  man's  revenue. 

Hi}).  Four  days  will  quickly  steep  themselves 
in  nights; 
Four  nights  will  quickly  dream  away  the  time ; 
And  then  the  moon,  like  to  a  silver  bow 
New  bent  in  heaven,'  shall  behold  the  night 
Of  our  solemnities. 

The.  Go,  Philostrate, 

Stir  up  the  Athenian  youth  to  merriments ; 
Awake  the  pert  and  nimble  spirit  of  mirth ; 
Turn  melancholy  forth  to  funerals. 
The  pale  companion  is  not  for  our  pomp. 

[Sxit  Phil. 
TIi]ipolyta,  I  woo'd  thee  with  my  sword, 
Ami  won  thy  love,  doing  thee  injuries ; 
r>ut  I  will  wed  thee  in  another  key, 
Willi  pomp,  mth  triumph,  and  with  revelling. 

E}itr:r  P^GEUS,  Hermia,  Lysander,  and  Demetrius. 
Jige.  Happy  be  Theseus,  oru'  renowned  duke  P 


The.  Thanks,  good  Egeus:    Wlial 's  tho  news 
with  thee? 

Hffe.  Full  of  vexation  come  I,  with  compliiint 
Against  my  child,  my  daughter  Hennia. 
Stand  forth,  Demetrius : — My  noble  lord, 
This  man  hath  my  consent  to  many  her. — 
Stand  forth,  Lysander : — and,  my  gracious  duke, 
This  hath  bewitch'd  the  bosom  of  my  child : 
Thou,  thou,  Lysander,  thou  hast  given  her  rhjincs, 
And  interchang'd  love-tokens  with  my  child  : 
Tbou  hast  by  moonlight  at  her  \vindow  sung, 
With  feigning  voice,  verses  of  feigning  love ; 
And  stol'n  the  impression  of  her  fantasy 
With  bracelets  of  thy  hair,  rings,  gauds,  conceits,' 
Knacks,  trifles,  nosegay.s,  sweetmeats,— -messeugera 
Of  strong  prevailment  in  unharden'd  youth : 
With   cunning   hast  thou  filch'd   my  daughter's 

heart ; 
Turn'd  her  obedience,  which  is  due  to  me. 
To  stubborn  harshness : — And,  my  gracious  duke, 
Be  it  so  she  will  not  here,  before  your  grace, 
Consent  to  marry  with  Demetrius, 
I  beg  the  ancient  privilege  of  Athens, — 
As  she  is  mine,  I  may  dispose  of  her, 
Which  shall  be  either  to  this  gentleman, 
Or  to  her  death  ;  according  to  our  law, 
Immediately  provided  in  that  case. 

7'he.  What  say  you,  Hennia  ?    Be  advis'd.  my 
maid : 
To  vou  yom-  father  should  be  as  a  god ; 

S21 


A  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


SCENE   L 


One  that  compos'd  your  beauties ;  yea,  and  one 
To  whom  you  are  but  as  a  form  in  wax, 
By  him  imprinted,  and  within  his  power 
To  leave  the  figure,  or  disfigure  it.'' 
Demetiius  is  a  worthy  gentleman. 

Her.  So  is  Lysandoi. 

The.  In  himself  he  is : 

But,  in  this  kind,  wanting  your  father's  voice, 
The  other  must  be  held  the  worthier. 

Ifer.  I  would  my  father  look'd  but  with  my  eyes! 

The.  Rather  your  eyes  must  with  his  judgment 
look. 

Ifer.  I  do  entreat  your  gi-ace  to  pardon  me. 
[  know  not  by  what  power  I  am  made  bold, 
Kor  how  it  may  concern  my  modesty, 
]u  such  a  presence  here,  to  plead  my  thoughts : 
Bnt  I  beseech  your  grace  that  I  may  know 
The  worst  that  Djay  befall  me  in  this  case, 
If  I  refuse  to  wed  Demetrius. 

The.  Either  to  die  the  death,  or  to  abjure 
For  ever  the  society  of  men. 
Therefore,  fair  Hermia,  question  your  desires, 
Know  of  your  youth,  examine  well  your  blood, 
Whether,  if  you  yield  not  to  vour  father's  choice, 
Vou  can  endure  the  livery  of  a  nun ; 
For  aye  to  be  in  shady  cloister  mew'd. 
To  live  a  barren  sister  all  your  life, 
Chanting  faint  hymns  to  the  cold  fruitless  moon. 
Thrice  blessed  they  that  master  so  their  blood, 
To  undergo  such  maiden  pilgrimage : 
But  earthlier  happy'  is  the  rose  distill'd. 
Than  that  which,  withering  on  the  \ai-gin  thorn, 
Grows,  lives,  and  dies,  in  single  blessedness. 

Her.  So  will  I  grow,  so  live,  so  die,  my  lord, 
Ere  I  will  yield  my  virgin  patent  up 
Unto  his  lordship,  whose  unwished  yoke^ 
My  soul  consents  not  to  give  sovereignty. 

The.  Take  time  to  pause ;  and,  by  the  next  new 
moon, 
(The  sealing-day  betwixt  my  love  and  me, 
For  everlasting  bond  of  fellowship,) 
Upon  that  day  either  prepare  to  die, 
For  diaobedience  to  your  father's  will ; 
Or  else,  to  wed  Demetrius,  as  lie  would  ; 
Or  on  Diana's  altar  to  protest. 
For  aye,  austerity  and  single  life. 

Dcm.  Relent,  sweet  Hermia : — And,  Lysander, 
yield 
Tliy  crazed  title  to  my  certain  right. 

Lys.  You  have  her  father's  love,  Demetrius; 
Let  mi;  have  Hermia's :  do  you  marry  him ! 

Ege.  Scoraful  Lysander !  true,  he  hath  my  love, 
822 


And  what  is  mine  my  love  shall  render  him  ; 
And  she  is  mine ;  and  all  my  right  of  her 
I  do  estate  unto  Demetrius. 

Lys.  I  am,  my  lord,  as  well  deriv'd  as  he, — 
As  well  possesS'd ;  my  love  ie  more  than  his; 
My  fortunes  every  way  as  feirly  rank'd, 
If  not  with  vantage,  as  Demetrius'; 
And,  which  is  more  than  all  these  boasts  can  bo, 
I  am  belov'd  of  beauteous  Hermia. 
Why  should  not  I  then  pro.secute  my  right  ? 
Demetrius,  I  '11  avouch  it  to  his  head, 
Made  love  tc  Nedar's  daughter,  Helena, 
And  won  Lei  soul ;  and  .she,  sweet  lady,  dotes, 
Devoutly  dotes,  dotes  in  idolatry. 
Upon  this  spotted'  and  inconstant  man. 

The.  I  must  confess  that  I  bave  heard  so  much, 
And   with    Demetrius    thought    to    have    sjiokc 

thereof; 
But,  being  over-full  of  self-aflairs, 
My  mind  did  lose  it. — But,  Demetrius,  eoniM  • 
And  come,  Egeus  ;  you  shall  go  with  me ; 
I  have  some  private  schooling  for  you  Lolli. 
For  you,  fair  Hermia,  look  you  arm, yourself 
To  fit  your  fancies  to  your  father's  will ; 
Or  else  the  law  of  Athens  yields  you  up 
(Which  by  no  means  we  may  extenuate) 
To  death,  or  to  a  vow  of  single  life. 
Come,  my  Hippolyta :  What  cheer,  my  love  5 
Demetrius,  and  Egeus,  go  along : 
I  must  employ  you  in  some  business 
Against  our  nuptial,  and  confer  with  you 
Of  something  nearly  that  concerns  yourselves. 

Ege.  With  duty  and  desire  we  follow  you. 
[^Exeunt  Thes.,  Hip.,  Ege.,  Dem.,  and  train. 

Lys.  How  now,  my  love  :     Why  is  your  check 
so  pale  ? 
How  chance  the  roses  there  do  fade  so  fast  ? 

Her.  Belike  for  want  of  rain ;    which  I  could 
well 
Bete«m  them  from  the  tempest  of  mine  eyes.' 

Lys.  Ah  me !  for  aught  that  I  could  ever  read, 
Could  ever  hear  by  tale  or  hi.story. 
The  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth : 
But,  either  it  was  dilierent  in  blood  ; — 

Her.  0   cross  I   too  high   to   be   cnthrjdFd    Ic 
low! 

Lys.  Or  else  misgraflFed,  in  respect  of  years ; — 

Her.  0  spite  !  too  old  to  be  engag'd  to  young! 

Lys.    Or    else    it    stood    upon    the    choice    of 
friends ; — 

Her.  0  hell!  to  choose  love  by  another's  oyel 

Lys.  Or,  if  there  were  a  sympathy  in  choice, 


ACT    I. 


A  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


BCEN'E   L 


War,  iloatli,  or  sickness  did  lay  siege  to  it; 
Making  it  momenfaiy  as  a  sound, 
Swift  as  a  sliadow,  sliort  as  any  druani, 
Brief  as  tlie  lightning  in  the  collied  night, 
That,  in  a  spleen,  unfolds  both  heaven  and  earth, 
And  ere  a  man  hath  power  to  say, — Behold! 
The  jaws  of  darkness  do  devour  it  up  : 
So  quick  bright  things  come  to  confusion. 

Her.  If  then  true  lovers  have  been  ever  cross'd, 
It  stands  as  an  edict  in  destiny : 
Then  let  us  teach  our  trial  patience, 
Because  it  is  a  customary  cross ; 
As  due  to  love,  as  thoughts,  and  dreams,  and  sighs. 
Wishes,  and  tears,  poor  fancy's  followers.' 

Lys.  A  good   persuasion  ;    therefore,  hear  me, 
Ilermia. 
'  have  a  widow  aunt,  a  dowager 
Of  great  revenue,  and  she  hath  no  child : 
From  Athens  is  her  house  remote  seven  leagues ; 
And  she  respects  me  as  her  only  son. 
There,  gentle  Hermia,  may  I  marry  thee ; 
And  to  that  place  the  sharp  Athenian  law 
Cannot  pursue  us.     If  thou  lov'sf  me,  then, 
Steal  forth  thy  father's  house  to-morrow-night ; 
And  in  the  wood,  a  league  without  the  town. 
Where  I  did  meet  thee  once  with  Helena, 
To  do  observance  to  a  morn  of  May, 
There  will  I  stay  for  thee. 

Her.  My  good  Lysander ! 

I  swear  to  thee  by  Cupid's  strongest  bow ; 
By  his  best  arrow  with  the  golden  head ; 
By  the  simplicity  of  Venus'  doves ; 
By  that  vdiich  knitteth  souls,  and  j)roppers  loves ; 
And    by  that    fire    which    burn'd    the    Carthage 

queen. 
When  the  false  Trojan  luider  sail  was  seen ; 
By  all  the  vows  that  ever  men  have  broke, 
Ip  number  more  than  ever  women  spoke  ; 
ji  that  same  place  thou  hast  appointed  me, 
To-morrow  truly  will  I  meet  with  thee. 

Lys.  Keep  promise,  love.      Look,  here  comes 
Helena. 

Enter  Helena. 

Her.  God  speed  fair  Helena  !     Whither  away  ? 
Hel    Call  you  me  fair  ?  that  fair  again  unsay. 
Demetrius  loves  your  fjiir:'"  O  happy  ftiir! 
Your  eyes  are  load-stars ;  and  your  tongues  sweet 

air, 
More  tunable  than  lark  to  shepherd's  ear. 
When  wheat  is  gi-een,  when  hawthorn  buds  ap- 
pear, 


Sickness  is  catching;  0,  were  favour  so, 
Your  words  I  'd  catch,  fair  Hermia,  ere  I  go ; 
My  ear  shoukl  catch  your  voice,  my  eye  your  eye, 
My    tongue    should    catch    your    tongue's    sweet 

melody. 
Were  the  world  mine,  Demetrius  being  bated, 
The  rest  I  '11  give  to  be  to  you  ti-anslated. 
0,  teach  me  how  to  look ;  and  witli  what  art 
You  sway  the  motion  of  Demetrius'  heart. 

Her.  I  frown  upon  him,  yet  he  loves  me  still. 

Hel.    O,  that    your   frowns    would    teach    m* 
smiles  such  skill ! 

Her.  I  gave  him  cunses,  yet  he  gives  me  love. 

Hel.  O,  that  my  prayers  could  such  a6fectio^ 
move! 

Her.  The  more  I  hate,  the  more  he  follows  me 

Hel.  The  more  I  love,  the  more  he  hateth  me 

Her.  His  folly,  Helena,  is  none  of  mine. 

Hel.  None ;  but  your  beauty ;  would  that  faul'. 
were  mine ! 

Her.  Take  comfort;  he  no  more  shall  see  ui; 
face ; 
Lysander  and  myself  will  fly  this  place. 
Before  the  time  I  did  Lysander  see, 
Seem'd  Athens  like  a  paradise  to  me : 
O  then,  what  graces  in  my  love  do  dwell. 
That  be  hath  tum'd  a  heaven  into  hell !" 

Lys.  Helen,  to  you  our  minds  we  will  unfod 
To-morrow  night,  when  Phoebe  doth  behold 
Her  silver  visage  in  the  wat'ry  glass. 
Decking  with  liquid  pearl  the  bladed  grass, 
(A  time  that  lovei-s'  flights  doth  still  conceal,) 
Through  Athens'  gates  have  we  devis'd  to  steal. 

Her.  And  in  the  wood,  where  often  you  and  1 
Upon  faint  primrose  beds  were  wont  to  lie, 
Emptying  our  bosoms  of  their  counsel  sweet, 
There  my  Lysander  and  myself  shall  meet : 
And  thence,  from  Athens,  turn  away  our  eyes. 
To  seek  new  friends  and  stranger  companies." 
Farewell,  sweet  playfellow  ;  pray  thou  for  us. 
And  good  luck  grant  thee  thy  Demetrius  ! — 
Keep  word,  Lysander :  we  must  starve  our  sight 
From  lovers'  food,  till  morrow  deep  midnight. 

[Exit  Heii 

Lys.  I  will,  my  Hermia. — Helena,  adieu : 
As  you  on  him,  Demetrius  dote  on  you !  [Ex.  Lt8 

Hel.  How  happy  some  o'er  othersome  can  be ! 
Through  Athens  I  am  thought  as  fair  as  she. 
But  wh.at  of  that  ?  Demetrius  thinks  not  so ; 
He  will  not  know  what  a.l  but  he  do  know. 
And  as  he  errs,  doting  on  Hermia's  eyes, 
So  I,  admiring  of  his  qualities. 

323 


ACT   I. 


A  MIDSUiNLMER-NIGnX'S  DRK^M, 


Things  base  and  vild,"  holding  no  quantity, 

Love  can  transpose  to  form  and  dignity. 

Love  looks  not  with  the  eyes,  but  with  the  mind ; 

And  therefore  is  wing'd  Cupid  painted  blind. 

Nor  hath  love's  mind  of  any  judgment  taste ; 

Wings,  and  no  eyes,  figure  imheedy  haste : 

And  therefore  is  love  said  to  be  a  child, 

Because  in  choice  he  is  so  oft  beguil'd. 

As  waggish  boys  in  game  themselves  ffrswear, 

So  the  boy  love  is  peijur'd  everywhere : 

For  ere  Demetrius  look'd  on  Hermia's  cyno, 

He  hailVl  down  oaths  that  he  was  only  mine; 

And  when  this  hail  some  heat  fiom  Hermia  felt, 

So  he  dissolv'd,  and  showers  of  oatbs  did  melt, 

I  will  go  tell  him  of  fair  Hermia's  flight : 

Then  to  the  wood  will  he,  to-morrow  night, 

Pursue  her;  and  for  this  intelligence 

If  I  have  thanks,  it  is  a  dear  expense  :'* 

But  herein  mean  I  to  eniich  my  pain. 

To  have  his  sight  thither  and  back  again.     [Uxit. 

SCENE  n. — A  Room  in  a  Cottage  at  Athens. 

Enter  Snug,  Bottom,  Flute,  Quixce,  Ssodt,  and 
Starveling. 

Quit..  Is  all  oxa  company  here? 

Bot.  You  were  best  to  call  them  generally, 
man  by  man,  according  to  the  scrip. 

Quin.  Here  is  the  scroll  of  every  man's  name, 
which  is  thought  fit,  through  all  Athens,  to  play 
in  our  interlude  before  the  duke  and  the  duchess, 
on  his  wedding-day  at  night. 

Bot.  First,  good  Peter  Quince,  say  what  the 
play  treats  on ;  then  read  the  names  of  the  actors ; 
and  so  grow  on  to  a  point. 

Quin.  Marry,  our  play  is — The  most  lamenta- 
ble comedy,  and  most  cruel  death  of  Pyramus  and 
Thisby. 

Bot.  A  very  good  piece  of  work,  I  assure  you, 
and  a  meny. — Now,  good  Peter  Quince,  call  forth 
yc  ur  actors  by  the  scroll.  Masters,  spread  yom-- 
Belves. 

Quin.  Answer,  as  I  call  you. — Nick  Bottom, 
the  weaver. 

Bot.  Ready.  Name  what  part  I  am  for,  and 
proceed. 

Quin.  You,  Nick  Ijottom,  are  set  down  for 
Pyramus. 

Bot.  What  is  Pyramus  ?  a  lovei',  or  a  tvrant? 

Quin  A  lover,  that  kills  himself  most  gaiianliy 
for  love. 

Bot  That  will  ask  some  tears  in  the  true  per- 
forming of  it:  If  I  do  it,  let  the  audience  look  to 
824 


their  eyes ;  I  will  move  storms ;  I  will  condole  ii 
some  measure.     To  the  rest : — Yet  my  chief  bu 
mour  is  for  a  tyrant:  I  could  play  Eicles  raioly, 
or  a  part  to  tear  a  cat  in,  to  make  all  split. 
"  The  raging  rocks, 
And  shivering  shocks, 
Shall  break  the  locks 

Of  prison-gates ; 
And  Phibbus'  car 
Shall  shine  from  far, 
And  make  and  mar 
The  foolish  fates." 
This    was    lofty ! — Now   name   the    rest  of   the 
players. — This  is  Ercles'  vein,'*  a  tviant's  vein ;  a 
lover  is  more  condoling. 

Quin.  Francis  Flute,  the  bellows-mender. 

Flu.  Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quin.  You  must  take  Thisby  on  you. 

Flu.  What  is  Thisby  ?  a  wand'ring  knight  ? 

Quin.  It  is  the  lady  that  Pyramus  must  love. 

Flu.  Nay,  faith,  let  not  me  play  a  woman ;  I 
have  a  beard  coming. 

Quin.  That  's  all  one ;  you  shall  play  it  in  a 
mask,'°  and  you  may  speak  as  small  as  you  will. 

Bot.  An  I  may  hide  my  face,  let  me  play  Thisby 
too  :  I  '11  speak  in  a  monstrous  little  voice : — 
'■  Thisne,  Thisne, — Ah,  Pyramus,  my  lover  dear ; 
thy  Thisby  dear !  and  lady  dear ! " 

Quin.  No,  no,  you  must  play  Pyramus ;  and, 
Flute,  you  Thisby. 

Bot.  Well,  proceed. 

Quin.  Robin  Starveling,  the  tailor. 

Star.  Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quin.  Robin  Starveling,  you  must  play  Thisby's 
mother. — Tom  Snout,  the  tinker. 

Snout.  Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quin.  You  Pyramus's  father ;  myself,  Thisby's 
father ;  Snug,  the  joiner,  you  the  lion's  part : — 
and  I  hope  here  is  a  play  fitted.  • 

Snug.  Have  you  the  lion's  part  written  ?  pray 
you,  if  it  be,  give  it  me,  for  I  am  slow  of  study. 

Quin.  You  may  do  it  extempore,  for  it  is  noth- 
ing but  roaring. 

Bot.  Let  me  play  the  lion  too.  I  will  roar, 
that  I  will  do  any  man's  heart  good  to  hear  me;  I 
will  roar,  that  I  will  make  the  duke  say,  "  Let 
him  roar  again  ;  let  him  roar  again." 

Quin.  An  you  .should  do  it  too  terribly,  you 
would  flight  the  duchess  and  the  ladies,  that 
they  would  shriek ;  and  that  were  enough  to  haufj 
us  all. 

All.  That  would  hang  us,  eveiy  mother's  son. 


A  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


SCENK    1. 


Bot.  I  grant  you,  friends,  if  that  you  should 
fright  the  hidies  out  of  their  wits,  they  would 
have  no  more  discretion  but  to  hang  us;  but  I 
will  aggravate  my  voice  so,  tliat  I  will  roar  you 
'IS  gently  as  any  sucking  dove ;  I  will  roar  you  an 
't  were  any  nightingale. 

Quin.  You  can  play  no  part  but  PjTamus :  for 
Pyramus  is  a  sweet-fac'd  man ;  a  proper  man  as 
one  shall  see  in  a  summer's  day ;  a  most  lovely, 
gentlenian-liko  man ;  therefore  you  must  needs 
play  Pyramus. 

Bot.  Well,  I  will  undertake  it.  What  beard 
were  I  best  to  play  it  in  ? 

Quin.  Why,  what  you  will. 

iot.  I  will  discharge  it  in  either  your  straw- 
colour  beard,  your  orange-tawny  beard,  your 
purple-in-grain  beard,  or  your  French-crown- 
colour  beard,  your  perfect  yellow.    . 


Quin.  Some  of  your  French  crowns  have  no 
hair  at  all,  and  then  you  will  jjlay  bare-fac'd. — 
But,  masters,  here  are  your  parts:  and  I  am  tc 
entreat  you,  request  you,  and  desire  you,  to  con 
them  by  to-morrow  night:  an!  meet  me  in  the 
palace  wood,  a  mile  without  the  towij,  by  moon- 
light; there  will  we  rehearse:  for  if  we  meet  in 
the  city,  we  shall  be  dogg'd  with  company,  and 
our  devices  known.  In  the  mean  time,  I  will 
draw  a  bill  of  propeities  "  such  as  our  play  wants. 
I  pray  you  fail  me  not. 

Bot.  We  will  meet ;  and  there  we  may  rehearse 
more  obscenely  and  courageously.  Take  pains ;  be 
perfect ;  adieu. 

Quin.  At  the  duke's  oak  we  meet. 

Bot.  Enough.     Hold,  or  cut  bow-strings." 

[£xeuni. 


ACT     II 


SCENE  I.— A  Wood  near  Atliens. 
Enter  a  Fairy  on  one  side,  and  Puck  on  the  other. 

Puck.  How  now,  spirit !  whither  wander  you  ? 
Fai.  Over  hill,  over  dale. 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier,'' 
Over  park,  over  pale, 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire,  / 

I  do  wander  everywhere. 
Swifter  than  the  moon's  sphere  ; 
And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen. 
To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  gi'een : 
The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be ; 
In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see ; 
Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favours, 
In  those  freckles  live  their  savours : 
1  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here, 
And  hang  a  pear,  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 
Farewell,  thou  lob  of  spirits;  I  '11  be  gone; 
Our  queen  and  all  her  elves  come  here  anon. 
Puck.  The  king  doth  keep  his  revels  here  to- 
night; 
Take  heed  the  queen  come  not  within  his  sight. 
For  Oberon  is  passing  fell  and  wrath. 
Because  that  she,  as  her  attendant,  hath 


A  lovely  boy  stol'n  from  an  Indian  king ; 
She  never  had  so  sweet  a  changeling : 
And  jealous  Oberon  would  have  the  child 
Knight  of  his  train,  to  trace  the  forests  wild: 
But  she,  perforce,  withholds  the  loved  boy, 
Crowns  him  with  flowers,  and  makes  him  all  hrt 

joy: 
And  now  they  never  meet  in  grove,  or  green. 
By  fountain  clear,  or  spangled  starlight  sheen, 
But  they  do  square;^"  that  all  their  elves,  for  fear, 
Creep  into  acorn-cups,  and  hide  them  there. 
Fai.  Either  I  mistake  your  shape  and  making 

quite, 
Or  else  you  are  that  shrewd  and  knavish  sprite, 
Call'd  Robin  Qoodfellow ; "  are  you  not  he. 
That  frights  fuo  maidens  of  the  villageree ; — 
Skim  milk;  and  sometimes  labour  in  the  quern  ;^ 
And    bootless    make    the    breathless    housewife 

churn ; 
And  sometime  make  the  drink  to  bear  no  barm;'' 
Mislead  night-wanderers,  laughing  at  their  harm  ? 
Those  that  Hobgoblin  call  you,  and  sweet  I'uck, 
You  do  their  work,  and  they  shall  have  good  luck 
Are  you  not  he  ? 

Puck.  Thou  speak'st  aright ; 

825 


A  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


[  am  that  iiit-nj  wanderer  of  the  uiglit. 

I  jest  to  OberoL'',  and  make  hiia  Ltuile, 

Wlien  I  a  fat  aiid  l>CHU-fed  hoi'se  beguile, 

Neighing  in  likenaps  of  a  filly  foal : 

And  sometime  lurk  I  in  a  gossip's  bowl, 

In  very  likeness  of  a  roasted  crab  ; 

And,  when  she  drinks,  against  her  lips  I  bob. 

And  on  her  wither'd  dewlap  pour  the  ale. 

The  wisest  aunt,  telling  the  saddest  tale, 

Sometime  for  three-foot  stool  mistaketh  me  ; 

Then  slip  I  from  her  bum,  down  topples  she, 

And  "  Tailor"  cries,^''  and  falls  into  a  cough  ; 

And  then  the  whole  quire  hold  their  hips  and 

lofle,'-'' 
And  waxen  in  their  mirth,  and  neeze,"'  and  swear 
A  merrier  hour  was  never  wasted  there.— 
But  room,  Fairy,  here  comes  Oberon. 
Fai.  And  here  my  mistress : — Would  that  he 


were  gone 


Enter  Oberon  on  one  side,  with  his  train,  and  Tita- 
NiA  on  the  other,  with  hers. 

Obe.  Ill  met  by  moonlight,  proud  Titania. 

Tita.  What,jealous  Oberon  ?  Fairy,  skip  hence ; 
1  have  forsworn  his  bed  and  company. 

Obe.  Tany,  rash  wanton.     Am  not  I  thy  lord  ? 

Tila.  Then  I  must  be  thy  lady :  But  I  know 
When  thou  hast  stol'n  away  fi'om  fairy  laud. 
And  in  the  shape  of  Corin  sat  all  day. 
Playing  on  pipes  of  corn,  and  versing  love 
Po  amorous  Phillida.     Why  art  thou  here. 
Come  from  the  farthest  steep  of  India  ? 
Cut  that,  forsooth,  the  bouncing  ^Vmazon,    " 
Your  buskin'd  mistress,  and  your  warrior  love. 
To  Theseus  must  be  wedded ;  and  you  come 
To  give  their  bed  joy  and  prosperity. 

Obe.  How  caust  thou  thus,  for  shame,  Titania, 
Glance  at  my  credit  with  Hippolyta, 
Knowing  I  know  thy  love  to  Theseus  ? 
Didst  not  thou  lead  him  through  the  ghmmering 

night 
From  Perigenia,  whom  he  ravished  ? 
And  make  him  with  fair  .iEgle  break  his  faith, 
With  Ariadoe,  and  Antiopa? 

Tita.  These  are  the  foigeries  of  jealousy: 
And  never,  since  die  middle  summer  spring," 
Met  we  on  hill,  in  dale,  forest,  or  mead, 
By  paved  fountain,  or  by  rushy  brook, 
Or  on  the  beached  mavgent  of  the  sea. 
To  dance  our  ringlets  to  the  whistling  wind, 
But    with    thy   brawls    thou    hast   disturb'd    our 
sport. 
826 


Therefore  the  winds,  piping  to  us  in  vain. 
As  in  revenge,  have  suck'd  up  from  the  sea 
Contagious  fogs ;  which,  falling  in  the  land, 
Have  eveiy  pelting  river  made  so  proud. 
That  they  have  overborne  their  continents : 
The  ox  hath  therefore  stretch'd  his  yoke  in  vain, 
The  ploughman  lost  his  sweat ;  and  the  green  com 
Hath  rotted,  ere  his  youth  attain'd  a  beard : 
The  fold  stands  empty  in  the  drowned  field. 
And  crows  are  fatted  with  the  muriain  flock 
The  nine  men's  morris  is  fill'd  up  with  mud  ;** 
And  the  quaint  mazes  in  the  wanton  green, 
For  lack  of  tread,  are  undistinguishable ; 
The  human  mortals  want  their  winter  cheer; 
No  night  is  now  with  hymn  or  carol  bless'd ; — 
Therefore  the  moon,  the  governess  of  floods, 
Pale  in  her  anger,  washes  all  the  air. 
That  rheumatic  diseases  do  abound : 
And  thorough  this  distemperature,  we  see 
The  seasons  alter :  hoary-headed  frosts 
Fall  in  the  fresh  lap  of  the  crimson  rose ; 
And  on  old  Hyems'  thin  and  icy  crown,'' 
An  odorous  chnplet  of  sweet  summer  buds 
Is,  as  in  mock'ry,  set.     The  spring,  the  summer, 
The  chilliug  autumn,  angry  winter,  change 
Their  wonted  liveries ;  and  the  mazed  world. 
By  their  increase,*"  now  luiows  not  which  is  which 
And  this  same  progeny  of  evils  comes 
From  our  debate,  from  our  dissension  ; 
We  are  their  parents  and  original. 

Obe.  Do  you  amend  it  then  :  it  lies  in  you : 
Why  should  Titania  cross  her  Oberon  ? 
I  do  but  beg  a  little  changeling  boy. 
To  be  my  henchman." 

Tita.  Set  your  heart  at  rest ; 

The  fairy  land  buys  not  the  child  of  me. 
His  mother  was  a  vot'ress  of  my  order : 
And  in  the  spiced  Indian  air,  by  night, 
Full  often  hath  she  gossip'd  by  my  side, 
And  sat  with  me  on  Neptune's  yellow  sands. 
Marking  th'  embarked  traders  on  the  flood ; 
When  wo  have  laugh'd  to  see  the  sails  conceive, 
And  grow  big-bellied  with  the  wanton  wind : 
Which  she,  with  pretty  and  with  swimming  gait, 
Following,  (lier  womb  then  rich  with  my  young 

squire,) 
Would  imitate ;  and  sail  upon  the  land, 
To  fetch  me  trifles,  and  return  again. 
As  from  a  voyage,  rich  with  morcliaudiso. 
But  she,  being  mortal,  of  that  boy  did  dio ; 
And,  for  her  sake,  I  do  rear  up  her  boy : 
And,  for  her  .sake,  I  will  not  part  with  him. 


ACT   II. 


A  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM, 


ECEKE    L 


Olic.  How  long  within  this  wood   intend  you 
stay  2 

Tita.  J\'iclianco,  till  after  Theseus'  wedding- 
day. 
If  you  will  patiently  dance  in  our  round, 
And  sue  our  moonlight  revels,  go  with  us; 
•'<'  noi,  shun  nie,  and  I  will  spare  your  haunts. 

Ohe.  Give  me  that  boy,  and  I  will  go  witli  thee. 

Tita.    Not    for    thy    fairy    kingdom.      Fair'es, 
away  : 
We  shall  chide  downright,  if  I  longer  stay. 

l^Exeunt  Titania  and  her  train. 

Obe.  Well,  go  thy  way :  thou  shall  not  from 
this  grove, 
Till  I  torment  thee  for  this  injury. 
My  gentle  Puck,  come  hither.     Thou  remember'st 
Since  once  I  sat  upon  a  promontory. 
And  heard  a  mermaid,  on  a  dolphin's  back, 
littering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath. 
That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song ; 
And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres. 
To  hear  the  sea-maid's  music. 

Puck.  I  remember. 

Ohe.  That  very  time  I  saw,  (but  thou  couldst 
not,) 
Flying  between  the  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 
Cupid  all  arm'd  ;  a  certain  aim  he  took 
At  a  fair  vestal,  throned  by  the  west  f^ 
And  loos'd  his  love-shaft  smartly  from  his  bow. 
As  it  should  pierce  a  hundred  thousand  hearts : 
But  I  might  see  young  Cupid's  fiery  shaft 
Quench' i  in  the  chaste  beams  of  the  wat'ry  moon; 
And  the  imperial  vot'ress  passed  on. 
In  maiden  meditation,  fancy-free. 
Yet  mark'd  I  where  the  bolt  of  Cupid  fell : 
It  fell  upon  a  little  western  flower, — 
Before     milk-white,     now     purple     with     love's 

wound, — 
And  maidens  call  it  love-in-idleness. 
Fetch  me  that  flower ;    the   herb  I  show'd  thee 

once ; 
The  juice  of  it  on  sleeping  eyelids  laid. 
Will  make  or  man  or  woman  madly  dote 
Upon  the  next  live  creature  that  it  sees. 
Fetch  me  this  herb ;  and  be  thou  here  again, 
Ere  the  le\'iath,xn  can  swim  a  league. 

Puck.  I  '11  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth'' 
[n  forty  minutes.  [£xit  Puck. 

Obo.  Having  once  this  juice, 

I  '11  watch  Titania  when  she  is  asleep, 
And  drop  the  liquor  of  it  in  her  eyes : 
The  next  thing  then  she  waking  looks  upon, 


(Be  it  on  lion,  bear,  or  wolf,  or  bull, 
On  meddling  monkey,  or  on  busy  ape,) 
She  shall  pursue  it  with  the  soul  of  love. 
And  ere  I  take  this  charm  off  from  her  sight, 
(As  I  can  take  it,  with  another  herb,) 
I  '11  make  her  render  up  her  page  to  me. 
But  who  conies  here  ?  I  am  invisible. 
And  I  will  overhear  their  conference. 

Unter  Demetrius,  YL^i.tuVX  following  hm. 

Dem.  I  love  thee  not,  therefore  pursue  me  not 
Where  is  Lysander,  and  fair  Hermia  ? 
Tlie  one  I  '11  stay,  the  other  stayelh  me." 
Thou  told'st  me  they  were  stol'n  into  this  wood. 
And  here  am  I,  and  wood  within  this  wood. 
Because  I  cannot  meet  my  llormia. 
Hence !  get  thee  gone,  and  follow  me  no  more. 

Ilel.  You  draw  me,  you  hard-hearted  adamant 
But  yet  you  draw  not  iron,  for  my  heart 
Is  true  as  steel :  Leave  you  your  power  to  draw. 
And  I  shall  have  no  power  to  follow  you. 

Dem.  Do  I  entice  you  ?  Do  I  speak  you  fair  ] 
Or,  rather,  do  I  not  in  plainest  truth 
Tell  you  I  do  not,  nor  I  ca,nnot  love  you  ? 

Hel.  And  even  for  that  do  I  love  you  the  more, 
I  am  your  spaniel ;  and,  Demetrius, 
The  more  you  beat  me,  I  will  fawn  on  you  ? 
Use  me  but  as  your  spaniel,  spurn  me,  strike  me, 
Neglect  me,  lose  me;  only  give  me  leave, 
Unworthy  as  I  am,  to  follow  you. 
What  worser  place  can  I  beg  in  your  love, 
(And  yet  a  place  of  high  respect  with  me,) 
Than  to  be  used  as  you  use  your  dog  ? 

Dem.  Tempt  not  too  much  the  hatred  of  my 
spirit. 
For  I  am  sick  when  I  do  look  on  thee. 

Ilel.  And  I  am  sick  when  I  look  not  on  you. 

Dem.  You  do  impeach  your  modesty  too  much, 
To  leave  the  city,  and  commit  yourself 
Into  the  hands  of  one  that  loves  you  not ; 
To  trust  the  opportunity  of  night. 
And  the,ill  counsel  of  a  desert  place. 
With  the  rich  worth  of  your  virginity. 

Hel.  Your  virtue  is  my  privilege  for  that." 
It  is  not  night,  when  I  do  see  your  face. 
Therefore  I  think  I  am  not  in  the  night : 
Nor  doth  this  wood  lack  worlds  of  company 
For  you,  in  my  respect,  are  all  the  world : 
Then  how  can  it  be  said  I  am  alone. 
When  all  the  w^orld  is  here  to  look  on  me  ? 

Dem.  I  '11  run  from  thee,  and  hide  me  in  the 
bralies, 

B2? 


A  MroSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


And  leave  thee  to  the  mercy  of  wild  beasts. 

Hel.  The  nnldest  hath  not  such  a  heart  as  you. 
Run  when  you  will,  the  story  shall  be  chang'd : 
Apollo  flies,  and  Daphne  holds  the  chase ; 
The  dove  pursues  the  griffin ;  the  mild  hind 
Mates  speed  to  catch  the  tiger.     Bootless  speed! 
When  cowardice  ptirsues,  and  valour  flies. 

Dem.  I  will  not  stay  thy  questions ;  let  me  go : 
Or,  if  thou  follow  nie,  do  not  believe 
But  I  shall  do  thee  mischief  in  the  wood. 

Hel.  Ay,  in  the  temple,  in  the  town,  the  field, 
i'ou  do  me  mischief.     Fie,  Demetrius  ! 
Your  wrongs  do  set  a  scandal  on  my  sex : 
We  cannot  fight  for  love,  as  men  may  do : 
We  should  be  v.-oo'd,  and  were  not  made  to  woo. 
I  '11  follow  thee,  and  make  a  heaven  of  hell. 
To  die  upon  the  hand  I  love  so  well. 

[Exeunt  Dem.  and  Hel. 

Obe.  Fare  thee  well,  nymph :  ere  he  do  leave 
this  grove. 
Thou  shalt  fly  him,  and  he  shall  seek  thy  love. 

Re-enter  Puck. 

Hast  thou  the  flower  there  ?    Welcome,  wanderer. 

Puck.  Ay,  there  it  is. 

Obe.  I  pray  thee,  give  it  me. 

T  know  a  bank  '.rhere  the  wild  thyme  blows, 
Where  ox-lips'^  and  the  nodding  violet  grows; 
Quite  over-canopied  with  luscious  woodbine, 
With  sweet  musk-roses,  and  with  eglantine : 
There  sleeps  Titania,  some  time  of  the  night, 
Lull'd  in  these  flowers  with  dances  and  delight ; 
And  there  the  snake  throws  her  enameU'd  skin. 
Weed  wide  enough  to  wrap  a  fairy  in: 
iVnd  with  the  juice  of  this  I'll  streak  her  eyes. 
And  make  her  full  of  hateful  fantasies. 
Take  thou  some  of  it,  and  seek  through  this  grove  : 
A  sweet  Athenian  lady  is  in  love 
With  a  disdainfid  youth :  anoint  his  eyes ; 
But  do  it,  when  the  ne.xt  thing  he  espies 
May  be  the  lady :  Tiiou  shalt  know  the  man 
By  the  Athenian  garments  ho  hath  on.    • 
EtTect  it  with  some  care,  that  he  may  prove 
More  fond  on  her,  than  she  upon  her  love : 
And  look  thou  meet  me  ere  the  first  cock  crow. 

Puclc.  Fear  not,  my  lord  ;  your  servant  shall  do 
so.  [Exeu7it. 

SCENE  \l.— Another  imrt  of  the  Wood. 
Enter  Titania,  with  her  train. 
Tita.  ('omo,  now  a  roumlcl,  and  a  fairy  song;" 
Then,  for  (ho  third  part  of  a  minute,  hence ; 
828 


Some,  to  kill  cankers  in  the  musk-rose  buds  ; 
Some,   war    with    rear-mice    for    their    leathern 

wings. 
To  make  my  small  elves  coats ;  and  some,  keep 

back 
The  clamorous  owl,  that  n  "ghtly  hoots,  and  wonders 
At  our  quaint  spirits.     Sing  me  now  asleep 
Then  to  your  oflices,  and  let  me  rest. 

SONG 

I. 

1  Fai.  You  spotted  .snakes,  with  double  tong  le, 
Thorny  hedgeliogs,  be  not  seen  ; 
Kewts,  find  blind-worms,  do  no  wrong ; 
Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen : 

CHORUS. 

Philomel,  with  melody 
Sing  in  our  sweet  luilaby ; 
LuUa,  luUa,  hill.iby ;  luUa,  lidla,  lullaby: 
Never  harm,  nor  spell  nor  charm. 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh ; 
So,  good  night,  with  hiUaby. 


2  Fai.  Weaving  spiders,  come  tot  here ; 

Hence,  you  long-legg'd  spinners,  houco; 
Beetles  black,  approach  not  near ; 
Worm,  nor  snail,  do  no  offence. 

OHORTJS. 

Philomel,  with  melody,  &c. 

2  Fed.  Hence,  away ;  now  all  is  well : 
One,  aloof,  stand  sentinel. 

[Exeunt  Fairies.    Titania  skeiv. 

Enter  Oberon. 

Ohe.  TNHiat  thou  seest,  when  thou  dost  wake, 
[Squeezes  the  fowcr  on  Titania's  eyelids. 
Do  it  for  thy  true-love  take ; 
Love  and  languisli  for  his  sake : 
Be  it  ounce,  or  cat,  or  bear, 
Pard,  or  boar  with  bristled  hair. 
In  thy  eye  that  shall  appear. 
When  thou  wak'st,  it  is  thy  dear ; 
Wake  when  some  vile  thing  is  near.  [Exit. 

Enter  Lysandeu  and  Hermia. 

Lys.  Fair  love,  you  faint  with  wand'ring  in  tlio 
wood ; 

And,  to  speak  trolh,  1  have  forgot  our  way ; 
We  '11  rest  us,  Ilormia,  if  you  think  it  good, 

And  tarry  for  the  comfort  of  the  day. 

Her.  Be  it  so,  Lysander;  find  you  out  abed. 
For  I  upon  this  baidv  will  rest  my  hea'.l. 

Lys.  One  lurf  shall  serve  as  pillow  for  us  both 
One  heart,  one  bed,  two  bosoms,  and  one  troth. 


A  MroSUMMER-NICmrS  i:)HEAM. 


iiczf  E  :i. 


rier.  Nay,  good  Lysamler;  for  my  sake,  my  dear, 
Lie  fui'ilicr  off  j'et;  do  not  lie  so  near. 

Lrfs.  O,  take  the  sense,  sweet,  of  my  innocence ; 
I>ove  takes  the  meaning,  iu  love's  conference." 
I  mean,  that  my  heart  unto  yours  is  knit, 
So  that  but  one  heart  we  can  make  of  it: 
Two  bosoms  interchanged  with  an  oath  ; 
So  (hen,  two  bosoms,  and  a  single  troth. 
Tlien,  by  your  side  no  bed-room  me  deny ; 
For,  lying  so,  Hermia,  I  do  not  lie. 

ffer.  Lysander  riddles  very  prettily  : — 
Now  much  beshrew  my  manners  and  my  pride. 
If  Hermia  meant  to  say  Lysander  lied. 
But,  gentle  friend,  for  love  and  courtesy 
Lie  further  ofT;  in  human  modesty, 
Such  separation,  as  may  well  be  said 
Becomes  a  virtuous  bachelor  and  a  maid : 
So  far  be  distant;  and  good  night,  sweet  friend: 
Thy  love  ne'er  alter,  till  thy  sweet  life  end  ! 

Lys.  Amen,  amen,  to  that  fair  prayer,  say  I; 
And  then  end  life,  when  I  end  loyalty ! 
Here  is  my  bed :  Sleep  give  thee  all  his  rest ! 

Her.  With  half  that  wish  the  wisher's  eyes  be 
press'd !  [Theij  sleep. 

Enter  Puck. 

Puck   Through  the  forest  have  I  gone, 
But  Athenian  find  I  none. 
On  whose  eyes  I  might  approve 
This  flower's  force  in  stirring  love. 
Nigbt  and  silence !  who  is  here  ? 
Weeds  of  Athens  he  doth  wear ; 
This  is  he,  my  master  said, 
Despised  the  Athenian  maid ; 
And  here  the  maiden,  sleeping  sound. 
On  the  dank  and  dirty  ground. 
Pretty  soul !  she  durst  not  lie 
Near  this  lack-love,  this  kill-courtesy. 
Churl,  upon  thy  eyes  I  throw 
All  the  power  this  charm  doth  owe : 
When  thou  wak'st,  let  love  forbid 
Sleep  his  seat  on  thy  eyelid. 
So  awake,  when  I  am  gone ; 
For  I  must  now  to  Oberon.  \^Exit. 

Enter  Demetrius  and  Helena,  running. 

IIcl.  Stay,  though  thou  kill  me,  sweet  Demetrius. 
Dera.  I  charge  thee,  hence,  and  do  not  haunt 

me  thus.  , 
JTcl.  0  wilt  thou  darkling  leave  me  ?"  do  not  so. 
Dem.  Stay  on  thy  peril ;  I  alone  will  go. 

\Exit  Dem. 


IIcl.  0,  I  am  out  of  breath  in  this  fnd  ch/wel 
The  more  my  prayer,  the  ltssi;r  is  my  j^acc. 
]Lij)py  is  Hei-mia,  wheresoe'er  she  lies, 
For  she  hath  blessed  and  attractive  eyes. 
How  came  her  eyes  so  bright  ?  Not  with  salt  u^ars 
If  so,  my  eyes  are  oft'ner  wash'd  than  hers. 
No,  no,  I  am  as  ugly  as  a  bear ; 
For  beasts  that  meet  me  run  away  for  fear : 
Therefore,  no  marvel,  though  Demetrius 
Do,  as  a  monster,  fly  my  presence  thus. 
What  wicked  and  dissembling  glass  of  mir«. 
Made  me  compare  with  Herraia's  spliery  ej"*.*? 
But  who  is  here  ? — Lysander !  on  the  gi'ound ! 
Dead,  or  asleep  ?  I  see  no  blood,  no  wound ! 
Lysander,  if  you  live,  good  sir,  awake. 

Lys.  And  run  through  fire  I  wili,  for  thy  swcef 
sake.  [  Waking. 

Triinsparent  Helena  !     Nature  shows  her  art. 
That  through  thy  bosom  makes  me  see  thy  heart 
MTiere  is  Demetrius  ?  O,  how  fit  a  word 
Is  that  vile  name  to  perish  on  my  sword  I 

Hel.  Do  not  say  so,  Lysander ;  say  not  so : 
What  though  he  love  your  Hermia  ?   LoitI  !  what 

though  ? 
Yet  Hermia  still  loves  you :  then  be  content. 

Lys.  Content  with  Hermia  ?     No :  I  do  repent 
The  tedious  minutes  I  with  her  have  spent. 
Not  Hermia,  but  Helena  now  I  love : 
Wlio  will  not  change  a  raven  for  a  dove? 
The  will  of  man  is  by  his  reason  sway'd. 
And  reason  says  you  are  the  worthier  maid. 
Things  growng  are  not  ripe  until  their  season ; 
So  I,  being  young,  till  now  ripe  not  to  reason  ; 
And  touching  now  the  point  of  human  skill," 
Reason  becomes  the  maishal  to  my  will. 
And  leads  me  to  )'our  eyes ;  where  I  o'erlook 
Love's  stories,  written  in  love's  richest  book. 

Hel.  Wherefore  was  I  to   this   keen   mockei-y 
born  ? 
Wlien,  at  your  hands,  did  I  deserve  this  scorn  ? 
Is  't  not  enough,  is  't  not  enough,  young  man, 
That  I  did  never,  no,  nor  never  can, 
Deserve  a  sweet  look  fi-om  Demetrius'  eye, 
But  you  must  flout  my  insufiiciency  ? 
Good  troth,  you  do  me  wrong ;  good  sooth,  you  do, 
In  such  disdainful  manner  me  to  woo. 
But  fare  you  well :  perforce  I  must  confess, 
I  thought  you  lord  of  more  tnie  gentleness. 
0,  that  a  lady,  of  one  man  refus'd, 
Should  of  another  therefore  be  abus'd !  [Exit. 

Lys.  She  sees  not  Hermia : — -Hermia,  slet^p  tliou 
there ; 

S29 


ACT    lU. 


A  MIDSUMMER-NIGHrS  DREAM. 


SCENE    1. 


Aud  never  may'st  thou  come  Lysander  near ! 
For,  as  a  surfeit  of  the  sweetest  things 
The  deepest  loathing  to  the  stomach  brings ; 
Or,  as  the  heresies  that  men  do  leave 
Are  hated  most  of  those  they  did  deceive ; 
So  thou,  my  surfeit,  and  my  heresy, 
Of  all  be  hated ;  but  the  most  of  me ! 
Anil  all  my  powers,  address  your  love  and  might 
To  honour  Helen,  aud  to  be  her  knight.        [Uxit. 
Her.  [starting.]    Help  me,  Lysander,  help  me ! 
do  thy  best 


To  pluck  this  crawling  sei^pent  from  my  breast  1 
Ah  me,  for  pity  ! — what  a  dream  was  here ! 
Lysander,  look  how  I  do  quake  with  fear ! 
Methought  a  serpent  ate  my  heart  away. 
And  you  sat  smiling  at  his  cruel  prey : 
Lysander !  what,  remov'd  ?  Lysander !  lord ! 
What,  out  of  hearing  ?  gone  ?  no  sound,  no  word  ? 
Alack,  where  are  you?  speak,  an  if  you  hear; 
Speak,  of  all  loves !  I  swound  almost  mth  fear. 
No  ? — then  I  well  perceive  you  are  not  nigh  : 
Either  death,  or  you,  I'll  find  immediately.      \KciU 


ACT    111. 


SCENE  I.— The  Wood.     The  Queen  of  Fames 
lying  asleep,  hut  invisible. 

Enter  Quince,  Snug,  Bottom,  Fldte,  Snout,  aivl 
Starveling. 

Bot.  Are  we  all  met  ? 

Quin.  Fat,  pat ;  and  here  's  a  marvellous  con- 
venient place  for  our  rehearsal.  This  green  plot 
shall  be  our  stage,  this  hawthorn  brake  our  tiring- 
house  ;■"  and  we  will  do  it  in  action,  as  we  will  do 
it  before  the  duke. 

Bot.  Peter  Quince, — 

Quin.  What  say'st  laou.  Bully  Bottom  ? 

Bot.  There  are  things  in  this  comedy  of '  Pyra- 
mus  and  Thisby'  that  will  never  please.  Fii-st, 
Pyramus  must  draw  a  sword  to  kill  himself;  which 
the  ladies  cannot  abide.     How  answer  you  that  ? 

Snout.  By'rlakin,  a  parlous  fear." 

Star.  I  believe  we  must  leave  the  killing  out, 
when  all  is  done. 

Bot.  Not  a  whit ;  I  have  a  device  to  make  all 
well.  Write  me  a  prologue  :  and  let  the  prologue 
Beera  to  say,  we  will  do  no  harm  with  our  swords ; 
and  that  Pyramus  is  not  kill'd  indeed :  and,  for 
the  more  l>etter  assurance,  tell  them,  that  I,  Pyi'a- 
mus,  am  not  Pyramus,  but  Bottom  the  weaver. 
This  will  put  them  out  of  fear. 

Quin.  Well,  we  will  have  such  a  prologue ;  and 
it  shall  be  written  in  eight  and  six. 

Bot.  No,  make  it  two  more  ;  let  it  be  written  in 
Bight  and  eight. 

Snout.  Will  not  the  ladies  be  afeard  -f  the 
lion? 

830 


Star.  I  fear  it,  I  promise  you. 

Bot.  Masters,  you  ought  to  consider  with  your- 
selves :  to  bring  in,  God  shield  us !  a  lion  among 
ladies,  is  a  most  dreadful  thing :  for  there  is  not  a 
more  feaifiil  wild-fowl  than  your  lion,  living;  aud 
we  ought  to  look  to  it. 

Snout.  Therefore  another  prologue  must  tell  he       \ 
is  not  a  lion.  / 

Bot.  Nay,  you  must  name  his  name,  and  half 
his  fece  must  be  seen  through  the  lion's  neck ;  and 
he  himself  must  speak  through,  sajnng  thus,  or  to 
the  same  defect, — Ladies,  or  fair  ladies,  I  would 
wish  you,  or  I  would  request  you,  or  I  would 
entreat  you,  not  to  fear,  not  to  tremble :  my  life 
for  yours.  If  you  think  I  come  hither  as  a  lion, 
it  were  pity  of  my  life :  No,  I  am  no  such  thing ; 
I  am  a  man  as  other  men  are :  aud  there,  indeed, 
let  him  name  his  name,  and  tell  them  plainly  he  ia 
Snug  the  joiner.'' 

Quin,  Well,  it  shall  ho  so.  But  there  is  two 
hard  things ;  that  is,  to  bring  the  moonlight  into 
a  chamber :  for  you  know,  Pyramus  and  Tlusby 
meet  by  moonlight. 

Smig.  Doth  the  moon  shine  that  night  we  play 
our  play  ? 

Bot.  A  calendar,  a  o-nlendar !  look  in  tho  alma- 
nac; find  out  moonshine,  iiiul  out  moonshine. 

Quin.  Yes,  it  doth  shiuo  tlat  night. 

Bot.  Wliy,  then  niay  yon  leave  a  casement  of 
the  great  chaiuber-wimlow,  where  wo  play,  open ; 
and  tho  moon  may  shine  in  at  the  casement. 

Quin.  Ay ;  or  else  one  must  come  in  with  a  busb 
of  thorns  and  a  lautem,  and  say,  be  comes  to  di» 


A  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


SCENE   1. 


Ogiire,  or  to  present,  tlie  person  of  moonshiiip. 
Tliiin  tliei-e  is  another  thing:  we  must  have  ri  wall 
in  the  great  chamber;  for  Pyramus  and  Tliisby, 
hay.  the  story,  did  talk  through  the  chink  of  a  wall. 

iS'nM7.  You  can  never  bring  in  a  wall. — What 
say  you,  Bottom  ? 

Bo/.  Some  man  or  other  must  present  wall :  and 
let  him  have  some  plaster,  or  some  loam,  or  some 
rough-cast  about  him,  to  signify  wall :  or  let  him 
hold  his  fingere  thus,  and  through  that  cmrniy 
shall  Pyramus  and  Thisby  whisper. 

Qniii.  If  that  may  be,  then  all  is  well.  Come, 
sit  down,  every  mother's  son,  and  rehearse  your 
parts.  Pyramus,  you  begin ;  when  you  have 
spoken  your  speech,  enter  into  that  brake ;  and  so 
every  one  according  to  his  cue. 

Enter  Puck  behind. 

Puck.  What  hempen  homespuns  have  we  swag- 
gering here, 
So  near  the  cradle  of  the  fairy  queen  ? 
What,  a  play  toward  ?*"     I  '11  be  an  auditor ; 
An  actor  too,  perhaps,  if  I  see  cause. 

Quhi.  Speak,  Pyramus  : — Thisby,  stand  forth. 

Pi/r.  Thisby,  the  flowers  of  odious  savours  sweet ; 

Quin.  Odours,  odours. 

Pl/r.  odours  savours  sweet : 

So  li.ath  thy  breatli,  my  dearest  Thisby  dear. 
But,  luirk,  a  voice  !  stay  tliou  a  while  but  here, 

And  by  and  by  I  will  to  thee  appear.  [Erit. 

Puck.  A  stranger  Pyramus  than  e'er  play'd 
here  !  [Aside. — Uxit. 

Flute.  Must  I  speak  now  ? 

Qtiiri.   Ay,    marry,   must  you :    for  you   must 

understand  he   goes  but  to  see  a  noise  that  he 

heard,  and  is  to  come  again. 

This.  Most  radiant  Pyramus,  most  lily-white  of  hue, 
Of  colour  like  the  red  rose  on  triumphant  brier. 

Most  brisky  juvenal,  and  eke  most  lovely  Jew, 
As  true  as  truest  horse  that  yet  would  never  tire, 

I  '11  meet  thee,  Pyramus,  at  Ninny's  tomb. 

Quin.  Ninus'  tomb,  mau.  Why,  you  must  not 
speak  that  yet ;  that  you  answer  to  Pyramus :  You 
speak  all  your  part  at  once,  cues  and  all." — Pyi'a- 
mus,  enter  ;  your  cue  is  past ;  it  is,  "  never  tire." 

Re-enter  Puck,  and  Bottom  with  an  ass's  head. 

This.  0, — As  true  as  truest  horse,  that  yet  would  never 

tire. 
Pyr.  If  I  were  fair  Thisby,  I  were  ody  thine : — 

Quin.  O  monstrous  I  0  strange !  we  are  haunted. 
Pray,  masters  I  fly,  masters !  help 

[Exeuni  Clowns. 


Puck.  I  '11  fjllow  you,  I  '11  l.-ad  you  about  a 
roiuid, 
Through  bog,  through  bush,  through  brake, 
through  brier ; 
Sometime  a  horse  I  '11  be,  sometime  a  hound, 
A  hog,  a  headless  bear,  sometime  a  fire; 
And  neigh,  and  bark,  and  giunt;  and  roai,  an.] 

burn, 
Like  iiorse,  hound,  hog,  bear,  fire,  at  every  turn.' 

[Exit. 
Bot.  Why  do  they  run  away  ?  tliis  is  a  knavery 
of  them  to  make  me  afeard. 

Re-enter  Snout. 

Snout.  0  Bottom,  thou  art  chang'd !  what  do  I 
see  on  thee  ? 

Bot.  What  do  you  see  ?  you  see  an  ass-head  ot 
your  own,  do  you  ? 

Re-enter  Quince. 

Quin.  Bless  thee.  Bottom !  bless  thee  I  thou  art 
translated.  [Exit. 

Bot.  I  see  their  knaveiy :  This  is  to  make  an 
ass  of  me ;  to  fright  me,  if  they  could.  But  I  will 
not  stir  from  this  place,  do  what  they  can  ;  I  will 
walk  up  and  down  here,  and  I  will  sing,  that  they 
shall  hear  I  am  not  afi'aid.  [Sing^,. 

The  woosel  cock,''^  so  black  of  hue. 

With  orange-tawny  bill. 
The  throstle  with  his  note  so  tine, 
The  wren  with  little  quill ; 
Tita.  What  angel  wakes  me  from  my  flow'rf 
bed  ?  [  Waking 

Bot.  The  finch,  the  spaiTow,  and  the  lark, 
The  plain-song  cuckoo  gray,'" 
Whose  note  full  many  a  man  doth  mark, 
And  dares  not  answer,  nay — 
for,  indeed,  who  would  set  his  wit  to  so  foolish  a 
bird  ?  who  would  give  a  bird  the  lie,  though  ho 
cry  "  Cuckoo"  never  so  ? 

Tita.  I  pray  thee,  gentle  mortal,  sing  again : 
Mine  ear  is  much  enamour'd  of  thy  note. 
So  is  mine  eye  enthralled  to  thy  shape ; 
And  thy  fair  virtue's  force  perforce  doth  move  me, 
On  the  first  view,  to  say,  to  swear,  I  love  thee. 

Bot.  Methinks,  mistress,  you  should  have  little 
re.ison  for  that :  and  yet,  to  say  the.  iruth,  reason 
and  love  keep  little  company  together  now-a-days: 
the  more  the  pity,  that  some  honest  neighbours 
will  not  make  them  friends.  Nay,  I  can  afleek* 
upon  occasion. 

Tita.  Thou  art  as  wise  as  thou  art  beautiful. 

831 


JCT   III. 


A  IMIDSUmiER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


BUENE    n. 


£ot  Not  so,  neither :  but  if  I  had  wit  enough' 
to  get  cut  of  this  wood,  I  have  enough  to  serve 
Liine  own  turn. 

Tita.  Out  of  this  wood  do  not  desire  to  go ; 
Thou  shalt  remain  here,  whether  thou  wilt  or  no 
I  am  a  spirit  of  no  common  rate ; 
The  summer  still  doth  tend  upon  my  state, 
And  I  do  love  thee  :  therefore,  go  with  me ; 
I  '11  give  thee  fairies  to  attend  on  thee  ; 
And  they  shall  fetch  thee  jewels  from  the  deep, 
And  sing,  while  thou  on  pressed  flowers  dost  sleep : 
And  I  will  purge  thy  mortal  grossness  so, 
That  thou  shalt  like  an  airy  spirit  go. — 
Peas-blossom !  Cobweb !  Moth !  and  Mustard-seed ! 

Enter  Peas-blossom,  Cobweb,  Moth,  Mustard- 
seed, /oMr  Fairies. 

1  Fai.  Ready. 

2  Fai.  And  I. 

3  Fai.  And  I. 

4  Fai.  And  I. 

All.  Wliere  shall  we  go  ? 

Tita.  Be  kind  and  courteous  to  this  gentleman  ; 
[lop  in  his  walks,  and  gambol  in  his  eyes ; 
Feed  him  wiih  apricocks,  and  dewberries ; ''' 
\\  ith  purple  grapes,  green  figs,  and  mulberries ; 
The  honey  bags  steal  from  the  humble-bees, 
And,  for  night-tapers,  crop  their  waxen  thighs, 
And  light  them  at  the  fiery  glow-worm's  eyes. 
To  have  my  love  to  bed,  and  to  arise ; 
And  pluck  the  wings  from  painted  butterflies. 
To  fan  the  moonbeams  from  his  sleeping  eyes : 
Nod  to  him,  elves,  and  do  him  courtesies. 

1  Fai.  Hail,  mortal  ! 

2  Fai.  Hail ! 

3  Fai.  Hail  1 

4  Fai.  Hail ! 

Bot.  I  ciy  your  worship's  mercy,  heartily. — I 
beseech  your  worship's  name. 

Coh.  Cobweb. 

Bot.  I  shall  desire  you  of  more  acquaintance, 
good  master  Cobweb.  If  I  cut  my  finger,  I  shall 
make  bold  with  you. — Your  name,  honest  gentle- 
man? 

Peas.  Peas-blossom. 

Bot.  I  pray  you,  commend  me  to  mistress 
S(iunsh,''  your  mother,  and  to  master  Peas-cod, 
your  father.  Good  master  Peas-blossom,  I  shall 
desire  you  of  more  acquaintance  too. — Your  name, 
I  beseech  you,  sir  ? 

Mas.  Mustard-seed. 

Bot.  Good  master  Mustard-seed,  I  know  your 
832 


patience  well :  that  same  cowardly,  giant-like  ox- 
beef  hath  devoured  many  a  gentleman  of  your 
house.  I  promise  you,  your  kindred  hath  made 
my  eyes  water  ere  now.  I  desire  you  of  more 
acquaintance,  good  master  Mustard-seed. 

Tila.  Come,  wait  upon  him ;  lead  him  to  my 
bower. 
The  moon,  methinks,  looks  with  a  wat'ry  eye 
And  when  she  weeps,  weeps  every  little  flower. 
Lamenting  some  enforced  chastity. 
Tie  up  my  love's  tongue,  bring  him  silently. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  H..— Another  part  of  the  Wood. 

Enter  Oberon. 

Obe.  I  wonder  if  Titania  be  awak'd ; 
Tlien,  what  it  was  that  next  came  in  her  eye. 
Which  she  must  dote  on  in  extremity. 

Enter  Puck. 

Here  comes  my  messenger. — How  now,  mad  spirit 
^Aliat  night-rule"  now  about  this  haunted  grove? 

Puck.  My  mistress  with  a  monster  is  in  love. 
Near  to  her  close  and  consecrated  bower. 
While  she  was  in  her  dull  and  sleeping  hour, 
A  crew  of  patches,  rude  mechanicals. 
That  work  for  bread  upon  Athenian  -tails, 
Were  met  together  to  rehearse  a  play, 
Intended  for  great  Theseus'  nuptial  day. 
The  shallowest  thick-skin  of  that  barren  sort, 
Who  Pyramus  presented  in  their  sport. 
Forsook  his  scene,  and  enter'd  in  a  brake. 
When  I  did  him  at  this  advantage  take  • 
An  ass's  nowl  I  fixed  on  his  head  ;'■ 
Anon,  his  Thisby  must  be  answered. 
And  forth  my  mimic"  comes.    When  they  him  spy 
As  wild  geese  that  the  creeping  fowler  eye. 
Or  russet-pated  choughs,  many  in  sort, 
Rising  and  cawing  at  the  guu's  report, 
Sever  themselves,  and  madly  sweep  the  sky ; 
So,  at  his  sight,  away  his  fellows  fly. 
And,  at  our  stamp,  here  o'er  and  o'er  one  falls ; 
He  murder  cries,  and  help  from  Athens  calls. 
Their  sense  thus  weak,  lost  with  their  fears  thus 

strong. 
Made  senseless,  things  begin  to  do  them  wrong ; 
For  briers  and  thorns  at  their  apparel  snatch ; 
Some,  sleeves ;  some,  hats ;  from  yielders  all  tilings 

catch. 
I  led  them  on  in  this  distracted  fear. 
And  left  sweet  I'yramus  translated  there: 


ACT    111. 


A  MIDSUMMEIi-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


Wlien  in  that  moment  (so  it  came  to  pass) 
Titania  wak'd,  and  straightway  lov'd  an  ass. 

Obc.  Tliis  falls  out  bettff  than  I  could  devise. 
Dut  hast  thou  yet  latch'd"  the  Athenian's  eyes 
With  the  love-juice,  ;is  I  did  bid  thee  do  3 

Puck.   I  took  him   sleeping, — that  is  finish'd 
too, — 
Ami  the  Athenian  woman  by  his  side; 
That,  when  he  wak'd,  of  force  she  must  be  ey'd. 

Enter  Demetrius  and  Hermia. 

Obc.  Stand  close ;  this  is  the  same  Athenian. 

Fuck.  This  is  the  woman,  but  not  this  the  man. 

Bern.  0,  why  rebuke  you  him  that  loves  you  so  ? 
Lay  breath  so  bitter  on  your  bitter  foe. 

Her.  Now  I  but  chide,  but  I  should  use  thee 
worse ; 
For  thou,  I  fear,  hast  given  me  cause  to  curse. 
If  thou  hast  slain  Lysander  in  his  sleep. 
Being  o'er  shoes  in  blood,  plunge  in  the  deep. 
And  kill  me  too. 

The  sun  was  not  so  true  unto  the  day. 
As  he  to  me.     Would  he  have  stol'n  away 
From  sleeping  Hermia  ?  I  '11  believe  as  soon 
This  whole  earth  may  be  bor'd  ;  and  that  the  moon 
May  through  the  centre  creep,  and  so  displease 
Her  brother's  noontide  with  th'  Antipodes. 
It  cannot  be  but  thou  hast  murder'd  him ; 
So  should  a  murderer  look ;  so  dread,  so  grim. 

Deni:    So  should   the   murder'd  look;   and  so 
should  I, 
Pierc'd  through  the  heart  with  your  stern  cruelty; 
Yet  you,  the  murderer,  look  as  bright,  as  clear, 
As  yonder  Venus  in  her  glimmering  sphere. 

Her.  What   's   this   to   my  Lysander  2   wliere 
is  he  ? 
Ah,  good  Demetrius,  wilt  thou  give  him  me  ? 

Dem.  I  'd  rather  give  his  carcase  to  my  hounds. 

Her.  Out,  dog !  out,  cur !  thou  driv'st  me  past 
the  bounds 
Of  maiden's  patience.     Hast  thou  slain  him  then  ? 
Hitnceforth  be  never  number'd  among  men  ! 
Oh  !  once  tell  true  ;  toll  true,  even  for  my  sake  ; 
Durst  thou  have  look'd  upon  him,  being  awake, 
And  hast  thou  kill'd  him  sleeping  ?  0  brave  touch !  ^ 
Could  not  a  worm,  an  adder,  do  so  much  ? 
An  ;>dder  did  it ;  for  with  doubler  toiigue 
Tha:;  thine,  thou  serpent,  never  adder  stung. 

Dem.  You  spend  youi   passion  on  a  mispris'd 
meod  : 
I  am  not  guilty  of  Lysander's  blood ; 
Nor  is  he  dead,  for  ou^ht  that  I  can  tell. 


Her.    I    pray   thee,   tell    me,   thei],   that  he   in 

well. 
l)cm.  An  if  I  could,  what  should  I  get  there- 

fore  ? 
Her.  A  privilege  never  to  see  me  more. — 
And  from  thy  hated  presence  part  I  so : 
See  me  no  more,  whether  he  be  dead  or  no. 

[Exit. 
Dem.  There  is  no  following  her  in  this  fierce 
vein: 
Here,  therefore,  for  a  while  I  will  I'emain. 
So  sorrow's  heaviness  doth  heavier  gi'ow 
For  debt  that  bankrupt  sleep  doth  soitow  owe : 
Which  now,  in  some  slight  measure,  it  will  pay, 
If  for  his  tender  here  I  make  some  stay. 

[Lies  down. 
Obe.  What  hast  thou  done  ?  thou  liast  mistaken 
quite. 
And  laid  the  love-juice  on  some  true-love's  sight : 
Of  tliy  misprision  must  perforce  ensue 
Some  true-love  turn'd,  and  not  a  false  turu'd  true. 
Fuck.  Then  fate  o'er-rules ;  that  one  man  holding 
troth, 
A  million  fail,  confounding  oath  on  oath. 

Obe.  2\.bout  the  wood  go  swiftei'  than  the  wind, 
And  Helena  of  Athens  look  thou  find  : 
All  fancy-sick  she  is,  and  pale  of  cheer 
With  sighs  of  love,  that  cost  the  fi-esh  blood  deal. 
By  some  illusion  see  thou  bring  her  liere ; 
I'll  charm  his  eyes  against  she  doth  appear. 

Fuck.  I  go,  I  go;  look  how  I  go; 
Swifter  than  anow  from  the  Tartar's  bow.     [Exit 
Obe.  Flower  of  this  purple  die. 
Hit  with  Cupid's  archery. 
Sink  in  apple  of  his  eye  ! 
"\^'heu  his  love  he  doth  espy. 
Let  her  shine  as  gloriously 
As  the  Venus  of  the  sky. 
When  thou  wak'st,  if  she  be  by, 
Beg  of  her  for  remedy. 

Re-enter  Puck, 

Fuck.  Captain  of  our  faiiy  band, 

Helena  is  here  at  hand. 

And  the  youth,  mistook  by  me, 

Pleading  for  a  lover's  fee ; 

Shall  we  their  iouA  pageant  see  I 

Lord,  what  friols  these  mortals  be  1 
Obc.    Stand  aside :  the  noise  they  make 

Will  cause  Demetrius  to  .awake. 
Fuck  Then  will  two  at  once  woo  one — 

That  must  needs  be  .spo't  alone ; 

838 


ACT    III. 


A  MmSUMMER-NIGET'S  DREAM. 


And  those  tilings  do  best  please  me, 
That  bef'al  preposterously. 

Enter  Lysander  and  Helena. 

Lys.  Why  should  you  thiuk  that  I  should  woo 

in  scorn  ? 
Scorn  and  derision  never  come  in  tears: 
Look,  when  I  vow,  I  weep ;  and  vows  so  born. 

In  their  nativity  all  truth  appears. 
How  can  these  things  in  me  seem  scorn  to  you. 
Bearing  the  badge  of  faith  to  prove  them  true  ? 
Ucl.  You  do  advance  your  cunning  more  and 

more. 
When  truth  kills  truth,  0  devilish-holy  fray ! 
These  vows  are  Hermia's;  AVill  you  give 
her  o'er  ? 
Weigh  oath  with  oath,  and  you  will  nothing 
weigh : 
Tour  vows  to  her  and  me,  put  in  two  scales, 
Will  even  weigh,  and  both  as  light  as  tales. 
Ly^i.  I  had  no  judgment,  when  to  her  I  swore. 
Hcl.  Nor  none,  in   my  mind,   now   you  give 

her  o'er. 
Lys.  Demetiius  loves  her,  and  he  loves  not  you. 
Don.    [awaking?^    O   Helen,   goddess,   nymph, 
peifect.  di'.'iae ! 
To  what,  my  love,  shall  I  compare  thine  eyne  1 
Ciystal  is  muddy.     O,  how  lipe  in  show 
Thy  lips,  those  kissing  chernes,  tempting  grow ! 
Tliat  pure  congealed  white,  high  Taurus'  snow, 
Fann'd  with  the  eastern  v.-ind,  turns  to  a  crow, 
WTien  thou  hold'st  up  thy  hand.     0,  let  m-e  kiss 
This  princess  of  pure  white,'^  this  seal  of  bliss  ! 

Hel.  O,  spite !  0,  hell !  I  see  you  all  are  bent 
To  set  against  me,  for  your  merriment, 
-f  you  were  ci\il,  and  knew  courtesy, 
Y'ou  would  not  do  me  thus  much  injury. 
Can  you  not  hate  mc,  as  I  know  you  do, 
But  you  must  join,  in  souls,  to  mock  me  too? 
If  you  were  men,  as  men  you  are  in  show. 
You  would  not  use  a  gentle  lady  so. 
To  vow,  and  swear,  and  superpraise  my  parts, 
Wlion,  I  am  sure,  you  hate  mo  with  your  hearts. 
You  both  are  rivals,  and  love  Hermia; 
And  now  both  rivals,  to  mock  Helena : 
A  ti-im  exploit,  a  manly  entei-prise. 
To  conjure  tears  up  in  a  poor  maid's  eyes 
V^'Uli  your  deiision  !     None  of  noble  .-^oit 


W( 


so  offend  a  virgin,  and  extort 


A  poor  soul's  patience,  all  to  make  you  sport. 

Lys.  You  are  unkind,  Demetrius;  be  not  so  ; 
For  you  love  Hermiu :  this,  you  know,  I  know  : 
884 


And  here,  witli  all  good  will,  with  all  my  licart. 
In  Hermia's  love  I  yield  you  up  my  part ; 
And  yours  of  Helena  to  me  bequeath. 
Whom  I  do  love,  and  will  do  to  my  deaih. 

Hcl.  Never  did  mockers  waste  more  idle  breath. 

Don.  Lysander,  keep  thy  Hermia ;  I  will  none : 
If  e'er  I  lov'd  her,  all  that  love  is  gone. 
My  heart  to  her  but  as  guest-wise  sojoum'd ; 
And  now  to  Helen  it  is  home  returu'd, 
There  to  remain. 

Lys.  Helen,  it  is  not  so. 

Dein.  Disparage  not  the  feitli  thou  dost  not 
know. 
Lest,  to  thy  peril,  thou  aby  it  dear. — 
Look  where  thy  love  comes ;  yonder  is  thy  dear 

Enter  Hermia. 

Her.  Dark  night,  that  from  the  eye  his  fimction 
takes, 
The  ear  more  quick  of  apprehension  makes; 
Mlierein  it  doth  impair  the  seeing  sense. 
It  pays  the  hearing  double  recompense : 
Thou  art  not  by  mine  eye,  Lysander,  found  ; 
Mine  ear,  I  tliank  it,  brought  me  to  thy  sound. 
But  why  unkindly  didst  thou  leave  me  so? 

Lys.  Why  should  he  stay,  whom  love  doth  press 
to  go  ? 

Her.  What  love  could  press  Lvsander  from  my 
side  ? 

Lys.  Lvsander's  love,  that  would  not  let  him 
bide ; — • 
Fair  Helena,  who  more  engilds  the  night 
Than  all  yon  fiery  oes"  and  eyes  of  light. 
Why  seek'st  thou  me  ?  could  not  this  make  thoc 

know. 
The  hate  I  bear  thee  made  me  leave  thee  so  ? 

Her.  You  speak  not  as  you  think ;  it  cannot  be. 

Hel.  Lo,  she  is  one  of  this  confederaev ! 
Now  I  jierceive  they  have  conjoin'd,  all  three, 
To  fashion  this  false  sport  in  spite  of  me. 
Injurious  Hermia !  most  luigiateful  maid  ! 
Have  you  conspir'd,  have  you  with  these  contriv'd 
To  bait  me  with  this  foul  derision  ? 
Is  all  the  counsel  that  we  two  have  sliar'd. 
The  sisters'  vows,  tlie  hours  that  we  have  spent. 
When  we  have  chid  the  hasty-footed  time 
For  parting  us, — O,  and  is  all  forgot  ? 
All  school-days'  friendship,  cliilclliood  innocence? 
We,  Hermia,  like  two  artificial  gods. 
Have  with  our  needles  created  both  one  flower, 
Both  on  one  sampler,  sitting  on  one  cushion, 
Both  warbling  of  one  song,  both  in  one  ko,v 


A  MLDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DKEAM. 


(iOENE   II. 


As  If  our  hands,  our  sides,  voices,  and  minds. 
Had  been  incorporate.     So  we  grew  together, 
Like  to  a  double  cherry,  seeming  parted, 
liut  yet  an  union  in  partition, 
Two  lovely  berries  moulded  on  one  stem : 
So,  with  two  seeming  bodies,  but  one  heart. 
Two  of  the  first,  like  coats  in  heraldry," 
Due  but  to  one,  and  crowned  with  one  crest. 
And  will  you  rend  our  ancient  love  asunder. 
To  join  with  men  in  scorning  your  poor  friend  ? 
It  is  not  friendly,  't  is  not  maidenly : 
Our  sex,  as  well  as  I,  may  chide  you  for  it. 
Though  I  alone  do  feel  the  injury. 

Her.  I  am  amazed  at  your  passionate  words : 
I  scorn  you  not ;  it  seems  that  you  scorn  me. 

Hel.  Have  you  not  set  Lysander,  as  in  scorn, 
To  follow  me,  and  praise  my  eyes  and  face. 
And  made  your  other  love,  Demetrius, 
(Who  even  but  now  did  spurn  me  with  his  foot,) 
To  cidl  me  goddess,  nymph,  divine,  and  rare. 
Precious,  celestial  ?  Wherefore  speaks  he  this 
To  her  he  hates  ?  and  wherefore  doth  Lysander 
Deny  your  love,  so  rich  within  his  soul, 
And  tender  me,  forsooth,  affection. 
But  by  3'our  setting  on,  by  your  consent  1 
What  though  I  be  not  so  in  grace  as  you, 
So  luuig  upon  with  love,  so  fortunate. 
But  miserable  most,  to  love  unlov'd, — 
This  you  should  pity,  rather  than  despise. 

Her.  I  understand  not  what  you  mean  b}-  this 

Hcl.  Ay,  do,  persever,  counterfeit  sad  looks. 
Make  mouths  upon  me  when  I  turn  my  back ; 
Wink  each  at  other ;  hold  the  sweet  jest  up : 
This  sport,  well  carried,  shall  be  chronicled. 
If  you  have  any  pity,  grace,  or  manners. 
You  would  not  make  me  such  an  argument. 
But,  fare  ye  well :  't  is  partiy  mine  own  fault, 
Which  death,  or  absence,  soon  shall  remedy. 

Lys.  Stay,  gentle  Helena ;  hear  my  excuse ; 
My  Icve,  my  life,  my  soul,  fair  Helena ! 

Hel.  O,  excellent ! 

Her.  Sweet,  do  not  scorn  her  so. 

Dem.  If  she  cannot  entreat,  I  can  compel. 

Lys.   Thou   canst   compel   no   more  than  she 
entreat ; 
]"hy  threats  have  no  more  strength  than  her  weak 

prayers. — 
Helen,  I  love  thee ;  by  my  life,  I  do ; 
I  swear  by  that  which  I  will  lose  for  thee. 
To  prove  him  false  that  says  I  love  tliee  not 

Dcm.  I  say,  I  love  thee  more  than  he  can  do. 

Lys.  If  thou  say  so,  withdraw,  and  jvove  it  too. 


Bern.  Quick,  come, — 

Her.  Lysander,  whereto  tends  .-dl  this  5 

Lys.  Away,  you  Ethiop ! 

Bern.  No,  no,  sir : — 
Seem  to  break  loose ;  take  on,  as  you  would  follow, 
But  yet  come  not.     You  are  a  tame  man,  go ! 

Lys.  Hang  off,  thou  cat,  thou  burr:  vile  thing, 
let  loose ;  \^H<;r>iiia  embraces  him. 

Or  I  will  shake  thee  from  me,  like  a  serpent. 

Her.  Why  are  you  grown  so  rude  ?  what  change 
is  this. 
Sweet  love  ? 

Lys.  Thy  love?  out,  tawny  Tartar,  out! 

Out,  loathed  medicine  I  O,  hated  poison,  hence  1 

Her.  Do  you  not  jest  ? 

Hel.  Yes,  'sooth ;  and  so  do  you. 

Lys.  Demetrius,  I  will  keep  my  word  with  thee 

I>em.  I  would  I  had  your  bond ;  for  I  perceive 
A  weak  bond  holds  you;  I'll  not  trust  j'our  word. 

Lys.  What,  should  I  hurt  her;  strike  her,  kill 
her  dead  ? 
Although  I  hate  her,  I  '11  not  harm  her  so. 

Her.  What  I  can  you  do  me  greater  hann  than 
hate? 
Hate  me !  wherefore  ?  O  me !  what  news,  my  love  ? 
Am  not  I  Hermia  ?     Are  not  you  Lysander  ? 
I  am  as  fair  now  as  I  was  erewhile. 
Since  night  you  lov'd  me  ;  yet,  since  night  you  left 

me : 
Why  then  you  left  me, — 0,  the  gods  forbid ! 
In  earnest,  shall  I  say  ? 

Lys.  Ay,  by  my  hfe ; 

And  never  did  desire  to  see  thee  more. 
Therefore,  be  out  of  hope,  of  question,  of  doubt ; 
Be  certain,  nothing  truer,  't  is  no  jest, 
That  I  do  hate  thee,  and  love  Helena. 

Her.  O,  me!  youjuggler!  you  canker-blossom!* 
You  thief  of  love !  what,  have  you  come  by  night, 
And  stol'n  my  love's  heart  from  him  ? 

Hel.  Fine,  i'  faith  ! 

Have  you  no  modesty,  no  maiden  shame, 
No  touch  of  bashfulness  ?  V\Tiat,  will  you  tear 
Impatient  answers  from  my  gentle  tongue  ? 
Fie,  fie !  you  counterfeit,  you  puppet,  you  ; 

Her.  Puppet !  why  so  ?  Ay,  that  way  goes  tho 
game. 
Now  I  perceive  that  she  hath  made  compare 
Between  our  statures ;  she  hath  urg'd  her  height, 
And  with  her  personage,  her  tall  personage. 
Her  height,  forsooth,  she  hath  prevail'd  with  him. 
And  are  you  grown  so  high  in  his  esteem, 
Because  I  am  so  dwarfish,  and  so  low  ? 

S36 


ACT  m. 


A  MIDSUMlVIER-NlGHrS  DREAM. 


BCBNE    n. 


How  low  am  I,  thou  painted  maypole  ?  speat ; 

How  low  am  I  ?  I  am  cot  yet  so  low, 

But  that  my  nails  cau  reach  unto  thine  eyes. 

Hel.  I  pray  you,  though  you  mock  me,  gentle- 
men, 
Let  her  not  hurt  me :  I  was  never  curst ; 
I  have  no  gift  at  all  in  shrewishness ; 
I  am  a  right  maid  for  my  cowardice ; 
Let  her  not  strike  me.     You,  perhaps,  may  think, 
Because  she  's  something  lower  than  myself, 
That  I  can  match  her. 

Her.  Lower !  hark,  again. 

,    Hel.  Good  Heimia,  do  not  be  so  bitter  with  me. 
t  evermore  did  love  you,  Hermia, 
Di<l  ever  keep  you  counsels,  never  wrong'd  you : 
Save  that,  in  love  unto  Demetrius, 
I  told  him  of  your  stealth  unto  this  wood : 
He  follow'd  you ;  for  love,  I  follow'd  him. 
But  he  hath  chid  me  hence ;  and  threaten'd  me 
To  strike  me,  spurn  me,  nay,  to  kill  me  too : 
And  now,  so  you  will  let  me  quiet  go. 
To  Athens  will  I  bear  my  folly  back, 
And  follow  you  no  further.     Let  me  go ; 
i'ou  see  how  simple  and  how  fond  I  am. 

Her.  Why,  get  you  gone  !  Who  is  't  that  LIl- 
dcrs  you ' 

Hd.  A  foolish  heart  that  I  leave  here  behind. 

Her.  What,  with  Lysander  ? 

Hd.  With  Demetrius. 

Lijs.  Be  not  afraid ;  she  shall  not  harm  thee, 
Helena. 

Dem.  No,  sir ;  she  shall  not,  though  you  take 
her  part. 

Hel.    0,  when  she  's  angry,  she   is   keen   and 
shrewd : 
She  was  a  v-ixen  when  she  went  to  school ; 
And,  though  she  be  but  little,  she  is  fierce. 

Her.  Little  again?  nothing  but  low  and  little? 
Why  will  you  suffer  her  to  flout  me  thus  ? 
r^t  me  come  to  her. 

Lijs.  Get  you  gone,  you  dwarf; 

You  minimus,  of  hind'ring  knot-grass""  made; 
You  bead,  you  acorn. 

Dem.  You  are  too  officious 

In  her  behalf  that  scorns  your  services. 
Let  her  alone ;  speak  not  of  Ilelena ; 
T;iko  not  lier  part ;  for  if  thou  dost  intend 
Xever  so  little  show  of  love  to  her, 
J'Lou  sh'ilt  aby  it. 

l/tji.  Now  she  holds  me  not ; 

Now  follow,  if  thou  dar'st,  to  try  whose  right, 
Of  thine  or  mine,  is  most  in  Heleua. 
886 


Bern.  Follow  ?  nay,  I  '11  go  with  thee,  cheek  by 
jowl.  \Exeunt  Lys.  aVid  Dem, 

Her.  l^ou,  mistress,  all  this  coil  is  long  of  you : 
Nay,  go  not  back. 

Hel.  I  v/ill  not  tnist  you,  I ; 

Nor  longer  stay  in  your  curst  company. 
Y^our  hands  than  mine  are  quicker  for  a  fi'ay ; 
!My  legs  are  longer  though,  to  run  away.       \_Exil. 

Her.  I  am  amaz'd,  and  know  not  what  to  say. 

[Exit. 

Obe.  Thisis  thy  negligence:  still  thou  mistak'st, 
Or  else  committ'st  thy  knaveries  wilfully. 

Flick.  Believe  me,  king  of  shadows,  I  mistook. 
Did  not  you  tell  me  I  should  know  the  man 
By  the  Athenian  gamients  he  had  on  ? 
And  so  far  blameless  proves  my  enterprise, 
That  I  have  'nointed  an  Athenian's  eyes : 
And  so  far  am  I  glad  it  so  did  sort, 
As  this  their  jangling  I  esteem  a  sport. 

Obe.  Thou  seest,  these  lovers  seek  a  i  lace  to 
fight : 
Hie  therefore,  Robin,  overcast  the  night ; 
The  starry  welkin  cover  thou  anon 
Witli  drooping  fog,  as  black  as  Acheron ; 
And  lead  these  testy  rivals  so  astray. 
As  one  come  not  within  another's  way. 
Like  to  Lysander  sometime  frame  thy  tong'.ie. 
Then  stir  Demetnus  up  with  bitter  wrong ; 
And  sometime  rail  thou  like  Demetrius ; 
And  from  each  other  look  thou  lead  them  thus, 
Till  o'er  their  brows  death-counterfeiting  sleep 
With  leaden  legs  and  batty  wings  doth  creep : 
Then  crush  this  herb  into  Lysander's  eye. 
Whose  liquor  hath  this  virtuous  property. 
To  take  from  thence  all  eiror  with  his  might, 
And  make  his  eyeballs  roll  with  wonted  sight 
When  they  next  wake,  all  this  derision 
Shall  seem  a  dream,  and  fruitless  vision  ; 
And  back  to  Athens  shall  the  lovers  wend. 
With   league,  whose  date  till   death   shall   ncvci 

end. 
Whiles  I  in  this  affair  do  thee  employ-, 
I  '11  to  my  queen,  and  beg  her  Indian  boy ; 
And  then  I  will  her  charmed  eye  release 
From   monster's   view,   and    all    things   shall    bo 
jieace. 

Puck.  My  fairy  lord,  this  must  be  done  with 
haste. 
For  night's  swift  dragons  cut  the  clouds  full  fast, 
And  yonder  shines  Aurora's  liarbinger; 
At  whose  a]iproach,  ghosts,  wandering  hero  and 
there, 


■ 

An  HI.                                  A  MIDSUMMEK-NIGHT'S  DREAM.                                 scbnb  ji. 

Troop  liome  to  cliuroli-yards :  damned  spiiits  all, 

And  here  will  rest  me.     Come,  thou  gentle  day: 

That  in  cross-ways  and  floods  have  burial, 

[^Liea  douni. 

Already  (o  their  womiy  beds  are  gone ;" 

For  if  but  once  thou  show  me  thy  giey  light, 

For  fear  lest  day  should  look  their  shames  upon, 

T  '11  find  Demetrius,  and  revenge  this  spite. 

Tlioy  wilfully  themselves  exile  from  light, 

[Sleeps. 

A.ud  must  for  aye  consort  with  black-brow'd  night. 
O'ic.  But  we  are  spirits  of  another  sort : 

Re-enter  Puck  and  Demetrids. 

I  with  the  morning's  love  have  oft  made  sport ; 

Puck.  TIo,  ho,  ho !    Coward,  why  com'st  thou 

And,  like  a  forester,  the  groves  may  tread, 

not? 

Even  till  the  eastern  gate,  all  fiery-red. 

Dcm.  Abide  me,  if  thou  dar'st ;  for  well  I  wot, 

0[iening  on  Neptune  with  fair  blessed  beams. 

Thou  runn'st  before  me,  shifting  every  place, 

Turns  into  yellow  gold  his  salt  green  streams. 

And  dar'st  not  stand,  nor  look  me  in  the  face. 

But,  notwithstanding,  haste ;  make  no  delay : 

Wliere  art  thou  now  ? 

,    We  may  effect  this  business  yet  ere  day. 

Puck.                 Come  hither ;  I  am  here. 

[Exit  Obe. 

Dem.    Nay,    then,    thou    mock'st   me.     Thou 

Puck.    Up  and  down,  up  and  down ; 

shalt  'by  this  dear,'' 

I  will  lead  them  up  and  down : 

If  ever  I  thy  face  by  day-light  see : 

I  am  fear'd  in  field  and  town ; 

Now,  go  thy  way.     Faintness  constraineth  mo 

Goblin,  lead  them  up  and  down. 

To  measure  out  my  length  on  this  cold  bed. 

Here  comes  one. 

By  day's  approach  look  to  be  visited. 

£nter  Lysander. 

[Lies  down  and  sccepn. 

Lys.  Where  art  thou,  proud  Demetrius  ?  speak 

Enter  Helena. 

thou  now. 

Jfcl.  0,  weary  night !  0,  long  and  tedious  night. 

Puck.  Here,  villain  ;  drawn  and  ready.    Where 

Abate  thy  hours :  shine,  comforts,  from  the 

art  thou  ? 

east, 

Zys.  I  will  be  'witli  thee  straight. 

That  I  may  back  to  Athens  by  day-light. 

Puck.  Follow  me  then  to  plainer  ground. 

From  those  that  my  poor  company  detest : — 

l^Exii  Lts.  as  following  the  voice. 

And  sleep,  tliat  sometime  shuts  up  sorrow's  eye. 
Steal  me  a  while  from  mine  own  company.  [Steeps. 

Enter  Demetrius. 

Puck.   Yet  but  three  ?     Come  one  more  ; 

Dcm.  Lysander !  speak  again. 

Two  of  both  kinds  make  up  four. 

Thou  runaway,  thou  coward,  art  thou  fled? 

Here  she  comes,  curst  and  sad : 

Speak  I    In  some  bush  ?    Where  dost  thou  hide 

Cupid  is  a  knavish  lad, 

thy  head  ? 

Thus  to  make  poor  females  mad. 

Puch.  Thou  coward !  art  thou  bragging  to  the 
stars, 

Enter  Hermia. 

Telling  the  bushes  that  thou  look'st  for  wars, 

Jler.  Never  so  weary,  never  so  in  woe. 

And  wilt  not  come  ?    Come,  recreant ;  come,  thou 

Bedabbled    with    the    dew,    and    torn    with 

child ; 

briers ; 

I  '11  whip  thee  with  a  rod :  he  is  defil'd 

I  can  no  further  crawl,  no  further  go ; 

That  draws  a  sword  on  thee. 

My  legs  can  keep  no  pace  with  my  desires. 

Dem.                 Yea,  art  thou  there  ? 

Here  will  I  rest  me  till  the  break  of  day. 

Puck.  Follow  ray  voice ;  we  '11  try  no  manhood 

Heavens  shield  Lysander,  if  they  mean  a  fray! 

here.                                              \^Exeunt. 

[Lies  down. 

Re-enter  Lysander. 

Puck.           On  the  ground 
Sleep  sound ; 

Lys.  He  goes  before  me,  and  still  dares  me  on ; 

I  '11  apply 

When  I  come  where  he  calls,  then  he  is  gene. 

Your  eye,'' 

The  villain  is  much  lighter  heel'd  than  I : 

Gentle  lover,  remedy. 

I  follow'd  fast,  but  faster  he  did  fly ; 

[Squeezing  the  juice  on  Lts.  s  eve. 

That  fallen  am  I  in  dark  uneven  way 

When  thou  wak'st. 

43                                                                                                                                                         887 

"^ 

ACT  IV. 


A  MIDSUMIMEK-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


SCENE    L 


Thou  tnk'st 

In  your  waking  shall  be  shown : 

True  delight 

Jack  shall  have  Jill;" 

In  tbe  sight 

Nought  shall  go  ill ; 

Of  tl  y  foi-mer  lady's  eye  : 

The  man  shall  have  his  mare  again,  and  all  ilial' 

And  the  country  prOverb  known, 

be  well.          [Exit  Puck. — Scene  cAwiv 

That  eveiy  man  should  take  his  own, 

on  the  sleepers. 

ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I.— The  Wood. 

Enter  Titahia  and  Bottom,  Fairies  attending  ; 
Oberon  behind  unseen. 

Tita.  Come,  sit  thee  down  upon  this  flow'17  bed, 
"\^'hile  I  thy  amiable  cheeks  do  coy,"' 
And  stick  musk-roses  in  thy  sleek  smooth  head. 
And  kiss  thy  fair  large  ears,  my  gentle  joy. 

Bot.  Where  's  Peas-blossom  ? 

.Peas.  Ready. 

iiot.  Scratch  my  head,  Peas-blossom. — Where's 
inonsiour  Cobweb? 

Cob.  Ready. 

Bot.  Monsieur  Cobweb ;  good  monsieur,  get 
your  weapons  in  your  hand,  and  kill  me  a  red- 
hipped  humble-bee  on  the  top  of  a  thistle ;  and, 
good  monsieur,  bring  me  the  honey-bag.  Do  not 
fret  yourself  too  much  in  the  action,  monsieur;  and, 
good  monsieur,  have  a  care  the  honey-bag  break  not; 
I  would  be  loth  to  have  you  overflown  with  a  honey- 
bag,  signior. — Where's  monsieur  Mustard-seed  ? 

Must.  Ready. 

Bot.  Give  me  your  neif,  monsieur  Mustard-seed. 
Pray  you,  leave  your  courtesy,  good  monsieur. 

Must.  What's  your  will  ? 

Bot.  Nothing,  good  monsieur,  but  to  hoJp  cava- 
lery  Peas-blossom  to  scratch.  I  must  to  the  bar- 
ber's, monsieur;  for,  methinks,  I  am  marvellous 
hairy  about  the  face  ;  and  I  am  such  a  tender  ass, 
if  my  hair  do  but  tickle  me,  I  must  scratch. 

Tila.  What,  wilt  thou  liear  some  music,  my 
Fwcct love  ?    ■ 

Bot.  I  have  a  reasonable  good  ear  in  music:  let 
UE  Lave  the  tongs  and  the  bones. 

Tita.  Or  say,  sweet  love,  what  thou  desir'st  to  eat. 

Bot.  Truly,  a  peck  of  provender :  I  could  munch 
jour  good  dry  oats.     Wetliinks  I  have  a  great  de- 
S8S 


sire  to  a  bottle  of  hay :  good  hay,  sweet  hay.  Lath 
no  fellow. 

Tita.  I  have  a  venturous  fairy  that  shall  seek 
The  squin-el's  hoard,  and  fetch  thee  new  nuts. 

Bot.  I  liad  rather  have  a  handful,  or  two,  of 
dried  peas.  But,  I  pray  you,  let  none  of  your 
people  stir  me ;  I  have  an  exposition  of  sleep  como 
upon  me. 

Tita.  Sleep  thou,  and  I  will  wind  thee  in  ray 
arms. 
Fairies,  be  gone,  and  be  all  ways  away. 
So  doth  the  woodbine  the  sweet  honeysuckle"* 
Gently  entwist ;  the  female  ivy  so 
Enrings  the  barky  fingers  of  the  elm. 
O,  how  I  love  thee  !  how  I  dote  on  thee ! 

[  The^j  skej). 

Oberon  advances.     Enter  Puck. 

Ohe.  Welcome,  good  Robin.     See'st  thou  tliif 
sweet  sight  ? 
Her  dotage  now  I  do  begin  to  pit^ ; 
For  meeting  her  of  late  behind  the  wood. 
Seeking  sweet  savours  for  this  hateful  fool, 
I  did  upbraid  her  and  fall  out  with  her : 
For  she  his  iiaiiy  temples  then  had  rounded 
With  coronet  of  fresh  and  fragiaut  flowers ; 
And  that  same  dew,  which  sometime  on  the  buds 
Was  wont  to  swell  like  round  and  orient  pearls,'' 
Stood  now  within  the  pretty  flow'rets'  eyes, 
Dike  tears  that  did  their  own  disgrace  bewail. 
When  I  had,  at  my  pleasure,  tamited  her. 
And  she,  in  mild  terms,  begg'd  my  patience, 
I  then  did  ask  of  hei'  her  changeling  child. 
Which  straight  she  gave  me,  and  her  fciiry  sent 
To  bear  him  to  my  bower  in  fairy  land. 
And  now  T  have  the  boy,  I  will  undo 
This  hateful  imperfection  of  her  eyes, 


ACT    IV. 


A  MIDSUMMER-NIGUrS  DREAM. 


BCGNE    I, 


Ami,  gentle  Puck,  take  this  tiaiisformed  scalp 
From  off  the  lieiiil  of  this  Athenian  swain ; 
Tliat  he,  awaking  when  the  other  do. 
May  all  to  At  liens  back  again  repair, 
And  think  no  more  of  this  night's  accidents, 
Hut  as  the  fierce  vexation  of  a  dream. 
But  lirst  I  will  release  the  fairy  queen. 
Be  thou  as  thou  wast  wont  to  be ; 

[Touchiriff  her  eyes  with  an  herb. 
See  as  thou  wast  once  to  see : 
Dian's  bud  o'er  Cupid's  iiower'* 
Hath  such  force  and  blessed  power. 
Now,  my  Titania !  wake  you,  my  sweet  queen. 

Tila.  My  Oberon  !  what  visions  have  I  seen  ! 
Methouglit  I  was  enaraour'd  of  an  ass. 
Ohe.  There  lies  your  love. 
Tita.  How  came  these  things  to  pass? 

0,  how  mine  eyes  do  loathe  his  visage  now ! 
Ohc.    Silence   a   while. — Robin,   take   off    his 
head. — 
Titania,  music  call ;  and  strike  more  dead 
Thau  common  isleep  of  all  these  five  the  sense. 
Tita.  Music,  ho  !  music,  such  as  charmeth  sleep. 
Puck.  Now,  when  thou  wak'st,  with  thine  own 

fool's  eyes  peep. 
Obc    Sound, music.  [Mustic^  Come,  my  qtieen, 
take  hands  with  me. 
And  rock  the  ground  whereon  these  sleepers  be. 
Now  thou  and  I  are  new  in  amity. 
And  will,  to-moiTow  midnight,  solemnly. 
Dance  in  duke  Theseus'  house  triumphantly, 
And  bless  it  to  all  fair  posterity  :*' 
There  shall  the  pairs  of  faithful  lovers  be 
Wedded,  like  Theseus,  all  in  jollity. 
Puck.  Faiiy  king,  attend,  and  mark; 

I  do  heai'  the  morning  lark. 
Ohe.   Then,  my  queen,  in  silence  sad. 
Trip  we  after  the  night's  shade : 
We  the  globe  can  compass  soon, 
Swifter  than  the  wand'ring  moon. 
Tita.  Come,  my  lord ;  and  in  our  flight, 
Tell  me  liow  it  came  this  night. 
That  I  sleeping  here  was  found, 
"With  these  mortals  on  the  gTound. 

\_Excunt.     Horns  sound  within. 

Enter  Theseus,  Hippolyta,  Egeos,  and  train. 

The.  Go  one  of  you,  find  out  the  forester; 
For  now  our  observation  is  perfonn'd ;  ™ 
And  since  we  have  the  vaward  of  the  day. 
My  love  shall  Lear  the  music  of  my  hounds. 
Uncouple  in  the  western  valley;  le'  them  go: 


Despatch,  I  say,  an<l  find  the  forester. 

We  will,  fair  queen,  up  to  the  mountain's  top, 

And  mark  the  nuisical  confasion 

Of  hounds  and  echo  in  conjunction. 

Hip.  I  was  with  Heicules  and  Cadmus  once, 
When  in  a  wood  of  Crete  they  bay'd  the  hoar 
With  hounds  of  Sparta :  never  did  I  hear 
Such  gallant  cliiding ;  for,  besides  the  groves, 
The  skies,  the  fountains,  every  region  near 
Seem'd  all  one  nmtual  cr3'.     I  never  heard 
So  musical  a  discord,  such  sweet  thunder. 

The.  My  hounds  are  bred  out  of  the  Spartan 

kind. 
So  (lew'd,  so  sanded  ;"'  and  their  heads  are  hung 
With  ears  that  sweep  away  the  morning  dew ; 
Crook-knee'd     and     dew-lapp'd    like    Thessalian 

bulls; 
Slow  in  pursuit,  but  match'd  in  mouth  like  bells, 
Each  under  each.     A  cry  more  tunable 
Was  never  halloo'd  to,  nor  cheer'd  witii  horn, 
In  Crete,  in  Sparta,  nor  in  Thessaly  : 
Judge,  when  you  hear. — But,  soft ;  what  nymphj 

are  these  ? 
Ef/e.  My  lord,  this  is  my  daughter  here  asleep : 
And  tliis,  Lysander ;  this  Demetrius  is ; 
This  Helena,  old  Nedar's  Helena : 
I  wonder  of  their  beinc;  here  totfether. 

The.  No  doubt,  they  rose  up  early,  to  observe 
The  rite  of  May  ;  and,  hearing  our  intent. 
Came  here  in  grace  of  our  solemnity. 
But  speak,  Egeus ;  is  not  this  the  day 
That  Hermia  should  give  answer  of  her  choice  ? 
Effe.  It  is,  my  lord. 
The.  Go,  bid  the  hnntsmen  wake  them  with 

their  horns. 

Horns,  and  shout  vithin.     Demetrius,  Lysander, 
Hekmia,  and  Helena,  wake  and  start  up. 

The.  Good  morrow,  friends.     Saint  Valentine  is 
past; 
Begin  these  wood-birds  hut  to  couple  now  ■ 

Lys.  Pardon,  my  lord. 

[He  and  the  rest  kneel  to  Theseus. 

The.  I  pray  you  all,  stand  up. 

I  know  you  two  are  rival  enemies ; 
How  comes  tliis  gentle  concord  in  the  world, 
That  hatred  is  so  fiir  from  jealousy. 
To  sleep  by  hate,  and  fear  no  enmity  ? 

Lys.  Mv  lord,  I  shall  reply  amazedly. 
Half  'sleep,  half  waking :  but  as  yet,  I  swear, 
I  cannot  truly  say  how  I  came  here : 
But,  as  I  think,  (for  truly  would  I  speak, — 

S39 


A  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


scfi^E  11. 


And  now  I  do  betliink  me,  so  it  is) 

I  came  ^\^iih  Hermia  hitlier :  our  intent 

Was  to  be  gone  from  Athens,  where  we  might  be 

Without  the  peril  of  the  Athenian  law. 

Hffe.   Enough,    enough,    my   lord ;    you    have 
enough : 
I  beg  the  law,  the  law,  upon  his  head ! 
They  would  have  stol'n  away ;  they  would,  De- 
metrius, 
ITiereby  to  have  defeated  you  and  me : 
You  of  your  wife,  and  me  of  my  consent, — 
Of  my  consent  that  she  should  be  your  wife. 

Detn.  My  lord,  fair  Helen   told  me    of  their 
stealth. 
Of  this  their  purpose  hither,  to  this  wood ; 
And  I  in  fury  hither  follow'd  them. 
Fair  Helena  in  fancy  following  me. 
But,  my  good  lord,  I  wot  not  by  what  power, 
(But  by  some  power  it  is,)  my  love  to  Hennia, 
Melted  as  the  snow,  seems  to  me  now 
As  the  remembrance  of  an  idle  gaud. 
Which  in  my  childhood  I  did  dote  upon : 
And  all  the  faith,  the  nrtue  of  my  heart, 
Tie  object,  and  the  jik-asure  of  mine  eye. 
Is  only  Helena.     To  her,  my  lord, 
Was  I  betroth'd  ere  I  saw  Hermia : 
But,  like  in  sickness,  did  I  loathe  this  food : 
But,  as  in  health,  come  to  my  natural  taste. 
Now  do  I  wish  it,  love  it,  long  for  it, 
And  will  for  evermore  be  true  to  it. 

The.  Fair  lovers,  you  are  fortunately  met : 
Of  this  discourse  we  more  will  hear  anon. 
Egeus,  I  will  overbear  your  will ; 
For  in  the  temple,  by  and  by  with  us, 
These  couples  shall  eternally  be  knit. 
And,  for  the  morning  now  is  something  worn. 
Our  purpos'd  hunting  shall  be  set  aside. 
Away,  with  us,  to  Athens :  Three  and  three ; 
We  'U  hold  a  feast  in  great  solemnity. 
Come,  Hippolyta. 

[Sxeunt  The.  Hip.  Eoe.  and  train. 

JJem.  These   things  seem  small   and  undislin- 
guishable, 
Like  far-ofl'  mountains  turned  into  clouds. 

Her   Melhinks  I  see  these  things  with  jiartetl 
eye, 
Wlien  everything  seems  double. 

Hel.  So  methinks: 

And  I  have  found  Demetrius  like  a  jewel. 
Mine  own,  and  not  mine  own." 

Bern.  Are  you  sure 

Tliat  we  are  awake  3     It  seems  to  me, 

840 


That  yet  we  sleep,  we  dream. — Do  nut  you  think 
The  duke  was  here,  and  bid  us  follow  aim  ? 
Her.  Yea,  and  my  father. 
Hel.  And  Hippolyta. 

Lys.  And  he  did  bid  us  follow  to  the  temple. 
Dem.  Why,  then,  we  are  awake:  Let's  follow 
him; 
And,  by  the  way,  let  us  recount  our  dreams. 

\£xeuni. 

As  they  go  out,  Bottom  awakes. 

Bot.  When  my  cue  comes,  call  me,  and  I  will 
answer: — my.  next  is,  "Most  fair  Pyramus." — 
Hey,  ho  ! — Peter  Quince !  Flute,  the  bellows- 
mender  !  Snout,'  the  tinker !  Starveling !  God's 
my  hfe  !  stol'n  hence,  and  left  me  asleep  !  I  have 
had  a  most  rare  vision.  I  have  had  a  dream, — 
past  the  wit  of  man  to  say  what  dream  it  was  : — 
Man  is  but  an  ass,  if  he  go  about  to  expound  this 
dream.  Methought  I  was^there  is  no  man  can 
tell  what.  Methought  I  was,  and  methought  I 
had, — but  man  is  but  a  patch'd  fool"  if  he  will 
offer  to  say  what  methought  I  had.  The  eye  of 
man  hath  not  heard,  the  ear  of  man  hath  not  seea 
man's  hand  is  not  able  to  taste,  his  tong  «e  to  con 
ceive,  noi-  his  heart  to  report,  what  my  dream  was. 
I  will  get  Peter  Quince  to  write  a  ballad  of  this 
dream  :  it  shall  be  called  Bottom's  Dream,  because 
it  hath  no  bottom ;  and  I  will  sing  it  in  the  latter 
end  of  a  play,  before  the  duke.  Peradventure,  to 
make  it  the  more  gracious,  I  shall  sing  it  at  her 
death.  {Exit. 

SCENE  H. — ^Athens.     A  Room  in  Quince's 
House. 

Enter  Quince,  Flute,  Snout,  and  Starveling. 

Quin.  Have  you  sent  to  Bottom's  house  ?  is  he 
come  home  yet  ? 

Star.  He  cannot  be  heard  of.  Out  of  doubt,  he 
is  transported. 

Flu.  If  he  come  not,  then  the  play  is  maiT'd.  It 
goes  not  forward,  doth  it  ? 

Quin.  It  is  not  possible  :  you  have  not  a  man  in 
all  Athens  able  to  discharge  Pyramus,  but  he. 

Flu.  No :  ho  hath  simply  the  best  wit  of  any 
handicraft-man  in  Athens. 

Quin.  Yea,  and  the  best  person  too :  and  he  is 
a  very  paramour  for  a  sweet  voice. 

Flu.  You  must  say  paragon :  a  paramour  i9| 
God  bless  us !  a  thing  of  naught 


ACT    V. 


A  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


Enter  Snug. 

Sniif/.  Mastoi's,  the  duke  is  coming  from  tlio 
lemple,  and  there  is  two  or  throe  lords  and  ladies 
more  married.  If  our  sport  had  gone  forward,  we 
had  all  been  made  men." 

FI7/.  O  sweet  bully  Bottom  !  Thus  hatii  he  lost 
sixpence  a-day  during  his  life ;  he  could  not  have 
'scaped  sixpence  a-day :  an  the  duke  had  not  given 
him  sixpence  a-day  for  playing  Pyramus,  I  '11  be 
hang'd ;  he  would  have  deserved  it :  sixpence  a- 
day  iu  Pyramus,  or  nothing ! 

Enter  Bottom. 

Bot  Where  are  these  lads?  where  are  these 
lieaits  ? 

Quin.  Bottom ! — 0  roost  courageous  day  !  O 
most  happy  hour ! 


Bot.  Masters,  I  am  to  discourse  wonders:  but 
ask  me  not  what ;  for  if  I  tell  you,  I  am  no  true 
Athenian.  I  will  tell  you  everything,  right  as  it 
fell  out. 

Quin.  Let  us  hear,  swoet  Bottom. 

Hot.  Not  a  word  of  me.  All  that  I  will  tell 
you  is,  that  the  duke  halh  dined.  Get  your  appa- 
rel together;  good  strings  to  your  beards,"  new 
ribbons  to  your  pumps ;  meet  presently  at  the 
palace ;  every  man  look  o'er  his  part ;  for,  tlie  short 
and  the  long  is,  our  play  is  preferred."  In  any 
case,  let  Thisbe  have  clean  linen ;  and  let  not  him 
that  plays  the  lion  pare  his  nails,  for  they  shall 
hang  out  for  the  lion's  claws.  And,  most  dear 
actors,  eat  no  onions,  nor  garlic,  for  we  are  to 
utter  sweet  breath  ;  and  I  do  not  doubt  but  to  hear 
them  say  it  is  a  sweet  comedy.     No  more  words 


away ;  go,  away  ! 


\  Exeunt. 


ACT    V, 


SCENE  I. — Athens.     An  Apartment  in  the 
Palace  of  Theseus. 

Enter  Theseus,  Uippolyta,  Philostrate,  Lords, 
and  Attendants. 

Hip.  'T  is  strange,  my  Theseus,  that  these  lovers 
speak  of. 

The.  More  strange  than  true.  I  never  may  believe 
These  antic  fables,  nor  these  fairy  toys. 
Lovers  and  madmen  have  such  seething  brains. 
Such  shaping  fantasies,  that  apprehend 
More  than  cool  reason  ever  comprehends. 
The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet. 
Are  of  imagination  all  compact : 
One  sees  more  devils  than  vast  hell  can  hold — 
That  is  the  madman :  the  lover,  all  as  frantic. 
Sees  Helen's  beauty  in  a  brow  of  Egypt : 
The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling, 
Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to 

heaven. 
And,  .IS  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name. 
Such  tricks  hath  strong  imagination 


That,  if  it  would  but  apprehend  some  joy, 
It  comprehends  some  bringer  of  that  joy  ; 
Or,  in  the  night,  imagining  some  fear, 
How  easy  is  a  bush  suppos'd  a  bear  ! 

Jlip.  But  all  the  story  of  the  night  told  over, 
And  all  their  minds  transfigur'd  so  together. 
More  witnesseth  than  fancy's  images, 
And  grows  to  something  of  great  constancy ; 
But,  howsoever,  strange,  and  admirable. 

The.  Here  come  the  lovers,  full  of  joy  and  mirth. 

Enter  Lysandeb,  Demetrius,  Hermia,  arid 

Helena. 

Joy,  gentle  fiiends !  joy,  and  fresh  days  of  love. 
Accompany  your  hearts ! 

Li/s.  More  than  to  us 

Wait  in  your  royal  walks,  your  board,  your  bed ! 

The.  Come    now ;    what    masks,  jvhat    dances 
shall  we  have, 
To  wear  away  this  long  age  of  three  hours, 
Between  our  after-supper  and  bed-time  ? 
Where  is  our  usual  manager  of  mirth  ? 
What  revels  are  in  hand  ?     Is  there  no  play, 
To  ease  the  anguish  of  a  torturing  hour  1 
Call  Philostiat*. 

341 


A  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


Philost.  Here,  mighty  Theseus. 

The.  Say,  what  abridgment''  have  you  for  this 
evening  ? 
What  mask,  what  music  ?    How  shall  we  Leguile 
The  l.nzy  time,  if  not  with  some  delight  ? 

Philost.  There  is  a  brief,"  how  many  sports  are 
rife ; 
Make  choice  of  which  your  highness  will  see  first. 
[Giving  a  paper,  which  Theseus  hmids 
to  Lysander  to  read. 

Lys.  [i?carfs.]  "  The  battle  with  the  Centaure, 
to  be  sung 
By  an  Athenian  eunuch  to  the  harp." 

The.  We  '11  none  of  that :  that  have  I  told  my 
love. 
In  glory  of  my  kinsman  Hercules. 

Lys.  "  The  riot  of  the  tipsy  Bacchanals, 
Tearing  the  Thracian  singer  in  their  rage." 

The.  That  is  an  old  device,  and  it  was  play'd 
W^hen  I  from  Thebes  came  last  a  conqueror. 

Lys.  "  The  thrice  three  Muses  mourning  for  the 
death 
Of  lera-ning,  late  deceas'd  in  beggary." 

The.  That  is  some  satire,  keen,  and  critical. 
Not  sorting  with  a  nuptial  ceremony. 

Lrjs.  "  A  tedious  brief  scene''  of  young  Pyramus, 
And  his  love  Thisbe ;  veiy  tragical  mirth." 

The.  !MeiTy  and  tragical !  Tedious  and  brief ! 
That  is  hot  ice,  and  wond'rous  seething  snow.*° 
How  shall  we  find  the  concord  of  this  discord  ? 

Philost.  A  play  there   is,   my  lord,  some  ten 
words  long ; 
Which  is  as  brief  as  I  have  known  a  play ; 
But  by  ten  words,  my  lord,  it  is  too  long. 
Which  makes  it  tedious:  for  in  all  the  play 
There  is  not  one  word  apt,  one  player  fitted. 
And  tragical,  my  noble  lord,  it  is. 
For  PjTamus  therein  doth  kill  himself 
Which  when  I  saw  rehears'd,  I  must  confes.s, 
Made  mine  eyes  water;  but  more  merry  tears 
The  passion  of  loud  laughter  never  shed. 

The.  What  are  they  that  do  play  it  ? 

Philost.  Hard-handed  men,  that  work  in  Athens 
here. 
Which  never  labour'd  in  their  minds  till  now ; 
\nd  now  have  toil'd  their  unbreath'd  memories 
With  this  same  play  against  your  nuptial. 

The.  And  we  will  hear  it. 

Philost.  No,  my  noble  lord, 

It  is  not  for  you :  I  have  heard  it  over, 
And  it  is  nothing,  nothing  in  the  world, 
(Unless  you  can  find  sport  in  their  intents,) 
842 


Extremely  stretch'd  and  conn'd  with  cruel  pain. 
To  do  you  service. 

The.  I  will  hear  that  play , 

For  never  anything  can  be  amiss, 
When  simpleuess  and  duty  tender  it.    • 
Go,  bring  them  in  :  and  take  your  places,  ladies. 

\^Exit  Philosthate. 

Hip.  I  love  not  to  see  wretchedness  o'ercharg'd. 
And  duty  in  his  service  perishing. 

The.  Why,  gentle  sweet,  you  shall  see  no  such 
thing. 

Hip.  He  says  they  can  do  nothing  in  this  kind. 

The.  The  kinder  we,  to  give  them  thanks  for 
nothing. 
Our  sport  shall  be,  to  take  what  they  mistake : 
And  v.'hat  poor  duty  cannot  do. 
Noble  respect  takes  it  in  might,  not  merit." 
Where  I  have  come,  great  clerics  have  purposed 
To  greet  me  \vith  premeditated  welcomes ; 
W^here  I  have  seen  them  shiver  and  look  pale. 
Make  periods  in  the  midst  of  sentences. 
Throttle  their  practis'd  accent  in  their  fears, 
And,  in  conclusion,  dumbly  have  broke  off. 
Not  paying  me  a  welcome.     Ti'ust  me,  sweet. 
Out  of  this  silence  yet  I  pick'd  a  welcome ; 
And  in  the  modesty  of  fearful  duty 
I  read  as  much,  as  from  the  rattling 'tongiie 
Of  saucy  and  audacious  eloquence. 
Love,  therefore,  and  tongue-tied  simplicity 
In  least  speak  most,  to  my  capacity. 

Enter  Puilostrate. 

Philost.  So  please  your  grace,  the  prologue  is 

address'd. 
The.  Let  him  approach.  [^Flourish  of  trumpets. 

Enter  Prologue. 

Prol.  If  we  ofTend,  it  is  with  our  good  will.i^ 

That  you  should  think  we  come  not  to  offend. 
But  with  good  will.    To  show  our  simple  skill 

That  is  the  true  beginning  of  our  end. 
Consider,  then,  we  come  but  in  despite. 

We  do  not  come  as  minding  to  content  you. 
Our  true  intent  is.     All  for  your  delight, 

Wo  are  not  liore.     That  you  should  here  ropcnt  vou, 
The  actors  are  at  hand  ;  and  by  their  sliow, 
You  shall  know  all  that  you  are  like  to  know. 

The.  This  fellow  doth  not  stand  upon  points. 

Lys.  He  hath  rid  his  prologue  like  a  rough  colt; 
ho  knows  not  the  stop.  A  good  moral,  my  lord ; 
It  is  not  enough  to  speak,  but  to  speak  true. 

Hip.  Indeed,  he  hath  play'd  on  this  prologue  liko 
a  child  on  a  recorder ;"  a  sound,  but  uot  in  govern- 
ment. 


ACT   V. 


A  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


SCENE   I. 


Tlie.  His  speech  was  like  a  tangled  chain  ;  no- 
thing impaired,  Imt  all  disordered.     Who  is  next? 

Enkr  I'viiAMoa  and  Tiiisbe,  Wall,  Moonshine,  and  Lion, 
as  in  dumb  show. 

Prol.  Gentles,  pcrcJumco  you  wonder  at  this  show; 

But  wonder  on,  till  truth  miike  all  things  plain. 
This  ni;ni  is  PjTamns,  if  you  would  know; 

This  beauteous  lady  Tliisbe  is,  certain. 
This  man,  with  linio  and  rough-east,  doth  present 

"Wall,  that  vile  AVall  which  did  these  lovers  sunder: 
And  through  Wall's  chink,  poor  souls,  they  are  content 

To  whisper,  at  the  which  let  no  man  wonder. 
This  man,  with  lantern,  dog,  and  bush  of  thorn, 

Presenteth  Moonshine:  for,  if  you  will  know, 
By  moonshine  did  these  lovers  think  no  scorn 

To  meet  at  Ninus'  tomb,  th.ere,  there  to  woo. 
This  grisly  beast,  which  Lion  hight  by  name, 
The  trusty  Thisbe,  coming  tir.Nt  by  night, 
Did  scare  away,  or  rather  did  affright ; 
And,  as  she  fled,  her  mantle  she  did  fall, 

Which  Lion  vile  with  bloody  laouth  did  stain  : 
Anon  comes  Pyiamus,  sv.'cct  youth  and  tall. 

And  finds  his  trusty  Thisbe's  mantle  slain : 
Whereat  with  blade,  with  bloody  blameful  blade, 

lie  bravely  broach'd  his  boiling  bloody  breast ; 
And,  Thisbe  tarrying  in  mulberry  shade. 

His  dagger  drew,  and  died.     For  all  the  rest. 
Let  Lion,  Moonshine,  Wall,  and  lovers  twain. 
At  large  discourse,  while  here  they  do  remain. 

\_Ejaiunt  Prol.,  Thisbe,  Lion,  and  Moonshine. 

The.  I  wonder  if  the  lion  be  to  speak. 
Dcm.  No  wonder,  my  lord  ;  one  Hon  may,  when 
many  asses  do. 

Wall.  In  this  same  interlude,  it  doth  befall, 
That  I,  one  Snout  by  name,  present  a  wall : 
And  such  a  wall  as  i  would  have  you  think, 
That  had  in  it  a  crauny'd  hole,  or  chink, 
Through  which  the  lovers,  Pyramus  and  Thisbe, 
Did  whisper  often  very  secretly. 
This  loam,  this  rough-cast,  and  this  stone  cloth  show 
That  1  am  that  same  wall ;  the  truth  is  so : 
And  this  the  cranny  is,  nght  and  sinister. 
Through  which  the  feaifij  lovers  are  to  whisper. 

The.  Would  you  desire  lime  and  hair  to  speak 
better  ? 

Dem.  It  is  the  v/ittiest  partition  that  ever  I 
heard  discourse,  ray  lord. 

The.  Pyramus  draws  near  the  wall :  silence. 

£nUr  PTKASins. 

I'-jr.  0  grim -looked  night !  0  night  with  hue  so  black  I 

0  night,  wliich  ever  art  when  day  is  not  1 
0  nifht,  O  ni^^btl  al:ick,  akack,  alack  1 

1  fear  my  Thisbo  s  promise  is  forgot ! 

And  thou,  0  wall  I  thou  sweet  and  lovely  wall ! 
Thit  stands  Dclwoon  her  father's  ground  and  mine ; 


Thou  wall,  O  wall !  0  sweet  and  lovely  wall, 
Show  me  thy  chink,  to  blink  through  with  mine  »yno. 
[Wall  h)Ui8  up  k'lM  jintjcrfl. 

Thanks,  courteous  wall :  .love  shield  thee  well  for  thitl 
But  what  see  I  ?     No  Thisbo  do  I  see. 

0  wicked  wall,  through  whom  I  see  no  bliss ; 
Curs'd  bo  thy  stones  for  thus  deceiving  me  I 

The.  The  wall,  methinks,  being  sensible,  should 
curse  again. 

Bot.  No,  in  truth,  sir,  he  should  not.  "Deceiving 
me"  is  Thisbe's  cue :  she  is  to  enter  now,  and  I  am 
to  sj)y  her  through  the  wall.  You  shall  see,  it  will 
fall  pat  a.s  I  told  you : — Yonder  she  comes. 


EnUr  Thisbe. 

TItis.  0  wall,  full  often  hast  thou  heard  my  moans, 
For  parting  my  fair  P}Taniu3  and  me: 

My  cherry  lips  have  often  kiss'd  thy  stones ; 
Thy  stones  with  lime  and  hair  knit  up  in  thee. 

Pyr.  I  see  a  voice  :  now  will  I  to  the-chink. 
To  spy  an  I  can  hear  ray  Thisbe's  face. 

Thisbe  ! 

This.  My  love  !  thou  art  my  love,  I  think. 

Pyr.  Think  what  thou  wilt,  I  am  thy  lover's  grace , 
And  like  Limander  am  I  trusty  still. 

This.  And  I  like  Helen,  till  the  fates  me  kill. 

Pyr.  Not  Shafalus  to  Procrus  was  so  true.*' 

This.  As  Shafalus  to  Procrus,  I  to  you, 

Pyr.  0,  kiss  me  through  the  hole  of  this  vile  wall. 

This.  I  kiss  the  wall's  hole,  not  your  lips  at  all. 

Pyr.  Wilt  thou  at  Ninny's  tomb  meet  mc  straightway 

This.  'Tide  life,  'tide  death,  1  come  without  delay  ! 

Wall.  Thus  have  I,  Wall,  my  part  discharged  so; 
And,  being  done,  thus  Wall  away  doth  go. 

\EMunt  Wall,  Pykamhs,  and  Thisbe. 

The.  Now  is  the  mm'al  down  between  the  two 
neighbours. 

Dem.  No  remedy,  my  lord,  when  walls  are  so 
wilful  to  hear  without  warning. 

Hip.  This  is  the  silliest  stufl"  that  e'er  I  heard. 

The.  The  best  in  this  kind  are  but  shadows;  and 
the  worst  are  no  worse,  if  imagination  amend  them. 

Hip.  It  must  be  your  imagination,  then,  and 
not  theirs. 

The.  If  we  imagine  no  worse  of  them  than  they 
of  themselves,  they  may  pass  for  excellent  men, 
Here  come  two  noble  beasts  in,  a  man  and  a  lion. 

Enter  Lion  and  Moonshine. 

Lion.  You,  ladies,  you,  whose  gentle  hearts  do  fear 
The  smallest  monstrous  mouse  that  creeps  on  floor, 

May  now,  perchance,  both  quake  and  tremble  lero. 
When  lion  rough  in  wildest  rage  doth  roar. 

Then  know  that  I,  one  Snug  the  joiner,  am 

A  lion  fell,  nor  else  no  lion's  dam  :" 

For  if  I  should  as  Hon  come  in  strife 

Into  this  place,  't  w^ere  pity  on  my  life. 

843 


ACT    V. 


A  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


SCKNE    1. 


The.  A  very  gentle  beast,  and  of  a  good  con- 
science. 

Deni.  The  very  best  at  a  beast,  my  lord,  that 
e'er  I  saw. 

Lys.  This  lion  is  a  very  fox  for  his  valour. 

The.  True ;  and  a  goose  for  his  discretion. 

Bcm.  Not  so,  my  lord ;  for  his  valour  cannot- 
carry  his  discretion ;  and  the  fox  canies  the  goose. 

The.  His  discretion,  I  am  sure,  cannot  carry  his 
valour;  for  the  goose  carries  not  the  fox.  It  is 
xvell :  leave  it  to  his  discretion,  and  let  us  hearken 
to  the  moon. 

Moon.  This  laQtem  dotli  the  horned  moon  present. 

Dem.  He  should  have  worn  the  horns  on  his 
head. 

The.  He  is  no  crescent,  and  his  horns  are  invis- 
ible within  the  circumference. 

Moon.  This  lantern  doth  the  horned  moon  present ; 
Myself  the  man  i'  the  moon  do  seem  to  be." 

The.  This  is  the  greatest  error  of  all  the  rest ! 
The  man  should  be  put  into  the  lantern :  How  is 
it  else  the  man  i'  the  moon  ? 

Dem.  He  dares  not  come  there  for  the  candle  : 
for,  you  see,  it  is  already  in  snuff." 

Hip.  I  am  weary  of  this  moon :  "Would  he  would 
change ! 

The.  It  appears,  by  his  small  light  of  discretion, 
that  he  is  in  the  wane :  but  yet,  iu  courtesy,  in  all 
reason,  we  must  stay  the  time. 

Lys.  Proceed,  Moon. 

Moon.  All  that  I  have  to  say  is,  to  tell  yoii,  that  the 
lantern  is  the  moon ;  I,  tlie  man  i'  the  moon ;  this  thorn- 
•^nsh,  my  thorn-bush ;  and  this  do^,  my  dog. 

Dem.  Why,  all  these  should  be  in  the  lantern, 
for  they  are  in  the  moon.  But,  silence ;  here 
comes  Thisbe. 

Enter  Thisbe. 

Hiis.  This  is  old  Ninny's  tomb :  "Where  is  my  love  ? 
lAon,  Oh —  [27i«  Lion  roars.    Thisbe  r«?w  o^. 

Dem.  Well  roared,  lion. 
The.  Well  run,  Thisbe. 

Hip.  Well  shone,  moon.  Truly,  the  moon 
shines  with  a  good  grace. 

[  The  Lion  ttars  Thisde's  mantle^  and  exit. 
The.   Well  moused,  lion. 
Dem.  And  then  came  Pyramus. 
Lys.  And  so  the  lion  vanished. 

Enler  PyitAMOs. 

Pijr.  Swcot  iioon,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  sunny  beams; 
I  thank  tl  jc,  moon,  for  shininfj  now  so  bright; 
844 


For,  by  thy  gracious,  golden,  glittering  gleams, 
I  trust  to  taste  of  truest  Thisbe's  signt. 

But  stay ; — 0  spite ! 

But  marlf, — poor  Imight, 
"What  dreadful  dole  is  here  ! 

Eyes,  do  you  see  ? 

How  can  it  be  ? 
0  dainty  duoli  !    O  dear  I 

Thy  mantle  good, 

"What!  stain'd  with  blood? 
Approach,  ye  furies  fell ! 

O  fates  !  come,  come  ; 

Cut  thread  and  tlirum  ; 
Quail,  crush,  conclude,  and  quell  1 


The.  This  passion,  and  the  death  of  a  deal 
friend,  would  go  near  to  make  a  m;.n  look  sad. 
Hip.  Beshrew  my  heart,  but  I  pity  the  man. 


Pyr.  O,  wherefore,  nature,  didst  thoa  lions  frame  ! 

Since  lion  vild  hath  here  defiour'd  my  dear: 
"Which  is — no,  no — which  was  the  fairest  dame, 
That  liv'd,  that  lov'd,  that  lik'd,  thatlook'd  with  choor 
Come,  tears,  confound ; 
Out,  sword,  and  wounc* 
The  pap  of  Fyraraus ; 
Ay,  that  left  pap, 
"Where  "neart  doth  hop  : — 
Thus  die  I,  tlius,  thus,  thus  I 
Now  am  I  dead. 
Now  am  1  fled ; 
My  soul  is  in  the  sky  ; 

Tongue,  lose  thy  light  I 

Moon,  take  thy  flight ! 

Now  die,  die,  die,  die,  die ! 

\^Dus. — Exit  MooNsnrac. 


Dem.  No  die,  but  an  ace,  for  him  ;  for  he  is  out 
one. 

Lys.  Less  than  an  ace,  man,  for  he  is  dead ;  he 
is  nothing. 

Tlie.  With  the  help  of  a  surgeon,  he  might  yet 
recover,  and  prove  an  ass. 

Hip.  How  chance  moonshine  is  gone,  before 
Tliisbe  comes  back  and  tinds  her  lover  ? 

The.  She  will  find  him  by  starlight. — Here  she 
comes,  and  her  passion  ends  the  play. 

Enter  Thisbe. 

Hi}').  Methinks  she  should  not  use  a  long  one 
for  such  a  Pyramus :  I  hojio  slio  will  be  brief. 

Dem.  A  mote  will  turn  the  balance,  which 
Pyramus,  which  Thisbe,  is  the  better-  he  for  a 
man,  God  warrant  us ;  she  for  a  woman,  God 
bless  us ! 

Lys.  She  bath  spied  him  already  with  thosG 
sweet  eyes. 


ACT  V                                     A  MIDSUMMEli-NlGllT'S  DREAM.     •                             scenb  i. 

Dmn.  And  thus  she  moans,  videlicit. 

Now  the  wasted  brands  do  glow. 

Whilst  the  screech-owl,  sci'oechiug  loiid. 

Thie.     Asloop,  my  love  ? 

Puts  the  wretch,  that  lies  in  woe, 

What,  dead,  my  dove? 
C  Pyromus,  arise  1 

In  remembrance  of  a  shroud. 

Speak,  speak !    Quite  dumb  3 

Now  it  is  the  time  of  night. 

jJead,  dead?     A  tomb. 

That  the  graves,  all  gaping  wide, 

Must  cover  tliy  sweot  eyes. 
Tlieso  lily  brows,*' 

Every  one  lets  forth  his  sprite, 

This  cherry  uose, 

In  the  church-way  paths  to  glide : 

These  yellow  cowslip  cheeks, 

And  we  fairies,  that  do  run 

Are  gone,  are  gone : 

By  the  triple  Hecate's  team, 

Lovers,  make  inoau  I 

His  eyes  were  green  as  leeks. 

From  the  presence  of  the  sun. 

0  sisters  three. 

Following  darkness  like  a  dream, 

Come,  come  to  me. 

Now  are  frolic ;  not  a  mouse 

With  hands  as  pale  as  milk ; 
Lay  them  in  gore, 

Shall  disturb  this  hallow'd  house : 

Since  you  have  shore 

I  am  sent  with  broom  before. 

With  shears  his  thread  of  silk. 

To  sweep  the  dust  behind  the  door.' 

Tongue,  not  a  word : 

Come,  trusty  sword ; 

Come,  blade,  my  breast  imbruo : 

Enter  Oberon  and  Titania,  with  their  Train. 

And  farewell,  friends; 

Tlius  Thisbo  ends : 
Adieu,  adieu,  adieu."                               \Diei. 

Obe.  Through  the  house  give  glimmering  light, 

By  the  dead  and  drowsy  fire ; 

The.  Moousbine  and  Lion  are  left  to  bury  the 

Eveiy  elf,  and  fairy  sprite. 

Jead. 

Hop  as  light  as  bird  from  brier;"' 

Bern.  Ay,  and  Wall  too. 

And  this  ditty,  after  me. 

Bot.  No,  I  assure  you ;  the  wall  is  down  that 

Sing  and  dance  it  trippingly. 

parted  their  fethers.    Will  it  please  you  to  see  the 

Tita.  First,  rehearse  your  song  by  rote : 

epilogue,  or  to  hear  a  Bei'goniask™  dance  between 

To  each  word  a  warbling  note ; 

two  of  our  company  ? 

Hand  in  hand,  with  fairy  grace. 

The.  No  epilogue,  I  pray  you ;  for  your  play 

Will  we  slug,  and  bless  this  pla^Xi. 

needs  no  excuse.     Never  excuse;  for  -vvhen  the 

[They  dance  and  sinj. 

players  are  all  dead,  there  need  none  to  be  blamed. 

Obe.  Now,  until  the  break  of  day. 

Marry,  if  he  that  writ  it  had  play'd  Pyraraus,  and 

Through  this  house  each  fairy  stray 

hung  himself  in  Thisbe's  garter,  it  would   have 

To  the  best  bride-bed  will  we. 

been  a  fine  tragedy :  and  so  it  is  truly ;  and  very 

Which  by  us  shall  blessed  be : 

notably  discharg'd.     But  come,  your  Bergomask : 

And  the  issue  there  create 

let  yom'  epilogue  alone. 

Ever  shall  be  fortunate. 

[Here  a  dance  of  Clowns. 

So  shall  all  the  couples  three 

The  iron  tongue  of  midnight  hath  told  twelve: — 

Ever  true  in  loving  be ; 

Lovers,  to  bed ;  't  is  almost  i'airy  time. 

And  the  blots  of  nature's  hand 

I  fear  we  shall  outsleep  the  coming  morn. 

Shall  not  in  their  issue  stand ; 

As  much  as  we  this  night  have  overwatch'd. 

Never  mole,  hare-lip,  nor  scar. 

This  palpable  gross  play  hath  well  beguil'd 

Nor  mark  prodigious,"  such  as  are 

The  heavy  gait  of  night. — Sweet  friends,  to  bed. — 

Despised  in  nativity. 

A  fortnight  hold  we  this  solemnity. 

Shall  upon  their  children  be. 

[n  nightly  revels,  and  new  jollity.              \_Exeunt. 

With  this  field-dew  consecrate. 

Every  fairy  t.ike  his  gait:'-" 

Entf<-  Puck. 

And  each  several  chamber  bless, 

Through  this  palace  with  sweet  peace 

Puck.   Now  tne  hungry  lion  roars. 

Ever  shall  in  safety  rest. 

And  the  wolf  behowls  the  moon ; 

And  the  owner  of  it  blest. 

WTiilst  the  heavy  ploughman  snores. 

Tiip  away ; 

All  with  weaiy  task  fordone. 

Make  no  stay : 

44 

S46 

ACT  V. 


A   MIDSCMMER-NIGHT'8  DREiUL 


SCENB  I. 


Meet  me  all  by  break  of  day. 

[Exeunt  Oberon,  Tit-W<ia,  and  Train. 
Puclc.  If  Tce  shadows  have  offended, 

Think  but  this,  (and  aU  is  mended,) 
That  you  have  but  slumber'd  here, 
Wliile  these  visions  did  appear. 
And  this  weak  and  idle  theme, 
No  more  yielding^  but  a  dream, 
Gtcntles,  do  not  reprehend ; '' 


If  you  pardon,  we  will  mend. 

And,  as  I  am  an  honest  Puck, 

If  we  have  unearned  luck 

Now  to  'scape  the  serpent's  tongue, 

We  wiU  make  amends  ere  long : 

Else  the  Puck  a  liar  call. 

So,  good  night  unto  you  all  1 

Give  me  your  hands,  if  we  be  friends, 

And  Robin  shall  restore  amends.     [Exit, 


ai 


lOTES  TO  A  MIDSLIIMER-IIGHT'S  DREAM. 


^  Ne\o  hent  in  heaven. 

The  old  copies  road  now,  tlie  words  being  frequently  iu- 
torclinnged  in  old  books.  There  is  n  curious  instance  of 
this  in  Heywood's  Eape  of  Lucrece,  1630,  the  line,  "  for 
fiome  but  new  departing  soule  "  being  repeated  in  tlio  bur- 
den, "  for  some  but  noio  departing  soule."  So  in  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher,  v.  250,  Mr.  Dyce  wrongly  prints  nmv- 
departing,  although  the  second  folio  reads  new-departing  ; 
but,  in  his  Kemarks,  p.  44,  be  recollects  that  now  for  neio 
was  one  of  the  commonest  misprints. 

2  Our  rencivned  Duke, 

Duke,  leader.  The  primitive  Latin  sense.  So  in  Lyd- 
gate's  Boehas,^ 

Toldo  and  aifermed  to  due  Theseus, 
"With  bolda  ehere  and  a  plein  visage. 

3  Bings,  gaavds,  conceits. 
"  A  gaud  or  toy,"  Baret's  Alvearie,  1580. 

*  Tc  leave  tliejigure,  or  disfigure  it. 

That  is,  to  leave  the  figure  he  h.aa  imprinted,  or  to  dis- 
flgure  it.  The  explanation  seems  unnecessary,  but  there 
has  been  a  fierce  discussion  on  the  meaning  of  the  line. 

'  EartUier  happy. 

An  unusual  construction,  meaning,  more  happy  in  an 
earthly  sense.  Capell  reads  earlhlj  happier,  which  impairs 
the  melody. 

«  Whose  umeislied  yoke. 

The  sentence  is  elliptical,  as  Malone  and  Knight  have 
very  properly  observed.  Mr.  Collier,  however,  errone- 
ously introduces  the  particle  from  the  second  folio  as  one 
'f  his  restorations. 

^Spotted,  stained,  guilty. 

^  Biteem  them  from  the  tempest  of  mine  eye& 

Drteem,  bestow  upon.  Collied,  literally,  smutted  with 
Doal ;  hence,  black.    Spleen,  a  fit  ol  passion. 

'  Poor  fancy  s  folUni'ers. 
Tli^'  foUowora  of  fancy,  or  love 


'"  Demetrius  loves  your  fair. 

Fair,  beauty.     See  note  15  to  the  Comedy  of  Eriors. 
Zoad-siar,  the  leading  or  guiding  star.     Some  discussion      I 
has  arisen  on  the  meaning  of  the  seventh  Une,  and  Hanmcr 
has  altered  it  to 

"  Youra  would  I  catch,  fair  Hermia,  ere  I  go." 

The  second  folio,  however,  gives  another  reading,  which 
is  doubtlessly  the  genuine  one — 

"  Your  words  I  'd  catch,  fair  Hemiia,  ere  1  go." 

For  favour  is  not  liere  used,  as  all  editors  and  commen- 
tators have  supposed,  in  the  sense  of  countenance,  but  evi- 
dently in  the  common  acceptation  of  the  term — "  0,  were 
favour  80,"  i.e.,  favour  in  the  eyes  of  Demetrius ;  a  parti- 
cular application  of  a  wish  expressed  in  general  terms. 
The  reading  of  the  second  folio  renders  the  whole  passage 
perfectly  intelligible. 


"  That  he  hath  turn'd  a  heaven  into  hell. 

So  the  first  folio,  adopted  by  Mr.  Collier,  and  I  think 
rightly.  Mr.  Dyce,  in  defiance  of  metre,  would  read  inU 
a  hell,  observing  that  the  context,  a  heaven,  ia  "  (juite 
enough  "  to  determine  we  should  read,  a  hell.  But  in  a 
subsequent  act  we  have, 

I  '11  follow  thee,  and  make  a  heaven  of  hell. 
To  die  upon  the  hand  I  love  so  well. 


^-  And  stranger  companies. 

The  old  copies  read,  "and  strange  companions,"  altered 
by  Theobald,  for  the  sake  of  the  rliyme,  to,  "  and  stranger 
companies,"  where  the  comparative  appears  to  me  to  be 
unmeaning,  though  certainly  melodious.  I  am  not  satis- 
fied with  any  alteration  that  lias  been  suggested,  and  per- 
haps tJie  ancient  text  is  correct.  Companies,  companions. 
Olhersome,  some  others.     Jlyne,  eyes ;  the  old  plural. 

"  Things  late  and  vild. 

Vild  for  vile,  here  noticed  for  the  last  time.  Mr.  Knigh 
observes  on  thispassago,  "we  are  scarcely  justified  in  eub- 
Btituting  the  vile  of  tlie  modern  editors  ; "  and  yet  he  actu- 
ally docs  so  in  this  very  play,  act  v.  sc.  1.  I  mention  this 
not  in  censure,  knowing  from  experience  liow  exceedingly 
difficult  it  is  to  obtain  perfect  uniformity  in  such  /UjUters. 

817 


NOTES  TO  A  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


^*Itis  a  dear  expend. 

Even  thanks  will  be  a  dear  or  very  great  expenoe  for 
him  to  give  me  for  tins  service.  "  A  man  had  a  shrewd 
wife,  and  he  one  day  broke  her  head,  tlie  cure  whereof 
cost  him  de(re  eicpcnu  afterward,"  Copley's  Wits,  Fits,  and 
Fancies,  1614.     Scrip,  roll  or  scroll. 

'»  This  was  Ercles^  vein. 

"Ay,  marry,"  says  a  character  in  Ben  Jonson's  Poetaster, 
"  this  was  written  like  a  Hercules  in  poetry  ;  "  and  a 
player  in  Greene's  Groatsworth  of  Wit,  first  printed  in 
1592,  observes, — "the  twelve  labours  of  Hercules  have  I 
terrihhi  thundered  on  the  stage,  and  played  three  scenes  of 
the  devil  in  the  Highway  to  Heaven." 

^*  You  shdllptay  it  in  a  7rui»lc. 

Females  were  not  introduced  on  the  starjo  in  ijhakes- 
peare's  time,  their  places  being  substituted  by  boys. 

"  A  hill  of  properties. 

Properties,  a  technical  term  still  in  use  for  the  articles 
requu-ed  by  the  actors  for  the  business  of  the  Btage. 

18  Sbld,  or  cut  how-strings, 

A  proverbial  phrase,  by  which  Bottom  means  to  say  that 
they  must  keep  their  appointment.  Its  e.\act  explanation 
bas  not  been  given,  but  a  similar  phrase  occurs  in  Shirley's 
Works,  ed.  Gifford,  iii.  29. 

"  Thorough  hush,  thorough  hrier. 

Compare  Drayton's  Nyniphidia, — 

Quoth  Puck,  "  My  liege,  I  '11  never  lin, 
But  I  will  tliorough  thick  and  thin, 
Until  at  length  I  bring  her  in  ; 

My  dearest  lord,  ne'er  doubt  it. 
T!iorouL''h  brake,  thorough  brier, 
Tliorough  muck,  thorough  mier, 
Thorough  water,  thoroucrh  ficr  I  " 

And  thus  goes  Puck  aDout  it. 

Orbs  are,  of  course,  fairy  circles.  Pensioners  ;  see  note 
97  to  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor.  Loh,  a  lubber. 
Changeling,  a  child  got  in  e.vchange.  SMen,  shining, 
bright. 

"» But  tliey  do  square. 

That  is,  quarrel.  "  It  chaunced  that  bee  and  his  tftylor 
squared  about  a  bill  of  accompt,"  Copley's  Wita,  Fits,  and 
Fancies,  1614. 

■»  Call'd  Rohin  Goodfellow. 

Tarlton,  in  his  Newes  out  of  Purgatory,  first  printed  in 
1.5SD,  says  of  Kobin  Goodfellow,  that  lie  was  "  famosed  in 
cvcrio  old  wive's  chronicle,  for  his  mad  merrie  prankes." 
There  is,  indeed,  sufiicient  evidence  to  show  that  there 
were  fairy  rhymes  and  fairj  talcs,  of  "ocings  like  those  of 
A  Midsuinmer-Night's  Dream,  in  circulation  if  not  in  print 
before  that  play  was  written. 

Mr.  Collier  possesses  an  unique  black-letter  ballad,  en- 
titled The  Merry  Puck,  or  liohin  Goodftllow,  which,  from 
several  passages,  may  be  fairly  concluded  to  have  been 
before  tlic  public  previously  to  the  appearance  of  the  Mid- 
suninier-Niglit'n  Dream  ;  and  as  it  affords  the  best  illus- 
tration of  the  play  that  has  yet  been  discovered,  I  am 
iudu(»d  to  present  it  to  the  reader  at  leugtli. 
848 


The  Merry  Pud,  or  Bohin  Good-felhw:  Describing  his 
birth  and  whose  Sonne  h^e  was,  how  he  run  away  front  his 
Mother,  how  he  was  vierry  at  the  Bridehouse,  \ow  his 
Father  King  Oheron  found  him,  together  with  all  his 
merry  Prankes.     Very  pleasant  and  witti/. 

Chapter  I. — Shewing  his  birth,  and  whose  sonno  ho  was. 

Here  doe  begin  the  merry  jests 

of  Kobin  Good-fellow : 
I'de  wish  you  for  to  reade  this  booKc, 

if  you  his  Pranks  would  know. 

But  first  I  will  declare  his  birth, 

and  what  his  Mother  was. 
And  then  how  Kobin  merrily 

did  bring  liis  knacks  to  passe. 

In  time  of  old,  when  Fayries  us'd 

to  wander  in  the  night. 
And  through  key-holes  swiftly  gliio, 

now  marke  my  story  right. 

Among  these  pretty  fairy  Elves 

was  Oberon,  their  King, 
Who  us'd  to  keepe  them  company 

still  at  their  revelling. 

And  sundry  honses  they  did  use, 

but  one,  above  the  rest, 
Wherein  a  comely  Lasss  did  dwell 

that  pleas'd  King  Oberon  best. 

This  lovely  Damsell,  neat  and  fairo, 

so  eourteous^meek  and  mild. 
As  sayes  my  booke,  by  Oberon 

she  was  IJegot  with  child. 

She  knew  not  who  the  father  was ; 

but  thus  to  all  would  say — 
In  night  time  he  to  her  still  came, 

and  went  away  ere  day. 

The  midwife  having  better  skiU 
than  liad  this  new  made  moLtier, — 

Quoth  she.  Surely  some  fairy  't  was, 
for  it  can  be  no  other. 

And  so  the  old  wife  rightly  judg'd, 

for  it  was  so  indeed. 
This  Fairy  sliew'd  himself  most  kind 

and  helpt  his  love  at  need ; 

For  store  of  liiincn  he  provides, 

and  brings  her  for  her  baby  ; 
With  dainty  catcs  and  choised  fare, 

he  serv'd  her  like  a  lady. 

Tho  Christening  time  then  being  coino, 

most  merry  they  did  pass  ; 
The  Gossips  drained  a  cheerful  cup 

as  then  provided  was. 

And  Kobin  was  the  infant  call'd, 

so  named  the  Gossips  by  : 
What  pranks  he  played  both  day  and  nig'hi 

rio  toll  you  certainly. 

CiiAPTEii  II. — Shewing  how  Boblu  Good-follow  cAV'.cJ 
himselfe,  and  liow  ho  run  i  wiiy  from  his  Mother.    • 

While  yet  ho  was  a  little  lad 

and  of  a  tender  age, 
Ho  us'd  much  waggish  tricks  to  rnon, 

as  they  at  him  would  la^o. 


NOTES  TO  A  MIDSUMMEK-NIGUrS  DREAM. 


Unto  )iis  mother  they  eomplftin'd, 
*    wliieli  grieved  hor  to  lieiiro, 
Anil  for  these  Prunkw  wlie  threutnocl  him 
he  should  liave  whipping  ciiearo, 

If  tliiit  ho  did  not  leave  his  triclvB, 

his  jeering  moekrt  and  mowes; 
Quotli  sliG,  thou  vile,  untutor'd  youth, 

tiictfo  pranks  no  breeding  shewes ; 

I  ciinnot  to  the  Market  goo, 

but  ere  I  baeke  returue, 
TlioH  Bcofst  my  neiglibours  in  '-^h  son, 

which  makes  my  hear^  *a  luourne. 

But  I  will  make  you  to  repent 

these  tilings,  ere  I  have  done : 
I  will  no  favour  have  on  thee, 

.although  thou  boost  my  Bonne. 

Kobin  was  griev'd  to  heare  these  words, 

whieh  she  to  him  did  say,  , 

But  to  prevent  his  punishment, 

from  her  lie  run  away. 

And  travelling  long  upon  the  way, 

liis  hunger  being  great, 
Unto  a  Taylor's  house  he  came, 

and  did  intreat  some  meat : 

The  Taylor  tooke  compassion  then 

upon  this  pretty  youth. 
And  tooke  Imn  for  his  Prentice  straight, 

as  I  have  heard  in  truth. 

CnAFTEB  III. — IIow  Eobin  Good-fellow  left  his  Master,  and 
also  how  Oberon  told  him  he  should  be  turned  into  what 
shape  he  could  wish  or  desire. 

Now  Robin  Good-fellow,  being  placet 

with  a  Taylor,  as  you  heare. 
He  grew  a  workman  in  short  space, 

so  well  he  ply'd  his  geare. 

He  had  a  gowne  which  must  be  made, 

even  with  all  haste  and  speed ; 
The  maid  must  have  't  against  next  day 

to  be  her  wedding  weed. 

The  Taylor  he  did  labour  hard 

till  twelve  a  clock  at  night; 
Betweene  hnn  and  his  servant  then 

they  finished  aright 

The  gowne,  buL  putting  on  the  sleeves : 

quoth  he  unto  his  man, 
I  'le  goe  to  bed :  whip  on  the  sleeves 

as  fast  as  ere  you  can. 

So  Robin  straightway  takes  the  gowne 

and  hangs  it  on  a  pin. 
Then  takes  the  sleeves  and  whips  the  gowne, 

till  day  he  nere  did  lin. 

His  Master  rising  in  the  morne, 

and  seeing  what  he  did, 
Begun  to  chide ;  (juoth  Robin  then, 

1  doe  as  1  was  bid. 

His  Master  then  the  gowne  did  take 

and  to  his  worke  did  fall. 
By  that  time  he  had  done  the  same 

tho  Maid  for  it  did  call. 

Quoth  he  to  Eobin,  goo  thv  wayes 

and  fetch  the  remnants  hither, 
That  yesterday  we  left,  said  he  ; 

weo  '11  breake  our  fasts  togef'.er. 


Then  Robin  hies  liirn  up  the  stairen 
and  brings  the  remnant«  downe. 

Which  he  did  know  his  Master  savM 
out  of  the  woman's  gowne. 

The  Taylor  ho  was  vext  at  this, 

ho  meant  remnants  of  meat, 
That  this  good  woman,  ere  she  wont, 

might  thoo-e  her  breakfast  eatc. 

Quoth  she,  this  is  a  breakfast  good 

1  tell  you,  friend,  indeed; 
And  to  requite  your  love  I  will 

send  for  some  drinke  with  Bpeed : 

And  Robin  he  must  goe  for  it 

with  all  the  speed  he  may : 
He  takes  the  pot  and  money  too, 

and  runnes  from  tlience  away. 

When  he  had  wandrcd  all  the  day 

a  good  way  from  the  Towne, 
Unto  a  forest  then  he  came : 

to  sleepe  he  laid  him  downe. 

Then  Oberon  came,  wltli  all  his  Elves, 

and  danc'd  about  his  sonne, 
With  musiek  pleasing  to  the  eare; 

and,  when  that  it  was  done, 

King  Oberon  layes  a  scronle  by  him, 

that  he  might  understand 
Whose  Sonne  he  was,  and  how  he  'd  grant 

wliate'er  he  did  demand : 

To  any  forme  that  he  did  please 

himselfe  he  would  translate  ; 
And  how  one  day  liee'd  send  for  him 

to  see  his  fairy  State. 

Then  Robin  longs  to  know  the  truth 

of  this  mysterious  skill. 
And  turnes  himselfe  into  what  shape 

ha  thinks  upon  or  will. 

Sometimes  a  neighing  horse  was  he, 

sometimes  a  gruntling  hog ; 
Sometimes  a  bird,  sometimes  a  crow, 

sometimes  a  snarling  dog.  4 


CaAPTEB  IV. — How  Eobin  Good-fellow  was  meny  nt  tha 
Bridehc  use. 

Now  Kobin  having  got  this  art, 

he  oft  would  make  good  sport, 
And  hearing  of  a  wedding  day, 

he  makes  him  ready  for 't. 

Most  like  a  joviall  Fidler  then 

he  drest  himselfe  most  gay, 
And  goes  unto  the  wedding  house, 

there  on  his  crowd  (JiddU)  to  play. 

Ho  welcome  was  unto  this  feast, 

and  merry  they  were  all ; 
Ho  plny'd  and  sung  sweet  songs  all  day, 

at  night  to  sports  did  fall. 

He  first  did  put  the  candles  out, 

and  being  in  the  dark. 
Some  would  he  strike  and  some  woul^  pInoL, 

and  then  sing  like  a  lark. 

The  candles  being  light  agiiine, 

and  things  well  and  quiet, 
A  goodly  posset  was  brought  in 

to  mend  their  former  diet; 

Then  Eobin  for  to  have  the  same 

did  turne  him  to  a  Beare ; 
Straight  at  that  sight  the  people  all 

did  run  away  for  feare. 

840 


NOTES  TO  A  MIUSUMMEE-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


Tlien  Robin  did  the  posset  eato, 

and  liavins  serv'd  tlicni  so, 
Away  goes  Kobin  witli  all  haste, 

then  laughing  hoe,  hoe,  hoe ! 

CaAPTEE  V. — Declaring  how  Eobin  Good-fellow  serv'd  an 
old  man. 

There  was  an  old  man  had  a  Neeco, 

a  very  beauteous  muid  ; 
To  wieJied  lust  her  Unkle  sought 

this  fair  one  to  perswado. 

But  she  a  young  man  lov'd  too  deare 

to  give  consent  thereto ; 
'Twas  Robin's  chance  upon  a  time 

to  heare  their  grievous  woe : 

Content  yourselfe,  then  Robin  saies, 

and  T  will  e.ise  your  griefe ; 
I  have  found  out  an  excellent  way 

that  will  yeeld  you  reliefe. 

He  sends  them  to  be  married  straight, 

and  he,  In  her  disguise. 
Hies  home  v;ith  all  tiie  speed  he  may 

to  blind  her  Unkle's  eyes : 

And  there  he  plyes  his  worke  amaine, 

doing  more  in  one  lioiire, 
Such  was  his  skill  and  workmanship, 

than  she  could  doe  in  foure. 

The  old  man  wondred  for  to  see 

the  worke  go  on  so  fast. 
And  there  withnll  more  worke  doth  he 

unto  good  Robin  cast. 

Tlien  Kobin  said  to  his  old  man, 
good  Unkle,  if  you  please  ' 

To  grant  to  me  but  one  ten  pound, 
I  'le  yocid  your  love-suit  ease. 

TJf  n  pounds,  quoth  he,  I  will  give  thee, 

sweet  Neece,  with  all  my  heart. 
So  thou  wilt  grant  to  me  thy  love, 

to  ease  my  troubled  heart. 

Then  let  me  wTiting  have,  quoth  he, 

from  your  owne  hand  with  speed,' 
That  1  may  marry  ray  sweet-heart 

when  I  have  done  this  deed. 

The  old  man  he  did  give  consent 

that  he  these  things  should  have, 
Thinking  th.at  it  had  bin  his  Neece 

that  did  this  bargaine  crave ; 

And  unto  Robin  then  quoth  he, 

my  gentle  Neece,  behold, 
Goe  thou  into  thy  ch.amber  sooue, 

and  1  'le  goo  bring  the  gold. 

When  he  into  the  chamber  came, 

thinking  indeed  to  play, 
Straight  Robin  upon  him  doth  fall, 

anu  carries  him  away 

Into  the  chamber  where  the  two 

faire  Lovers  did  abide, 
And  gives  to  them  their  Unkle  old, 

I,  and  the  gold  beside. 

The  old  man  vainly  Kobin  sought, 

BO  many  shapes  he  tries ; 
Soinetimes  he  was  u  hare  or  hound, 

BOmotimes  Uke  bird  ho  flies. 
860 


The  more  he  strove,  the  less  he  spoil, 

the  Lovers  all  did  see  ; 
And  thus  did  Robin  fiivour  them 

full  kind  and  mcrrilie. 

Thus  Robin  lived  a  merry  life 

as  any  could  enjoy ; 
'Mong  country  farms  he  did  resort, 

and  oft  would  folks  annoy  • 

But  if  the  maids  doe  c.tll  to  him, 

he  still  away  will  goe 
In  knavish  sort,  and  to  himselfo 

he  'd  laugh  out  hoe,  hoe,  hoe  1 

He  oft  would  beg  and  crave  an  almoe, 
but  take  nought  that  they  'd  give  ; 

In  several  shapes  he'd  gull  the  world, 
thus  madly  did  he  live. 

Sometimes  a  cripple  ho  would  seeme, 
sometimes  a  souldier  brave : 

Sometimes  a  fox,  sometimes  a  hare  : 
brave  pastimes  would  he  have. 

Sometimes  an  owle  he'd  seeme  to  bo, 
sometimes  a  skipping  frog ; 

Sometimes  a  kirne,  in  Irish  shape, 
to  leape  o'er  mine  or  bog : 

Sometime  he'd  counterfeit  a  voyce, 

and  travellers  call  astr.ay  ; 
Sometimes  a  w.alking-fire  he'd  be, 

and  lead  them  from  their  way. 

Some  call  him  Robin  Good-fellow, 
Hob-goblin,  or  Mad  Crisp  ; 

And  some  againe  doe  tearme  him  oft 
by  name  of  Will  the  Wispe 

But  call  him  by  what  name  you  lisL 
I  have  studied  on  my  fillow, 

I  think  the  best  name  lie  deserves 
Is  Kobin  the  Good-lellow. 


At  last  upon  a  sutmner's  night 

King  Oberon  found  him  out. 
And  with  his  Elves  in  dancing  wise 

straight  circled  him  about. 

The  foiries  danc't,  and  little  Tom  Tiinmli 

on  his  bag-pipe  did  play. 
And  thus  they  danc't  their  fairy  round 

till  almost  break  of  day. 

Then  Phebus  he  most  gloriously 

begins  to  grace  the  aire, 
When  Oberon  with  his  fairy  traine 

begins  to  make  repaire. 

With  speed  unto  the  Fairy  land, 

they  swifdy  tooke  their  way, 
And  I  out  of  my  dreame  awak't. 

and  so  'twas  perfect  day. 

Thus  having  told  my  dreame  at  full, 

1  'le  hid  you  all  farewell. 
If  you  applaud  mad  Kobin'3  prankes 

may  bo  ere  long  I  'le  tell 

Some  other  stories  to  your  cares, 

which  shall  contcntincnt  give : 
To  gainc  your  1'avoms  I  will  seeke 

the  longest  day  1  li  ve. 

If  my  readers  will  permit  mo  to  ciJl  their  ait/>ntmu  to 
the  following  passage,  spoken  by  Puck,  after  ho  nail  olToclod 


\ 


NOTES  TO  A  w[bsuMMi:RN'i(;irrs  dream. 


the  transformiition  of  Bottom,  its  similarity  witli  part  of 
the  forcj^oiug  I):il];i(l  will  bo  ut  onco  perceived: — 


'  I'll  follow  you,  I'll  lend  you  about  a  round. 

Through  hog,  through  bush,  through  brake,  through 
brier ; 
Sometime  a  horse  I'll  bo,  sometimes  a  hound, 

A  liog,  a  headless  bear,  sometimes  a  fire ; 
And  neigh,  and  bark,  ami  grunt,  and  roar,  and  l)urn. 
Like  horse,  hound,  hog,  boar,  flro,  at  every  turn." 


So  also  in  the  ballad  of  Robin  Goodfellow,  printed  by 
I'ercy,  we  liavo  a  similar  account  of  Robin's  exploits  :— 


'  Sometimes  I  meete  them  lilce  a  man ; 

Sometimes  an  ox,  sometimes  an  hound; 
And  to  a  horse  1  turn  me  can  ; 
And  trip  and  trot  about  them  round ; 

But  k'  to  ride. 

My  backe  they  stride, 
More  swift  than  winde  away  I  go. 

O'er  hedge  and  lands, 

Thro'  pools  and  ponds, 
A  whirry,  laughing,  no,  ho,  hoe  1 " 


The  name  of  Robin  Goodfellow  had,  it  appears,  been 
familiar  to  the  English  as  early  as  the  tiiirlcenth  century, 
being  mentioned  in  a  tale  preserved  in  a  manuscript  of 
that  date  in  the  Bodleian  Liijrary  at  Oxford.  It  does  not, 
however,  fall  in  with  our  plan  to  enter  into  any  antiquarian 
discussion  on  the  subject;  but  we  take  tiic  opportunity  of 
referring  to  this  singular  fact,  because  it  affords  one  proof, 
and  that  a  remarkable  one,  of  the  antiquity  of  fairy  my- 
thology iu  this  country  of  a  nature  similar  to  that  used  by 
Sliakespeare. 

In  tlie  hbrary  of  the  Earl  of  EUesmere  is  preserved  a 
very  curious  tract,  printed  at  London  in  1628,  containing  a 
prose  liistory  of  tlie  'nierry  pranl'es  of  the  same  mischievous 
spirit,  intermixed  with  poetry.  I  suspect  that  some  of 
the  metrical  portions  of  this  book  are  of  mucli  earlier  date, 
and  it  is  possible  tliat  the  following  verses  may  be  the  ori- 
ginals of  the  exquisitely  beautiful  Anacreontic  lines  spoken 
by  Puck  at  the  end  of  the  pl.ay.  I  cannot,  however,  dis- 
cover the  precise  date  of  their  composition : — 


"The  moone  shines  faire  and  bright, 

And  the  owle  hollows  : 
Mortals  now  take  their  rests 

Upon  tlieir  pillows : 
Tlic  bats  abroad  likewise. 

And  the  night  raven, 
Which  doth  use  for  to  call 

Men  to  death's  haven. 
Now  the  mice  peep  abroad, 

And  the  cats  take  them : 
Now  doe  young  wenches  sleepe. 

Till  their  dreams  wake  them." 


The  ideas  are  not  only  similar  to  those  of  Shakespeare, 
out  follow  in  precisely  the  same  order.  Some  similarity 
may  also  be  traced  between  this  and  the  following  invoca- 
tion of  a  spirit  by  a  very  celebrated  magician.  It  is  taken 
from  The  famous  history  of  Fryer  Bacon,  edited  by  Mr, 
Thorns,  p.  44:— 


'  Now  the  owle  is  flowne  abroad, 
For  1  heare  the  croaking  toade. 
And  the  bat  that  shuns  the  day. 
Through  the  d;uke  doth  make  her  way. 


Now  the  irhosts  cf  men  doe  rise, 
And  with  iearful  hideous  i-ryi^v^. 
Seek  revengcment  I'rom  llic  good 
On  their  head.s  tliat  spilt  their  bloud. 
Come  some  spirit^  quicke  I  say, 
Night 's  the  Devil's  holyday : 
Where'ere  you  bo,  in  dcnncs,  or  lake, 
In  the  ivy,  ewe,  or  brake: 
Quickly  come  and  me  attend. 
That  am  Bacon's  man  and  friend. 
But  I  will  have  you  take  no  shape 
Of  a  bear,  a  horse,  or  ape  : 
Nor  will  1  have  you  terrible ; 
And  therefore  come  invisible." 


"  And  sometimes  lahour  in  the  quern. 

A  quern  is  a  hand-mill.  Ancient  querns,  made  of 
stone,  are  frequently  found  in  Ireland.  "  Histories  report 
that  he  was  brought  into  such  povcrtie,  that  he  was  fayne 
to  serve  a  baker  in  turning  a  querne  or  handmill  to  get  lii.s 
living,"  Northbrooke's  Treatise  against  Dicing,  1.577.  It 
should  be  remarked  that  the  grammar  is  here  defective, 
most  of  the  verbs  governed  by  "are  you  not  he,"  being  in 
the  plural  instead  of  the  singular ;  but  the  original  repre- 
sents most  probably  the  author's  own  text,  and  there  is 
certainly  something  lost  in  melody  by  substituting  ekims. 
labours,  dec. 

23  To  hear  tw  harm. 

Barm,  yeast.  This  provincial  term  is  still  in  use  in 
"Warwickshire,  ami  I  have  seen  a  card  advertising  "fiish 
barm"  m  Henley  Street  at  Stratford-on-Avon,  -within  a  few 
yards  of  the  poet's  birth-place. 


-*  .iiid  *  tailor^  cries. 

She  cries  'tailor,'  because  she  falls  in  the  position  in 
which  a  tailor  sits  on  his  board.  Dr.  Johnson  notices  Iht 
custom  of  crying  tailor  at  a  sudden  fall  backwards. 


"  Hold  (heir  hips,  and  hffe. 

Loffe,  laugh,  the  ancient  pronunciation  of  the  word. 
Ben  Jonson,  in  the  Fox,  makes  slaughter  rhyme  with 
lavghter ;  and  in  the  old  nursery  ballad  of  Mother  Hub- 
bard, after  she  had  bought  her  dog  a  coffin,  she  came  home 
and  found  ho  was  loffing  ! 


'«  And  neeze,  i.e.  sneese.  In  Langlcy's  Abridgment  ol 
Polydore  Vergil,  fol.  127,  it  is  said:  " There  ^'as  a  plage 
whereby  many,  as  they  nesed,  died  sodeiniy,  whereof  it 
grew  into  a  custome  that  they  that  were  present  when  anye 
maune  neesed,  should  say,  '  God  heipe  you.'  A  lyke  deadly 
plage  was  sometyme  in  yawning,  wherforo  men  used  to 
fence  themselves  w..h  the  signe  of  the  crosse :  bothe 
whiohe  customes  we  retevne  styl  at  this  day." 


=^  Since  the  middle-summer's  sprtnn. 

Middle-summer  is  the  middle  of  the  summer,  or  mid- 
summer. Midsummer  is  not,  strictly  speaking,  the  middle 
of  summer;  but  that  is  what  is  evidently  here  intended. 
"  The  midle  spring,  or  the  middest  of  the  spring,"  Nomen- 
clator,  1585.  Spring,  beginning,  commencement.  Paved 
fountain,  alluding  to  the  natural  flo»r  of  pebbles.    Mar^ 

861 


NOTES  TO  A  MIDSUiBIER-NIUllT'S  DREAM. 


gent,  an  old  form  of  the  word  margin.     PeUiiir/,  smaU, 
oaltry.     Continents,  banks. 

28  The  nine  7?ien''s  morris  isjilVd  vp  with  mud. 

"  In  that  part  of  Warwickshire  where  Shakespeare  was 
sdueated,  and  the  neighbouring  parts  of  Northamptonshire, 
tlie  shepherds  and  other  boys  dig  up  the  turf  with  their 
knives  to  represent  a  sort  of  imperfect  chess-board.  It 
consists  of  a  square,  sometimes  only  a  foot  diameter,  some- 
times three  or  four  yards.  Within  this  is  another  square, 
every  side  of  which  is  p.araUel  tD  the  external  square ;  and 
tliese  squares  are  joined  by  lines  drawn  from  eacli  corner 
of  both  squares  and  the  middle  of  each  line.  One  party, 
or  player,  has  wooden  pegs,  the  other  stones,  which  they 
move  in  such  a  manner  as  to  take  up  each  other's  men  as 
they  are  called,  and  the  area  of  the  inner  square  is  called 
the  pound,  in  which  the  men  taken  up  are  impounded. 
These  figures  are  by  the  country  people  called  Nine  Men's 
Morris,  or  Merrils ;  and  are  so  called,  because  each  party 
has  nine  men.  These  figures  are  always  cut  upon  the 
green  turf  or  leys,  as  they  are  called,  or  upon  the  grass  at 
the  end  of  ploughed  lands,  and  in  rainy  seasons  never  fail 
to  be  choalc-ed  vp  with  mud.'''    Jambs. 

^  On  old  Byems*  thin  and  icj/  crotcn. 

Old  copies,  chin'.  Corrected  by  Tyrwhitt.  Ohilding, 
pregnant,  productive. 

">  By  their  increase. 

Increase,  produce.  "Then  shall  the  earth  yield  her 
increase,  and  God,  even  our  own  God,  shall  bless  us," 
Psalms,  Ixvii.  6. 

31  Tg  be  my  henchvian. 

Blount  says  henchman  "  is  used  with  us  for  one  that  runs 
on  foot,  attending  on  a  person  of  honour ;"  and  in  the 
Nomenclator,  1585,  '^unpage  d'  hommes,  a  page  of  honour 
or  a  henchman."  In  a  letter  from  Mr.  Allen  to  the  Earl 
of  Shrewsbury,  dated  December  11th,  1565,  it  is  said, — 
"  Her  Highnes  hathe  of  late,  whereat  some  do  muche  mar- 
veil,  dissolved  the  auneient  office  of  the  henehemen." 

"  At  a  fair  vestal  throned  hy  the  west. 

This  allusion  to  Queen  Elizabeth  has  exercised  the  inge- 
nuity of  the  critics.  It  is  elegant  flattery,  without  par- 
taking of  the  humiliating  character  of  most  of  the  compli- 
ments paid  to  that  sovereign  by  the  other  writers  of  the 
age.  Love-in-idUnes)*  is  a  very  pretty  rural  name  for  the 
pansies  or  heart's-easo. 

''  I'll  put  a  giidle  round  alout  the  earth. 

This  metaphor,  expressive  of  great  distance,  literally 
meaning,  to  go  roiind  the  world,  is  not  peculiar  to  Shakes- 
peare.    It  occurs  in  Chapman's  Bussy  d'Ambois, — 

And  skills  in  Neptune's  deep  invisible  paths. 
In  tail  ships  richly  built  and  ribb'd  with  brass, 
To  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  world. 

'"  The  one  I  HI  stay,  the  other  stayeth  me. 

S(ay,  to  hinder.    Ilcrmia  stays  Demetrius  by  causing 
Sfi-Z 


him  an  useless  se.irch  in  the  wood ;  she  does  not  kill  him. 
Mr.  Knight  is  unquestionably  correct  in  restoriU'/  the  old 
reading.  Wood  within  this  wood,  a  quibble,  wood  being  an 
o!i  term  for  mad. 

SB  Your  virtue  is  my  privilege  for  that. 

For  that,  as  everybody  knows,  means  because  in  nu- 
merous places;  and  Mr.  Hunter  proposes  to  receive  the 
phrase  in  that  sense  in  the  present  instance,  and  place 
a  stop  after  privilege ;  a  reading  which,  I  fear,  destroys 
the  effect  of  a  very  significant  line.     Brakes,  bushes. 

"  Ox-lips. 

Ox-lips  are  the  greater  cowslips.  "  The  greater  sort 
called  for  the  most  part  oxelips  and  paigles,"  Gerard,  p. 
637.    The  eglantine  is  the  sweet-briar.     Weed,  dress. 

^  A  rottndel  and  a  fairy  song. 
Moundel,  a  roundelay.     Eear-mice,  bats. 

38  Love  takes  the  meaning  in  love's  conference. 

That  is,  pure  love  only  is  tne  meaning  in  the  conversa- 
tion of  lovers. 


3»  Witt  thou  darMinff  leave  me. 

DarHing,  in  the  dark.  "  I  went  darkeling,  and  dyd 
hytte  agaynst  a  doore,  je  alloye  sana  chnndelle  (t  heurta'j 
contre  ung  hiys,"  Palsgrave,  1530. 


*"  Touching  now  the  point  of  human  sTcill. 

That  is,  says  Steevens,  my  senses  being  now  at  the 
utmost  height  of  perfection. 


"  This  hawtltorn  brake  our  tiring-house. 

The  tiring-house  was  the  dressing-room  of  the  old 
theatres.  Maine,  in  his  Amorous  Warre,  1648,  mentions 
"  the  invention  of  your  poets,  who  kill  onely  on  the  stage, 
and  then  revive  their  slaughter'd  persons  in  the  tiring- 
house." 


*'  Byrlakin,  aparlmisfear. 

Byrlakin,  by  our  Lady's  kin.  Parhu-s,  perilous,  dan- 
gerous. "  Parlous  wise,  and  yet  loving  to  his  guests.'* 
Cotgrave's  Wits  Interpreter,  1671,  p.  2.  JVrilfcn  in  eight 
and  six,  that  is,  in  verses  of  six  and  eight  syllables 


"  Tetl  them  plainly  he  is  Snng  the  joiner. 

The  following  anecdote,  which  has  been  frequently 
quoted,  occurs  in  a  collection  of  jests  in  MSS.  Harl.  C395, 
collected  by  Sir  Nicholas  liCstrnngo  in  the  seventeenth 
century; — "There  Was  a  spectacle  presented  to  Queen 
Elizabeth  upon  the  water,  and,  amongst  others,  Hnny 
(Joldingham  was  to  represent  Arion  iqion  the  doljihin's 
backc,  but  fuuling  his  voice  to  bo  very  hoai-se  and  iin- 
plc.isant,  when  he  came  to  performo  it,  ho  teares  off  his 
disguise,  and  swcares  he  was  ncno  cf  .\rion,  not  lie,  but 
ceno  honest  Harry  Gohlingham ;  which  blunt  discoverio 
pleas'd  the  Queue  better  than  if  it  had  gone  ttrnueh  in  the 


NOTES  TO  A  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


riglit  way ;  yet  lio  could  orjor  his  voice  to  an  instrument 
cxoccJitig  well."  Sir  W.  Scott  haa  made  (jood  use  of  this 
Inughtiblo  iiicidont. 

"  A  play  toward  f 

Tnid  ia  a  very  common  cxprcsaiou  in  old  plays.  "  Have 
I  a  pleasure  towanl,"  Revengers  Tragsodie,  1603. 

"  Cues  and  all. 

A  cue,  or  qu,  is  thus  explained  by  Minsheu,  "a  terme 
OHcd  among  stagc-plaicrs,  a  Lat.  (jualis,  i.  at  what  manner 
cf  word  the  actors  are  to  beginne  to  speake  one,  after  an- 
other hath  done  his  speech." 

^'  77ie  woosel-cock,  so  llach  of  hue. 

The  owel,  or  woosel,  was  a  generic  term  for  the  blackbird. 
Barnofield,  in  his  Afl'ectionato  Shepheard,  1591,  says, — 

House-doves  are  white,  and  oo^els  blackebirds  bee. 
Yet  what  a  difference  in  the  taste  we  see. 

The  '-hmstk  is  the  thrush. 


"  lite  plaiTh-sonfj  cucJcoo  gray. 

Ah,  sweetly,  sweetly,  doth  tlie  cuckoe  sing 
The  cuckolds'  praises  in  the  pleasant  Spring ; 
Familiar  is  her  song,  smooth,  casie,  vlaine^ 
Not  harsh,  nor  hardly  wrested  from  her  throat. 

Pasquil's  KigJit  Cap,  1612 


■"  CA'rf,  i.e.,  tc  joke.     "  Donner  d' une,  to  give  a  gud- 
jann,  a  lurch,  a  gleeke,"  Cotgrave.     In  the  Fairy  Queen, 
1C.''2,  an  alteration  of  this  play,  Bottom  says,  "Nay,  1  can 
•  break  a  jest  on  occasion." 

*«  WU/t  a2}ricocl:3  and  dewberries. 

Apricots  were  formerly  termed  aprkocis.  The  dewberry 
is  the  dwarf  mulberry,  rubus  cliamccmorus,  often  confused 
witli  the  blackberry,  being  a  similar  fruit,  but  of  a  larger 
size.  I  have  gathered  many  a  dewberry  in  the  lanes 
between  Stratford-on-Avon  and  Ashton  Cantlowe ;  and 
thought  of  Shakespeare  and  Titania. 

6"  Mistress  iSquash,  your  viother, 
Sx^uash  is  an  unripe  peascod. 


"  Night-ruU,  i  e.,  night  sport. 
Bort^  company. 


Patches,  fools,  clowns. 


"  An  ass^s  nowl  I  fixed  on  his  head. 

Sowl,  i.e.,  head.    So,  in  Lilly's  Mother  Bombie,  — 

"W'ine,  0  wine  1     O  juice  divine  ! 
How  dost  thou  the  nowle  retine  ! 

The  transformation  of  Bottom  had  its  prototype  in  the 
ancient  mysteries.  Among  the  curious  stage  directions  in 
the  Chester  Mysteries,  are  the  following. — "Ileare  Adam 
and  Eve  goe  out  tell  Cayme  hath  slayne  Abell."  "  Then 
Noye,  with  all  his  familie,  shall  make  a  signe,  as  though 
the  wrouglite  upon  the  shippe  with  diveres  instrumentes." 
"Heare  Abraham  doth  kisse  his  sonne  Isaake,  andbyndes 
a  charsclmtlc  abouto  his  hcade :  let  him  make  a  signe  as 
though  lie  would  cut  off  his  heade  with  his  sorde ;  then  let 
the  angell  come  and  take  the  Borde  by  the  point  and  staio 
45 


it."  "Then  Balaham  shall  strike  hi»  aK»e,  and  remark. 
that  licre  it  is  necessary  for  Bomo  one  to  be  transformed 
into  tlie  appearance  of  an  asse." 

The  scenery  and  other  stage  furniture  must  have  boon 
of  the  most  primitive  kind,  probably  inferior  tc  that  of  the 
penny  and  twopenny  shows  that  still  figure  occaBionally  to 
our  streets.  Thus,  in  Noah's  Flood,  "  the  arck  muste  be 
horded  round  about,  and  one  the  hordes,  all  the  bcastea 
and  foulcs  painted."  Again,  when  the  star  appears  in  the 
east,  it  is  made  to  move  by  a  little  angel  carrying  it  away 
in  his  arms;  and  the  kings  follow  it  hy  coming  down 
from  the  stage,  mounting  on  liorses  in  the  street,  and 
riding  round  for  a  few  minutes  among  the  spectators. 

'•'Mimic,  i.e.,  actor,  more  properly,  the  clown.  "A 
mimick,  a  jester,  a  vice,"  Minsheu.     Chougfis,  daws, 

"*  LatclCd  the  AtheniajCs  eyes. 

Latch,  to  catch.  Hence,  metaphorically,  to  infect. 
"  Latching,  catching,  infecting,"  Kay'.s  English  Words,  od. 
1674,  p.  29.  The  word  occurs  in  the  first  sense  in  Macbeth. 
I  believe  the  usual  interpretation  given  to  it  in  this  paa- 
sage,  licked  over,  is  quite  inadmissible. 

Offoree,  of  necessity,  necessarily. 

"  Touch,  i.e.,  trick,  exploit.  Misprised,  mistaken.  Clxcr, 
countenance.     Sport  alone,  famous  sport. 

^•J  This  princess  of  pure  white. 

Princess  is,  of  course,  metaphorically  used  for  the  chief 
or  most  excellent.  Mr.  Collier  unnecessarily  suggests 
impress. 

"  Yon  fiery  oes. 

Oe*  are  anything  round :  the  stars  were  small  ocs.  Iq 
Wits  Recreations,  16.54,  the  heavens  arc  called  a  "  box  of 
oes."  Artificial,  skilful,  ingenious.  "  Artificitl,  artlfldall 
skilfuU,  cunning,  workraanly,"  Cotgrave. 

'»  Two  of  the  first,  like  coats  in  heraldry. 

A  coat  of  arms  quartered  with  another  coat,  but  crowned 
with  only  one  crest. 

M  You  canker-blossom. 

Steevens  explains  this,  "  a  worm  that  preys  on  the  loaves 
or  buds  of  flowers,  always  beginning  in  the  middle." 
Curst,  shrewish. 

'»  Of  hincC  ring  knot-grass  Tnade. 

"  Knot-grass  is  a  long  round  weed,  with  little  round 
smooth  leaves,  and  the  stalks  very  knotty  and  rough, 
winding  and  wreathing  one  seam  into  another  very  con- 
fusedly, and  groweth  for  the  most  part  in  very  moist 
places,"  Markham's  Cheap  and  Good  Husbandry,  1676. 

••  Already  to  their  wormy  beds  are  gone. 

This  hne  has  been  imitated,  perhaps  unconsciously,  by 

Shelley. 

•'  Thou  shalt  'by  this  dc<ir. 

'By,  I.e.,  aby,  axpiate.  We  Lave  also  in  this  act,  "teat, 
to  thy  peril,  thou  aby  it  dear." 

868 


NOTES  TO  A  MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


"  I".l  apply  your  eye. 

So  the  old  copies.    -Apply  di  J  not  ucccssarily  require  the 

'■"■■         ■•■'        ■•■'         We  have  tlie  verb  without  it 

The  versification  is  irregular. 


addition  ol'the  preposition 
in  tlie  Nice  Wanton,  15C0. 


«*  Jach  shall  have  Jill. 

'^ell  is  so  bad  a  rhyme  to  ill^  tliat  Steevens  proposes  to 
read  etill.  In  Heywood's  Epigrammes  vpon  J'roverbes, 
15C7   we  have, — 

"  All  shal  be  wel,  Jacke  shal  have  Gil ; 
Nay,  nay  ;  Gill  is  wedded  to  "Wil." 

Tliis  si  ows  that  the  common  reading  is  quite  correct. 

"  Thy  amiaile  cheelcs  do  eery. 

Amiable,  worthy  to  be  loved.  Gerard,  in  his  Herbal, 
p.  637,  mentions  an  "  amiable  and  pleasant  kind  of  prim- 
rose." Coy,  to  soothe  or  stroke.  Overflown,  flooded. 
i'cif,  hand  or  fist. 

«»  The  woodbiM,  the  sweet  honeysuckle. 

There  is  a  pass.n:^e  in  Ben  Jonson  in  which  the  blue  bind- 
weed  is  luenfioned  as  entwining  with  the  honeysuckle,  and 
GifTord  thinks  the  former  synonymous  witli  tlie  woodbine. 
He  is,  perliaps,  right,  for,  in  Lyuaere's  Herball,  tlie  wood- 
oine  is  made  synonymous  with  wilhwind,  anotlier  term  for 
the  bindweed  ;  but  it  is  not  to  he  denied  that,  in  Shakes- 
peare's time,  the  woodbine  and  tlie  wild  honeysuckle  were 
one  and  the  same ;  and  in  this  very  play  the  poet  mentions 
tlie  "luscious  woodbine,"  an  epithet  certainly  more  ap- 
propriate to  the  honeysuckle. 

*^  Like  round  and  orient  pearls. 

Orient  is  generally  used  by  our  old  writers  in  the  sense 
Cf,  bright,  sparkling. 

"8  Diini^s  hud  o^er  Cupids sjlower. 

According  to  Steevens,  this  is  the  bud  of  the  agnvs 
eastern  o'er  love-in-idleness. 

'"  And  bless  it  to  all  fair  posterity. 

The  first  edition  has  prosperity,  and  either  reading 
makes  perfect  sense. 

'"  Oitr  observation  is  performed. 

Alluding  to  the  observance  to  the  morn  of  May.  Vaward, 
vnuward,  the  forepart.     Chiding  alludes  only  to  sound. 

"  Soflew'd,  so  sanded. 

Fleiii'd,  liaving  large  hanging  chaps,  which  in  hounds 
M'crc  called  fiews.  "  When  a  hound  is  fleet,  faire  jleiifd, 
and  well  hangd,"  Lilly's  Midas,  1632.  Sanded,  of  a  sandy 
colour. 

'"  Mine  own,  and  not  mine  own. 

Two  interpretations  may  be  given  to  this  passage ;  one, 
that  she  ha.s  found  Demetrius  as  she  would  have  found  a 
lost  jewel,  so  une.\pectc  Jly  that  she  almost  doubts  whether 
ho  is  lier  own  ;  the  other,  that  she  has  found  him  as  she 
V70iild  have  found  a  jewel,  only  hero  till  the  owner  claims  it. 


"  Man  is  but  apatcTi'd/ool. 

That  is,  a  fool  in  a  coat  of  variegated  colours.  Heiico 
pateh,  a  fool.  See  note  51.  At  Iter  death  alludes,  probably, 
to  the  death  of  Thisbe.  Theobald  proposes  to  read  a/Lt^ 
death. 


"  Made,  i.e.,  enriched. 


"  Good  strings  to  your  beards. 

The  strings,  as  Malone  observes,  were  to  prevent  tho 
false  beards,  which  they  were  to  wear,  from  falUng  off. 


'9  Ovr  play  is  preferred. 

That  is,  proffered,  or  offered  to  the  duke's  notice.  Som 
Perkin  Warbeck,  act  ii.  sc.  3, — ■ 

In  honour  of  the  bride,  the  Scots,  I  know, 

Will  in  some  shew,  some  masque,  or  some  device, 

Prefer  their  duties. 

"  What  abridgment  have  you  for  this  evening  ? 

Mr.  Knight  explains  this, — "  what  shx/i't  thing  have  yon, 
of  play,  or  mask,  or  music '.  " 

T8  There  is  x  brief. 

Tliat  is,  an  abstract.  "  Give  me  the  brief  of  your  r?nl> 
jeet,"  Ben  Jonson's  Tale  of  a  Tub. 

Philostrate  here  produces  a  list  of  the  various  amusi^ 
nients  which  had  been  proffered  by  the  people  of  Athorji, 
for  Theseus  to  wear  away  the  "  long  age  of  thrr.o  hours, 
between  his  after-supper  and  bed-time."  The  e.xac^ 
meaning  of  one  of  these  has  never  been  satisfiiotorily  ex- 
plained : — 

"The  thrice  three  Muses  mourning  for  the  death 
Of  learning,  late  deceased  in  beggary." 

Theseus  rejects  this,  and  adds— 

"  That  is  some  satire,  keen  and  critical. 
Not  sorting  with  the  nuptial  ceremony." 

Now,  it  will  be  remembered  that  out  of  the  four  "  sports 
which  are  rife,"  three  of  tlieni  certainly  refer  to  a  pericJ 
and  action  consistent  with  the  nature  of  the  plot.  We  ts'vo 

"  The  battle  with  the  Centaurs,  to  be  sung, 
By  an  Athenian  eunuch,  to  the  harp." 

Next  in  order, 

"The  riot  of  the  tipsy  bacchanals, 
Tearing  the  Thracian  singer  in  their  rage." 

And  lastly, 

"  A  tedious  brief  scene  of  young  Pyramus, 
And  his  love  Thisbe :  very  tragical  mirth." 

It  is  probable  that  the  two  lines  wo  have  given  aocvo 
were  either  inserted  after  the  play  itself  Avas  written,  or 
that  the  poet  merely  makes  a  general  allusiou  to  the  low 
state  of  literature  at  the  time  ;  and  this  supposition  accords 
sullieicntly  with  Shakes|)eare's  usual  practice.  I'or  in- 
stance, he  perhaps  alludes,  nearly  at  the  beginning  of  the 
play,  to  tho  state  of  tho  weather  in  the  year  1.094;  hut 
this  descrijitiou  is  not  at  all  incompatible  with  tho  circum- 
stances of  his  drama ;  but  I  think  that  a  particular  allusiou 


—  I 


NOTES  TO  A  MIUSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 


to  pome  real  person  and  Honio  rciil  de.alh  lins  this  dilficiilty. 
Tlicseus  rejects  one  "  hport," 

"  In  ^'lory  of  my  kinHiniin  IlerculcK," 

and  another  becaust  it  was 

"  an  oM  device  ;  and  it  was  play'd 
When  I  from  Tliebcs  camo  last  a  conqueror.'" 

Is  it  reasonable  to  suppose  that  nt  the  same  time  Shakes- 
peare T\TOte  the  above  lines,  he  would  have  considered  it  at 
all  consistent  to  introduce  a  personal  allusion  to  any  of  his 
own  contemporaries?  For,  it  mu^it  be  remembered,  audi 
an  allusion  evidently  could  not  apply  also  to  the  period  of 
Theseus.  If  any  allusion  be  intended,  it  is  probably  gen- 
erivl;  and  Daniel,  in  the  Olclpatra,  printed  in  1594,  com- 
plains sadly  of  the  "  barbarism"  of  the  time.  Perhaps, 
however,  the  plague  of  l.i93  may  have  simultaneously  de- 
stroyed learning  and  some  of  its  professors. 

Mr.  Knight  conjectures  that  Shakespeare  alludes  to  the 
3eath  of  Kobert  Greene,  who  deceased  in  15H2,  in  a  con- 
dition that  might  truly  be  culled  beggary.  There  is  some 
rcii.son  in  this,  although  the  Midsnmmer  Night's  Dream 
was  not  written  till  two  years  atlerwards ;  for  in  the  year 
1594  was  published  Greene's  FuneralU,  in  which  occurs  the 
following  passage : — 

"For  judgement  Jove,  for  fcaj'/iin^  deepo  ho  still  Apollo 
scemde ; 
For  flocnt  tongue,    for  eloquence,    men   Mercury   him 

deemde ; 
For  curtesie  suppose  him  Guy,  or  Guyons  somewhat 

lesse. 
His  life  and  manners,  though  I  would,  I  cannot  halfe 
express  : 
Nor  mouth,  nor  minde,  nor  Muse  can  halfe  declare, 
liis  life,  his  love,  his  laude,  so  excellent  they  were." 

In  the  year  1594  was  .ilso  published  Greene's  last  work, 
s'ritten  in  conjunction  with  Thouuis  Lodge,  entitled  The 
Lool-inff  Glass  /i>r  Zoiido?i  and  England,  Chalmers  has 
dwelt  upon  an  animosity  which  is  said  to  have  existed 
between  Lodge  and  Shakespeare :  and,  if  this  were  the 
case,  we  may  perhaps  be  justified  in  conjecturing  that  the 
"  tliricc  three  Muses"  mourned,  or  rather  were  intended  to 
mourn,  on  the  last  production  of  a  famous  writer  which 
was  wholly  imvorthy  of  his  pen.  The  above-tnentioned 
work  is,  indeed,  very  poor ;  and,  as  fur  as  (ireeue  was  coa- 
cerned,  the  productions  of  his  learning  might  then  be  truly 
Baid  to  bo  "  late  deceased  in  beggary."  Thia  conjecture 
wm  also  bear  out  the  apprehension  of  Theseus: — 

"  That  is  some  satire,  keen  and  critical, 
Not  sorting  with  the  nuptial  ceremony." 

'"A  tedious  trie/ scene. 

In  ridicule  of  the  absurd  titles  of  some  ot  our  ancient 
dramas,  such  as  the  "  lamentable  Tragedy,  mixed  ful  of 
pleasant  mirth,  eonteyning  the  Life  of  Cainbises,  king  of 
Persia."  Ben  Jonson  notices  something  of  the  same  kind 
in  his  Bartholomew  Fair, — "The  ancient  modern  History 
of^ero  and  Leand  !r,"  of  course  satirically.  Lupton's  All 
for  Money,  157S,  is  called  a  "  pitiful  comedy"  on  the  title- 
page,  and  a  "  pleasant  tragedy"  in  the  prologue. 

^  Rot  ice,  and  wond'rous  seetkiTig  snow. 

Southwell,  1590, has  a  similar  antithesis,  "winter  rose, 
and  summer  ice;"  and  in  Cartwright's  Poems,  1651,  p. 
972,— 


.Johnson  hath  writ  things  lasting  and  divine,^ 
Yet  Ills  love-scenes,  Fletcher,  compar'd  to  tliino, 
Arc  cold  and  frosty,  and  exprest  love  6C, 
As  heat  with  ice,  or  warm  fires  mix'd  with  snow. 

8'  Takes  it  in  might,  not  mf.rit. 

That  18,  accepts  it  as  exerted  in  its  utmost  power,  not 
according  to  its  real  merit.  MiMe  respect,  the  respect  or 
regard  of  a  noble  mind.    Addressed,  ready. 

«2  /f  we  njfend,  it  is  with  oar  good  ivill. 

This  is  tlie  height  of  this  species  of  humour.  It  is 
remembered  by  Taylor,  the  Water-Poet,  in  his  Workcs, 
1G30, — "If  the  printer  hath  placed  any  line,  letter,  or  fiiU 
lable,  whereby  tliis  large  volume  may  be  made  guilty  to  be 
understood  by  any  man,  I  would  have  the  reader  not  to 
impute  the  fault  to  the  author ;  for  it  was  farre  from  liis 
purpose  to  write  to  any  purpose,  so  ending  at  the  begin- 
ning, I  say,  as  it  is  applawsefully  written  and  commended 
to  posterity  in  the  Midsummer  NighVs  Dreame, — If  we  of- 
fend, it  is  with  our  good  will :  we  came  with  no  intent  but 
to  offend  and  shew  our  simple  skill." 

'2  Like  a  child  on  a  recofder. 

The  recorder,  according  to  Hawkins,  appears  to  have 
been  a  kind  of  llageojet. 

*'  Not  Shafalus  to  Proems  was  so  true. 

Bottom's  mistake  for  Cephalus  and  Proeris,  a  poem  on 
whom,  by  Chute,  appeared  in  1593  or  1594. 

"  A'or  else  no  lien's  dam. 

In  our  old  phraseology,  as  Dr.  Johnson  observes,  nor 
often  related  to  two  members  of  a  sentence,  though  only 
expressed  in  the  hitter.  The  meiining  of  the  whole  is  this, 
'•Then  know  that  I,  one  Snug  the  joiner,  am  neither  a 
lion  fell,  nor  a  lion's  dam."  An  absurd  conjecture  to  snb- 
stitute  a  lion'' s  fell,  i.e.,  a  lion's  skin,  in  the  place  of  the  ol.I 
reading,  is  strikingly  illustrative  of  the  mischievous  ten- 
dency of"  ingenuity"  in  these  matters. 

»« Myself  the  man  i'  the  moon  do  stem  to  be. 

Grimm  (Deutsche  Mythologie,  p.  412)  informs  us  th.at 
there  are  three  legends  connected  with  the  Man  in  the 
Moon ;  the  first,  that  this  personage  was  Isaac  carr\mg  a 
bundle  of  sticks  for  his  own  sacrifice  ;  the  second,  that  he 
was  Cain  ;  and  the  other,  which  is  taken  from  the  history 
of  the  sabbath-breaker,  as  related  in  the  Book  of  Numbers. 
In  the  poem,  entitled  The  Testament  of  Creseide,  printea 
in  Chaucer's  works,  there  is  an  allusion  to  the  same 
legend : — 

"  Next  after  him  came  lady  Cynthia, 

The  laste  of  al,  and  swiftest  in  her  sphere. 
Of  colour  blake,  buskid  with  hornis  Iwa, 
And  in  the  night  she  listith  best  t'  apere, 
Hawe  as  the  Iced,  of  colour  nothing  cicre, 
For  al  the  light  she  borowed  at  her  brotuer 
Titan,  for  of  hersclfe  she  hath  nou  other. 

"  Her  gite  was  gray  and  ful  of  spottis  blako, 
And  on  her  brest  a  ehorle  painted  ful  even, 
Bering  a  bushe  of  thornis  on  his  bake, 

Whiche  for  his  theft  might  clime  no  ner  the  hcven. 

The  Italians  of  the  tliirteenth  century  imagined  the 
ilan  in  the  Moon  to  be  Cain,  who  is  going  to  sacrifice  to 

aso 


NOTES  TC'  A  MIOSUMMEK-NKJfirS  DREAM. 


tho  Lord,  horns — the  most  wretched  production  of  the 
pronnd.  Dante  refers  to  this  in  the  twentieth  canto  of 
the  Inferno : — 

"che  gia  tiene  'I  confine 
D'amenduo  gli  emisperi,  e  tocca  1'  onda 
Sotto  Sibilia,  Caino  e  le  spine." 

*'  In  snnff. 

There  is  here  a  play  upon  words,  in,  snuff  being  a  com- 
mon old  phrase  for  being  angry.  Moused,  torn  or  mangled 
by  the  mouth. 

"  These  lily  brows. 

Old  copies  read,  "  these  lily  lips,"  but  the  whole  being 
in  rhjTne,  I  cannot  refuse  to  accept  Theobald's  emendation. 

*»  Adieu  J  adieu,  adieu. 

"  Altho'  this  piece,  as  it  stands  before  us,  cannot  easily 
be  contrived  for  representation,  yet  this  part  of  it  which 
was  performed  by  the  Athenian  handicrafts  was  some  years 
ago  produced  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre  as  a  burlesque 
opera,  aud  repeatedly  exhibited  with  great  success.  I  have 
been  present  at  it  myself.  The  music,  which  was  in  great 
estimation,  was  composed  by  Mr.  J.  F.  Larrope,  and  the 
character  of  Pyramus  was  presented  by  that  celebrated 
singer,  Mr.  John  Beard,"  MS.  note  of  Thomas  Hull. 

"  A  Bergomash  darice, 
Aocordinp  U)  Sir  Tlioma*  Hanmer,  this  was  a  dance  aflor 


tlio  manner  of  tho  peasants  of  Bergouiasco,  a  country  in 
Italy  belonging  to  the  Venetians. 

"  To  mcecp  the  dust  behind  the  dM>r. 

The  fairies  were  always  famous  for  their  love  of  cleanli- 
ness, and  Rowlands  mentions  a  similar  employment  for 
Robin  Goodfellow  in  his  More  Knaves  Yet, — 

Amongst  the  rest  was  a  Goodfellow  devill. 
So  card  in  kindness,  cause  he  did  no  evill, 
Knowne  by  the  name  of  Robin,  as  wo  heare, 
And  tliat  his  eyes  as  broad  as  sawcers  were. 
Who  came  aniglits,  and  would  make  kitchins  cleone, 
And  in  the  bed  bepinch  a  lazie  queane. 

83  JTojt  as  light  as  bird  from  brier. 

A  very  common  old  comparison.  So  in  the  Cobler  0/ 
Canterburie,  1608,— 

This  smith  was  a  quaint  sire, 
As  merrie  as  bird  on  brier. 

'  Prodigious,  i.e.,  portentous. 

"  Every  fairy  take  his  gait. 

That  is,  take  his  way.  The  term  is  still  in  common  u£8 
in  the  north  of  England. 

"  Ckntles,  do  not  reprehend. 

Mr.  Hunter,  New  Illustrations,  i.  282,  amends  thia  bf 
reading,  dj  not  rcprobatd. 


.Sfi6 


€\)t  jtierrljiint  iit  ':M\tt 


IQ  Venice  towno  not  long  opoe 

A  cruel  Jew  did  dwell, 
Wlitoh  lived  all  on  usurie, 

Ass  Italian  writers  tell. 

Ballad  of  Gebnutus. 

TIRE  Merchanc  of  Venice  is  founded  on  two  popular  medieval  tales,  both  of  wliich  are  met  with  iD 

several  collections,  and  under  a  considerable  variety  of  form.  As  might,  therefore.,  be  anticipated, 
few  plays  have  been  more  suggestive  to  writers  on  the  history  of  fiction ;  but  a  brief  notice  of  these 
remote  originals  will  satisfy  the  readers  of  Shakespeare,  the  poet  having  been  most  probably  indebted 
for  his  materials  to  more  modern  versions  of  the  above-mentioned  narratives,  which,  for  the  sake  of 
distinctness,  may  be  designated  the  stories  of  the  Bond  and  the  Caskets. 

The  incident  of  the  Bond  is  probably  of  oriental  origin.  It  was  introduced  into  this  countiy  nt  a 
very  early  period,  a  vereion  of  it  having  been  discovered  by  Mr.  Wright  in  a  manuscript  in  the  British 
Museum,  written  about  the  year  1320,  (MS.  Harl.  7322.)  This  manuscript  is  a  collection  of  Latin 
stories  for  preachers,  and  the  tale  of  the  Bond  is  related  of  two  brothers,  one  malicious  and  covetous, 
the  other  generous  and  extravagant.  The  hitter,  having  expended  all  his  money,  was  reduced  to  the 
necessity  of  applying  to  the  elder  brother,  who,  insisting  upon  an  equivalent  of  some  kind,  the  younger 
one  v.'as  thoughtlessly  induced  to  sell  him  a  band's  breadth  of  his  flesh,  and  made  the  bargain  before 
the  necessary  witnesses.  On  the  contract  being  insisted  upon,  a  prince  interferes  to  save  the  life  of  the 
younger  brother ;  and  he  does  so  by  ingeniously  obtaining  from  him  a  g^ant  of  his  blood,  and  then 
informing  the  elder  brother  that  his  own  life  will  be  foifeited  if  he  spills  a  drop  of  his  relative's  blood.* 
This  story  is  found  under  a  difl'erent  form  in  the  well-known  collection  of  medieval  tales  called  the  Gcsta 
Bomanorum,  but  mixed  up  with  a  love  story,  and  concludes  by  the  knight's  mistress  coming  into  the 
court  disguised,  and  saving  her  lover  by  the  same  ingenuity  which,  in  the  play,  is  attributed  to  Portia. 
The  similarity  to  Shakespeare  is  still  further  to  be  noticed  in  the  next  version  of  the  tale,  which  occurs 
in  the  Pecorone  of  Giovanni  Fioreulino,  written  to^'ards  the  close  of  the  fourteenth  century.  In  this 
novel,  the  lady  of  Belmont  is  mentioned ;  the  trial  is  conducted  in  a  manner  more  similar  to  the 
description  in  Shakespeare ;  and  the  whole  concludes  with  the  stratagem  respecting  the  ring.  It  is 
evident,  therefore,  that  Shakespeare  was  indebted  in  some  way,  probably  indirectly,  to  the  Pecorone. 

The  second  story,  that  of  the  Caskets,  is  found  in  a  simple  form  in  the  Greek  romance  of  Barlaam 
and  Josaphat,  written  about  the  year  800.  "The  king  commanded  four  chests  to  be  made,  two  of 
which  were  to  be  covered  with  gold,  and  secured  by  golden  locks,  but  filled  with  the  rotten  bones  of 

*  Notices  of  other  medieval  tales,  which  include  the  condition  of  the  Bond,  will  bo  found  in  Mr.  Wright's  collocuoj 
of  LiUin  Storifs,  a  curious  and  v-iluable  volume,  nublished  by  the  Percy  Society. 

867 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


human  carcasses.  The  other  two  were  overlaid  with  pitch,  and  bound  with  rough  cords;  but  replenished 
with  pretious  stones  and  the  most  exquisite  gems,  and  with  ointmv-nts  of  the  richest  odour.  He  called 
his  nobles  loo-ether,  and  placing  these  chests  before  them,  asted  which  they  thought  the  most  valuable. 
They  pronounced  those  with  the  golden  coverings  to  be  the  most  pretious,  supposing  they  were  made 
to  contain  the  crowns  and  girdles  of  the  king.  The  two  chests  covered  with  pitch  they  \iewed  willi 
contempt.  Then  said  the  king,  I  presumed  what  would  be  your  determination,  for  ye  look  with  tin- 
eyes  of  sense.  But  to  discern  baseness  or  value,  which  are  hid  within,  we  must  look  with  the  eyes  of 
the  mind.  He  then  ordered  the  golden  chests  to  be  opened,  which  exhaled  an  intolerable  stench,  and 
filled  the  beholders  with  horror."  The  incident  adopted  by  Shakespeare  is  found  in  the  Gtsla  Roma- 
norum.  A  young  princess  is  to  choose  one  of  three  ca.skets.  The  first  was  made  of  gold,  ornamented 
With  precious  stones,  but  within  full  of  dead  men's  bones,  with  the  inscription,  "Who  chooseth  mo 
shall  find  what  he  deserves."  The  second  was  of  silver,  but  filled  with  earth,  and  inscril  ed,  "  Who 
chooseth  me  shall  find  what  his  nature  desireth."  The  third  was  made  of  lead,  filled  with  gems  and 
precious  stones,  and  inscribed,  "  Who  chooseth  me  shall  find  what  God  hath  disposed."  The  princess 
^"isely  chose  the  last,  and  the  Emperor  says :  "  Bona  puella,  bene  elegisti :  idea  Jilium  meitm  habebis." 
This  story  had  appeared  in  English,  in  Robinson's  translation  of  the  Gesia,  as  early  as  1577. 

It  appears  -with  siifiicient  clearness  from  the  above  that  Shakespeare  was  indebted  for  the  chief 
incidents  of  his  play,  either  dii'ecfly  or  indirectly,  to  the  Pecorone  and  the  tale  of  the  Caskets  in  the 
Genta  Romanorum.  The  origin  of  the  episode  of  the  loves  of  Lorenzo  and  Jessica  must  be  looked  for 
elsewhere,  and  Dunlop  refers  us  to  the  fourteenth  tale  of  Massuccio  di  Salerno,  who  flourished  about 
the  year  1470,  in  which  novel  we  have  an  avaricious  father,  whose  daughter  elopes  by  the  inteiTention 
of  a  servant,  and  robs  her  parent  of  his  money.  On  discovering  her  flight,  the  father's  grief  is  divided 
between  the  loss  of  his  daughter  and  the  robbery  of  his  ducats. 

Instead,  however,  of  supposing  the  poet  obtained  his  materials  from  three  unconnected  works,  a 
very  easy  and  probable  solution  of  the  question  is  suggested  by  the  circumstance  that  the  Merchant  of 
Venice  was  originally  also  entitled  the  Jew  of  Venice.  This  f;ict,  which  is  obtained  from  the  entiy  of 
the  play  on  the  registers  of  the  Stationers'  Com]3any,  in  1598,  is  of  considerable  importance,  when 
viewed  in  connection  with  another  circumstance,  the  allusion  to  an  old  play  called  the  "Jev/,"  in 
Uosson's  Schoole  of  Abuse,  which  contained  "a  pleasaunt  invective  against  Poets,  Pipers,  Plaiers, 
Jesters,  and  such-like  cateqiillers  of  a  Commonwealth,"  IGmo.,  1579.  A  play  so  called,  says  Gjssoi., 
was  one  of  the  few  which  were  "  mthout  rebuke."  It  was  exhibited  at  the  Bull,  and  Gossoc  describes 
it  as  representing  the  greedinesse  of  worldly  cliusers^  and  bloody  mindes  of  usurers.  The  coincidence 
of  this  description  -with  the  subject  of  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  is  so  remarkable,  that  when  we  add  to 
it  the  identity  of  title,  little  doubt  can  fairly  remain  that  the  play  mentioned  by  Gosson,  in  1579 
contained  similar  incidents  to  those  in  Shakesjjeare's  play,  and  that  it  was,  in  all  probability,  the 
rude  original  of  the  Merchant  of  Venice.  If  this  be  conceded,  we  need  scarcely  enter  into  the  subject 
of  the  ballad  of  Gemutus  as  one  of  Shakespeaie's  sources.  If  the  ballad  was  really  anterior  to  the 
play,  it  might  possibly  have  suggested  a  few  trifling  expressions:  but  the  evidence  clearly  leads  to  the 
oonclusion  that  the  poet  must  have  been  indebted  to  some  production,  which  was  in  its  turn  borrowed 
from  the  Pecorone. 

The  Mercliant  of  Venice,  as  has  been  already  remarked,  was  entered  at  Stationers'  ilall  in  1598, 
and  it  is  mentioned  by  Meres  in  the  same  year.  We  have  no  other  certain  information  respec-ting  the 
date  of  its  composition,  but  it  was  probably  written  before  the  year  1596,  for  in  Wily  Beguiled,  an  old 
play  whicli  contained  more  than  one  slv  borrowing  from  Shakespeare,  occurs  the  following  palpable 
imitati'w  of  a  well-known  scene  in  the  Merchant  of  V^enice  : — 


'Sophot.  In  sucli  a  night  did  Paris  win  his  love. 
Zelia.  In  such  a  night  jEnens  prov'd  unkind. 
Sophos.  In  sucli  a  niglit  did  Troilua  court  his  dear. 
Lelia.  In  such  a  niglit  fair  I'liillis  w:w  bctraj-'d." 


The  play  of  IVily  Brguiled  is  alhidcd  to  in  Nasii's  Have  with  you  to  Saffron  Walden,  1500,  and  it 
probablv  «h<;n  a  new  production.     And  if,  in  addition  to  this,  we  add  the  circumstauco  of  several 


f.f>. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE 


expressions  wluch  occur  in  tlie  trial  scene  iu  Shakespeare  beiii";  similar  to  others  in  the  story  of  tlie 
BoMiI  in  Miinilay's  translation  of  Silvayn's  Orator,  published  in  the  same  year,  we  may  ari-ive  not  un- 
rCiusonably  at  the  conclnsiou  that  the  Merchant  of  Venice  was  a  new  and  favourite  play  in  1590.  T;e 
date  of  its  composition  would  thus  bo  placed  in  1595,  or  very  early  in  the  following  year.* 

The  first  edition  of  the  play  appeared  in  1600,  entitled,  "The  most  excellent  Historic  of  the  Mer- 
chant of  Venice,  with  the  extreaine  crueltie  of  Shylocke  the  Jowe  towards  the  sayd  Merchant  in  cutting 
a  just  pound  of  his  flesh:  and  the  obtayning  of  Portia  by  the  choyse  of  three  chests:  as  it  hath  beene 
divers  times  acted  by  the  Lord  Chamberlaiue  his  Servants.  Written  by  William  Shakespeare.  At 
London,  Printed  by  J.  R.  foi'  Thonuis  Heyes,  and  are  to  be  so!d  ;;i  Paules  Chuich-yard  at  the  signe  of 
the  Greene  Dragon,  IGOO."  The  si'cond  edition  was  "printed  by  J.  Roberts"  in  the  same  year,  with 
variations  which  seem  to  me  to  indicate  that  its  source  was  not  so  pure  as  that  fi'om  which  the  other 
edition  was  printed.  Mr.  Knight  says  the  first  quarto  of  Heyes  was  also  printed  by  Roberts,  but  tliis 
is  surely  too  bold  an  assumption  to  draw  merely  from  the  initials,  and  it  would  be  strange  indeed  had 
Roberts  printed  two  diffeient  texts  of  the  same  play  nearly  simultaneously.  Tlie  play  was  reprinted 
D  the  folio  of  1623,  with  a  few  variations  chiefly  arising  from  tlie  action  of  the  statute  of  -James  L 
directed  against  the  proiane  use  of  the  name  of  the  Deity  in  dramatic  peifonuances.  Our  text  is  chiefly 
taken  from  the  earliest  quarto. 

The  Merchant  of  Venice  appeai-s  to  have  been  a  popular  drama.  We  may  conclude  so  from  the 
facts  already  mentioned,  as  well  as  from  the  circumstance  of  its  having  been  twice  acted  before  the  Court 
ic  the  year  1605  iu  the  course  of  three  d.ays,  which  appears  from  the  on'ginal  accounts  of  tlie  revels 
preserved  at  Somerset  House,  first  edited  by  Mr.  P.  Cunningham.  About  a  century  afterwards,  an 
altei  ation  of  it  by  Lord  Lansdowne  was  produced  at  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  under  the  title  of  the  "  Jew  of 
Venice,"  published  in  IVOl,  with  a  prologue  by  Bevil  Higgons,  iu  which  the  ghost  of  Shakespeare  18 
represented  as  uttering  the  following  reniai'kable  lines, — 

•  These  scenes  in  their  rough  native  dress  were  mine, 

But  noWy  improved^  with  nohlcr  lustre  shine  j 
The  first  rude  sketches  Shakespeare's  pencil  drew, 
Jlut  all  the  shilling  master-strokes  are  new. 

We  smile  now  at  the  temerity  of  Mr.  Higgons  and  Lord  Lansdowiie ;  but,  although  Macklin  par- 
dally  I'estored  the  poet's  text,  it  is  onlv  within  a  very  few  years  that  the  genuine  play,  in  its  full  pro- 
portion, has  taken  the  place  of  the  mutilated  copy  of  the  old  prompt-book,  in  which  some  of  the  most 
gi'aceful  and  poetical  parts  of  the  drama  were  omitted. 

The  Merchant  of  Venice  exhibits,  to  use  the  words  of  Grosson,  "  the  greedjacsse  of  worldly-chusers, 
and  blooilv  miudos  of  usurers ;"  and  there  is  more  concord  in  the  union  of  these  subjects  than  might  at 
first  be  imagined.  Intense  desire  of  revenge  is  not  unfrequentl'  found  joined  with  the  ardent  love  of 
gain,  and  the  character  of  Shylock,  in  this  respect,  is  strictly  true  to  nature.  Severely  pereecuted  iu 
every  direction  on  account  of  his  creed,  the  revenge  he  attempts  to  take  is,  in  regard  to  its  severe 
character,  that  of  any  bad  man  who  has  been  deeply  injured  under  similar  circumstances,  for  religious 
intolerance  and  persecu'ion  have  invariably  produced  a  deeper  feeling  of  resentment  than  other  kinds 
of  injustice.  The  form  taken  by  his  revenge  is  appalling,  but  had  it  been  less  frightful,  our  sympathies 
would  have  turned  to  the  Jew.  Shylock  had  been  trampled  upon  till  his  desire  for  retaliation  triumphed 
over  his  love  of  money,  and  resolved  itself  into  that  one  feeling  which  it  appears  to  have  been  the 
object  of  the  poet  to  illustrate  in  the  play.  Shakespeare  has  almost  imperceptibly  so  arranged  the 
course  of  Shylock's  arguments,  that,  while  they  appear  to  and  do  actually  arise  perfectly  naturally  out 
of  his  desire  for  revenge,  they  are  madei  the  medium  of  inculcating  the  liberal  doctrine,  that  a  man 
.•annot  justly  be  deprived  of  his  rights  on  account  of  his  religious  belief. 


•  A  play  called  hy  Henslowe  the  "  Vcnesyan  Comedy"  was  acted  iu  1594,  and  frequently  repeated  ;  but  there  are  no 
ButBcient  reasons  for  believln?  it  to  have  been  Shakespeare's  play. 

859 


PERSONS    REPEESENTED. 


Duke  of  Venice. 

Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  1. 

Prince  of  Arragon,  suitor  to  Portia. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  9. 

Prince  of  Morocco,  suitor  to  Portia. 
ars,  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  7. 


Antonio,  the  Merchant  of  Venice. 

Appears,  Act  I.  Bc.  1;  so.  3.    Act  II.  sc.  6.    Act  III.  so.  3. 
Act  IV.  sc.  1.     Act  V.  ac.  1. 

a  ASS  A'sio,  friend  to  Antonio. 

Appears-  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3.    Act  II.  sc.  2.     Act  III.  so.  2. 
Act  IV.  so.  1.     Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Sohxyio,  friend  to  Antonio  and  Bassanio. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.    Act  II.  sc.  4 ;  sc.  8.     Act  III.  so.  1 ; 
sc.  2.    Act  IV.  so.  1. 

SALARiNo,/;7V»a!  to  Antonio  and  Bassanio. 

Appears,  ixH.  sa.  1.    Act  II.  sc.  4;  sc.  6;  so.  8.    Act  III. 
sc.  1 ;  so.  3.    Act  IV.  sc.  1. 

Gratiaso,  friend  to  Antonio  and  Bassanio. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1.    Act  II.  so.  2  ;  so.  4;  so.  8.    Act  III. 
BO.  2.    Act.  IV.  sc.  1 ;  so.  2.    Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Lorenzo,  in  love  with  Jessica. 

Appears,  Act  I.  so.  1.    Act  II.  sc.  4;  so.  6.    Act  III.  sc.  2 ; 
so.  4;  sc.  5.    Act  V.  so.  1. 

RiiYLocK,  a  Jew. 

Appear*  Act  I.  sc.  3.    Act  II.  sc.  5.    Act  III.  sc.  1 ,  so.  3. 
Act  IV.  so.  1. 

TuiiAj.,  a  Jew,  friend  to  Shylock. 
Appears,  Act  III.  so.  1. 

860 


Launcelot  Gobbo,  a  cloien,  servan    to  Sliyl  )ck. 

Appears,  Act  11.  bc.  2;  so.  8;  bc.  4;ec°.  5.     Act  III.  ho  6 
Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Old  Gobbo,  father  to  Launci;lot. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  2. 

Leonardo,  servant  to  Bassanio. 

Appears,  Act  II.  so.  2. 

Balthazar,  servant  to  Portia. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  4. 

Stephano,  servant  to  Portia. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Salerio,  a  messenger  from  Venice. 
Tills  character  is  omitted  in  tliis  edition.    See  Kote  1. 

A  Oaoler. 

Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  3. 

Portia,  a  rich  heiress. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.    Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  so.  7 ;  so.  9.     Act  III 
sc.  2;sc.  4.    Act  IV.  sc.  1 ;  so.  2.    ActV.  so.  1. 

Nerissa,  loaiting-maid  to  Portia. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  3.    Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  7 ;  so.  9.    Act  III, 
sc.  2;  sc.  4.    Act  IV.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Jessica,  daughter  to  Sliylock. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  3;  sc.  5;  so.  G.     Act  III.  sc.  2;  so.  4; 
so.  5.    Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Magnificoes  of  Venire,  Officers  of  the   Court  of 
Justice,  Servants,  and  oilier  Attendants. 

SCENE, — Partly  at  Venice  ;  and  pautly  at  Bel- 
mont, THE  SKAT  OK  PoRTIA,  ON  THE  CONTINENT. 


€l)e  'JiiiTtliimt  nf  '^mtt 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.— Venice.     A  street. 

Enter  Antonio,  Salakino,  and  Solanio.' 

Ant.  In  sooth,  I  know  not  why  I  am  so  sad. 
It  wearies  me ;  you  say  it  weaiies  you ; 
Btit  how  I  caught  it,  found  it,  or  came  by  it, 
What  stuff  't  is  made  of,  whereof  it  is  bom, 
I  am  to  learn ; 

And  s-jch  a  want-wit  sadness  makes  of  me, 
That  1  hav6  much  ado  to  know  myself. 

Salar.  Your  mind  is  tossing  on  the  ocean ; 
There,  where  your  argosies  with  portly  sail,^ 
Like  signiors  and  rich  burghers  on  the  flood. 
Or,  as  it  were,  the  pageants  of  the  sea, 
Do'overpeer  the  petty  trafhckers. 
That  curt'sy  to  them,  do  them  reverence, 
As  they  fly  by  them  with  their  woven  wings. 

Sola?'..  Believe  me,  sii-,  had  I  such  venture  forth. 
The  better  part  of  my  affections  woidd 
Bo  with  my  hopes  abroad.     I  should  be  still 
Plucking  the  grass,  to  know  where  sits  the  wind ; 
Peering  in  maps,  for  ports,  and  jjiers,  and  roads; 
And  every  object  that  might  make  me  fear 
Misfortune  to  my  ventures,  out  of  doubt 
Would  make  me  sad. 

Salar.  My  wind,  cooling  my  broth. 

Would  blow  me  to  an  ague,  when  I  thought 
What  hann  a  wind  too  great  might  do  at  sea. 
I  should  not  see  the  sandy  hour-glass  run, 
But  I  should  think  of  shallows  and  of  flats, 


And  see  my  wealthy  Andrew  dock'd  ia  sana, 

Vailing  her  high-top  lower  than  her  ribs,' 

To  kiss  her  burial.     Should  I  go  to  church. 

And  see  the  holy  edifice  of  stone. 

And  not  bethink  me  straight  of  dangerous  rocks, 

Which,  touching  but  my  gentle  vessel's  side, 

Would  scatter  all  her  spices  on  the  stream ; 

Enrobe  the  roaring  waters  with  my  silks; 

And,  in  a  word,  but  even  now  worth  this. 

And  now  worth  nothing?   Shall  I  have  the  thought 

To  think  on  this,  and  shall  I  lack  the  thought 

That  such  a  thing,  bechanc'd,  would  make  me  sad? 

But  tell  not  me ;  I  know  Antonio 

Is  sad,  to  think  upon  his  merchandise. 

Ant.  Believe  me,  no :  I  thank  my  fortune  for  it, 
My  ventures  are  not  in  one  bottom  trusted. 
Nor  to  one  place ;  nor  is  my  whole  estate 
Upon  the  fortune  of  this  present  year : 
Therefore  my  merchandise  makes  me  not  sad. 

Salar.  Why,  then  you  are  in  love. 

Ant.  Fie,  fie ! 

Salar.  Not  in  love  neither  ?     Then  let  us  say 
you  are  sad 
Because  you  are  not  merry :  and  't  were  as  easy 
For  you  to  laugh,  and  leap,  and  say  you  are  mei'ry, 
Because  you  are  not  sad.     Now,  by  two-headed 

Janus, 
Nature  hath  fram'd  strange  fellows  in  her  time ; 
Some  that  will  evermore  peep  through  tl  ,eir  eyes, 
And  laugh,  hke  parrots,  at  a  bagpiper ; 

361 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


SOBNE    L 


And  other  of  such  \nnegar  aspect, 

That  they  '11  uot  show  their  teeth  in  way  of  smile, 

Though  Nestor  swear  the  jest  be  laughable. 

Enter  Bassaxio,  Lorenzo,  and  Gratiaxo. 

Solan.  Here  comes  Bassanio,  your  most  noble 
kinsman, 
Gratiano,  and  Lorenzo.     Fare  ye  well ; 
We  leave  you  now  with  better  company. 

Salar.  I  would  have  stay'd  till  I  had  made  you 
merry, 
If  worthier  fiiends  had  not  prevented  me. 

Ant.  Your  worth  is  veiy  dear  in  my  regard. 
I  take  it,  your  own  business  calls  on  you, 
.\nd  you  embrace  th'  occasion  to  depait. 

Sidar.  Good  moiTOw,  my  good  lords. 

Bass.  Good  signiors  both,  when  shall  we  laugh? 
Say,  when  ? 
Vou  grow  exceeding  strange  :  Must  it  be  so  ? 

Salar.  We'll  make  our  leisures  to  attend  on  yours. 
^Exeunt  Salakino  and  Solaxio. 

Lor.  M}'  lord  Bassanio,  since  you  have  found 
Antonio, 
We  two  will  leave  you ;  but  at  dinner-time 
I  play  you  have  in  mind  where  we  must  meet. 

Bass.  I  will  not  fail  you. 

Gra    You  look  not  well,  signior  Antonio ; 
You  have  too  much  respect  upon  the  world : 
They  lose  it  that  do  buy  it  with  much  care. 
Believe  me,  you  are  marvellously  changed. 

Ant.  I  hold  the  world  but  as  the  world,  Gra- 
tiano ; 
A  stage,  where  every  man  must  play  a  part. 
And  mine  a  s.vi  one. 

Gra.  Let  me  play  the  Fool : 

Wiilj  mirth  and  laughter  let  old  wrinkles  come ; 
And  let  my  liver  rather  heat  with  wine. 
Than  mv  heart  cool  with  niortitying  groans. 
Why  should  a  man,  whose  blood  is  warm  within, 
Sit  like  his  jxrandsire  cut  in  alabaster? 
Sleep  when  he  wakes,  and  creep  into  the  jaundice 
By  being  peevish  ?     I  tell  thee  what,  Antonio, — 
I  love  tht-e,  and  it  is  my  love  that  speaks; — 
There  are  a  sort  of  men,  whose  visages 
E)o  cream  and  mantle  like  a  standing  pond, 
And  do  a  wilful  stillness  entertain, 
Willi  purpose  to  be  dress'd  in  an  opinion 
Of  wisdom,  gi'avity,  ])i'ofound  conceit : 
As  vvlio  should  .say,  "  I  am  sir  Oracle, 
And  when  I  ope  my  lips,  let  no  dog  bark !"' 
0,  my  Antonio,  I  do  know  of  tliese. 
That  therefore  only  are  reputed  wise 
862 


For  savins'  nothing ;  when,  I  am  very  sure,' 

If  tli3\  sliould  speak,  't  would  .limost  danm  those 

ears. 
Which,  hearing  them,  would  call  their  brother." 

fools. 
I  '11  tell  thee  more  of  this  another  time : 
But  fish  not  with  this  melancholy  bait. 
For  this  tool  gudgeon,  this  opinion. 
Come,  good  Lorenzo : — fare  ye  well  a  while , 
I  '11  end  my  exhortation  after  dinner. 

Lor.  Well,  we  will  leave  you,  then,  till  dinner- 
time : 
I  must  be  one  of  these  same  dumb  wise  men. 
For  Gratiano  never  lets  me  speak 

Gra.  Well,  keep  me  company  but  two  years 
more. 
Thou  shalt  not  know  the  sound    of   tine    own 
tongue. 

Ant.  Farewell :  I  '11  grow  a  talker  for  this  gear, 

Gra.  Thanlcs,  i'  fiith ;  for  silence  is  only  com- 
mendable 
In  a  neat's  tongue  diy'd,  and  a  maid  not  vendible 
[Exeunt  Gratiano  and  Lorexzo. 

Ant.  Is  that  anything  now  ? 

Bass.  Gi'atiano  speaks  an  infinite  deal  of 'lothing, 
more  than  anv  man  in  all  Venice.  His  reasons  are 
two  grains  of  wheat  hid  in  two  bushels  of  chaff, 
you  shall  seek  all  day  ere  you  find  them,  and  shen 
you  have  them,  they  are  not  worth  the  searcli. 

Ant.  AVell,  tell  me  now,  what  lady  is  the  same 
To  whom  you  swore  a  secret  pilgrimage, 
That  you  to-day  promis'd  to  tell  me  of? 

Bass.  'T  is  not  unknown  to  you,  Antonio, 
How  much  I  have  disabled  mine  estate, 
P>y  something  showing  a  more  swelling  port 
Thau  mv  faint  means  would  grant  continuance: 
Nor  do  I  now  make  moan  to  be  abridg'd 
From  such  a  noble  rate  ;  but  my  chief  care 
Is  to  come  fairly  ofi'  from  the  great  debts. 
Wherein  my  time,  something  too  prodigal, 
Hath  left  me  gag'd.     To  you,  Antonio, 
I  owe  the  most  in  money  and  in  love ; 
And  from  your  love  I  have  a  warranty 
To  unburthen  all  my  plots  and  purposes, 
How  to  get  clear  of  all  the  debts  I  owe. 

Ant.  I  pray  you,  good  Bassanio,  let  me  know  it : 
And,  if  it  stand,  as  you  yourself  still  do, 
\\'ithin  the  eye  of  honour,  be  assur'd 
My  purse,  my  person,  my  extremest  raean.s. 
Lie  all  unlock'd  to  your  occasions. 

Bass.  In  my  school-days,  when  I  had  lost  ono 
shaft. 


ACT    1. 


TUE  MEKGEANT  OF  VENICE. 


BUENE    IL 


I  sliot  his  fellow  of  the  self-same  flight 

The  self-same  way,  with  more  advised  watdi 

To  find  the  other  I'orth ;  and,  by  adventuriug  both, 

I  oft  found  both  :  I  urge  this  eiiildhood  protf, 

liecaiise  what  follows  is  pure  iunoocnce. 

[  owe  you  inueh ;  aud,  like  a  wilful  youth, 

That  which  I  owe  is  lost :  but  if  you  please 

To  shoot  another  arrow  that  self-way 

Whieh  you  did  shoot  the  first,  I  do  not  doubt, 

As  I  will  watch  the  aim,  or  to  find  both. 

Or  bring  your  latter  hazard  back  again. 

Anil  thankfully  rest  debtor  for  the  first. 

jint.   You  kuow  me  well,  and  herein  spend  but 
time, 
lo  wind  about  my  love  with  circumstance  ; 
Aud,  out  of  doubt,  you  do  me  now  more  wrong 
In  making  question  of  my  uttermost, 
riian  if  you  h.id  made  waste  of  all  I  have. 
Then  do  but  say  to  me  what  I  should  do, 
That  in  your  knowledge  may  by  me  be  done. 
And  I  am  prest'  unto  it :  therefore  speak. 

Bass.  In  Belmont  is  a  lady  richly  left, 
And  she  is  fair,  and,  fairer  than  that  word. 
Of  wond'rous  virtues.     Sometimes  from  her  eyes' 
I  did  receive  fair  speechless  messages  : 
Her  name  is  Portia ;  nothing  undervalued 
To  Cato's  daughter,  Bratus'  Portia. 
Nor  is  the  wide  world  ignorant  of  her  worth ; 
For  the  four  winds  blow  in  from  every  coiist 
Renowned  suitors :  and  her  suuny  locks 
Hang  on  her  temples  like  a  golden  fleece ; 
Which  makes  her  seat  of  Belmont,  Colchos'  strand, 
And  many  Jasons  come  in  quest  of  her. 
O,  my  Antonio !  had  I  but  the  means 
To  hold  a  rival  place  with  one  of  them, 
[  have  a  mind  presages  me  such  thrift, 
That  I  should  questionless  be  fortunate. 

Ant.  Thou  kuow'st  that  all  my  fortunes  are  at  sea; 
Neither  have  I  money,  nor  commodity 
To  raise  a  present  sum  :  therefore,  go  forth ; 
Try  what  my  credit  can  in  Venice  do  ; 
That  shall  be  rack'd,  even  to  the  uttermost. 
To  furnish  thee  to  Belmont,  to  fair  Portia. 
Go,  presently  inquire,  and  so  will  I, 
Where  money  is;  ami  1  no  question  make. 
To  have  it  of  my  trast,  or  for  my  sake.      [jEjceimt. 

SCENE  n. — Belmont.    A  room  in  Portia's  House. 

£ntcr  Portia  and  Neiussa. 

Por.  By  my  troth,  Nerissa,  my  little  body  is  a- 
wcarv  of  tliis  OTcat  world. 


Ner.  You  would  bo,  sweet  madam,  if  your 
miseries  were  in  the  same  abundani;e  as  your  good 
fortunes  are.  And  yet,  for  aught  I  see,  they  are  as 
sick  that  surfeit  with  too  much,  as  they  that  starve 
with  nothing.  It  is  no  small  Iiappiness,  therefore, 
to  be  seated  in  the  mean  ;  superfluity  comes  sooner 
bj'  white  hairs,  but  comjietcncy  lives  longer. 

Por.  Good  sentences,  and  well  pronounc'd. 

Ner.  They  would  be  better,  if  well  followed. 

Por.  If  to  do  were  as  easy  as  to  know  what 
were  good  to  do,  chapels  had  been  churches,  aud 
poor  men's  cottages  princes'  palaces.  It  is  a  good 
divine  that  follows  his  own  instructions.  I  can 
easier  teach  twenty  what  were  good  to  be  done, 
than  be  one  of  the  twenty  to  follow  mine  own 
teaching.  The  brain  may  devise  laws  for  the 
blood  ;  but  a  hot  temper  leaps  o'er  a  cold  decree  : 
such  a  hare  is  madness,  the  youth,  to  skip  o'er  the 
meshes  of  good  counsel,  the  cripple.  But  this 
reasoning  is  not  in  the  fashion  "to  choose  me  a 
husband  ! — 0  me,  the  word  choose !  I  may 
neither  choose  whom  I  would,  nor  refuse  whom  I 
dislike  ;  so  is  the  will  of  :wliving  daughter  curb'd 
by  the  will  of  a  dead  father.  Is  it  not  hard, 
Nerissa,  that  I  cannot  choose  one,  noi'  refuse  none  ? 

Ner.  Your  father  was  ever  virtuous ;  and  holy 
men  at  their  death  have  good  inspirations;  there- 
fore, the  lottery  that  he  hath  de\ised  in  these 
three  chests,  of  gold,  silver,  and  lead,  (whei'eof 
who  chooses  his  meaning,  chooses  you,)  will,  no 
doubt,  never  be  chosen  by  any  rightly,  but  one 
who  you  shall  rightly  love.  But  what  warmth  is 
there  in  your  aifection  towards  any  of  these  princely 
suitors  that  ai'e  already  come? 

Por.  I  pray  thee,  overaame  them  ;  and  as  thou 
namest  thom,  I  will  describe  them ;  and  according 
to  my  description,'  level  at  my  aftection. 

Ner.  First,  there  is  the  Neapolitan  prince. 

Por.  Ay,  that  's  a  colt,  indeed,'"  for  he  doth 
nothing  but  talk  of  his  horse  ;  and  he  makes  it  a 
great  appropriation  to  his  own  good  parts  that  he 
can  shoe  him  himself.  I  am  much  afraid  my  lady 
his  mother  play'd  false  with  a  smith. 

Ner.  Then  is  there  the  county  Palatine. 

Por.  He  doth  nothing  but  frown;  as  who  should 
say,  "  An  you  will  not  have  me,  choose."  He 
heara  meny  tales,  and  smiles  not :  I  fear  he  will 
prove  the  weeping  philosopher  when  he  grows  old, 
being  so  full  of  unmannerly  sadness  in  his  youth. 
I  had  rather  to  be  mai-ried  to  a  death's  head  with 
a  bone  in  his  mouth,  than  to  either  of  these.  God 
defend  uie  from  these  two  1 

868 


TEE  MEKCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


SCENE   in. 


Ner.  now  siiy  you  by  tlie  French  lord,  monsieur 
le  Bon  ? 

For.  God  made  him,  and  therefore  let  him  pass 
for  a  man.  In  truth,  I  know  it  is  a  sin  to  be  a 
mocker.  But  he  !  why,  he  hath  a  horse  better  than 
the  Neapolitan's;  a  better  bad  habit  of  frowning 
than  the  count  Palatine  :  he  is  every  man  in  no 
man  :  if  a  throstle  slug,  he  falls  straight  a  cap'riiig; 
he  will  fence  with  his  own  shadow.  If  I  should 
marry  him,  I  should  marry  twenty  husbands.  If 
he  would  despise  me,  I  would  forgive  him !  for  if 
he  love  me  to  madness,  I  shall  never  requite  him. 

Ner.  What  say  you  then  to  Faulconbridge,  the 
young  baron  of  England  ? 

Por.  You  know  I  say  nothing  to  him  ;  for  he 
understands  not  me,  nor  I  him  :  he  liath  neither 
Latin,  French,  nor  Italian ;  and  you  v.'ill  come 
into  the  court,  and  swear  that  I  have  a  poor  penny- 
worth in  the  English.  He  is  a  proper  man's  pic- 
ture :  but,  alas !  who  can  converse  with  a  dumb 
show  ?  How  oddly  he  is  suited !  I  think  he 
bought  his  doublet  in  Italy,  his  round  hose  in 
France,  his  bonnet  in  Germany,  and  his  behaviour 
everywhere. 

Ner.  What  think  you  of  the  Scottish  lord,"  liis 
neighbour  ? 

For.  That  he  huth  a  neighbourly  chanty  in  him ; 
for  he  borrowed  a  box  of  the  ear  of  tlie  Englishman, 
and  swore  he  would  pay  him  again  when  he  was 
able.  I  think  the  Frenchman  became  his  surety, 
and  sealed  under  for  another. 

Ner.  How  like  you  the  young  German,  the  duke 
of  Saxony's  nephew  ? 

Por.  ■  Very  vildly  in  the  morning,  when  he  is 
sober ;  and  most  vildly  in  the  afternoon,  when  he 
is  drunk :  when  he  is  best,  he  is  a  little  worse 
than  a  man ;  and  when  he  is  woree,  he  is  little 
better  than  a  beast.  An  the  worst  fall  tliat  ever 
fell,  I  hope  I  shall  make  shift  to  go  without 
him. 

Ner.  If  he  should  offer  to  choose,  and  choose 
(he  right  ca.sket,  you  should  refuse  to  perform 
your  father's  will,  if  you  should  refuse  to  accept 
him. 

Por.  Therefore,  for  fear  of  (he  worst,  I  pray 
Uiee  set  a  deep  glass  of  Kheuish  wine  on  the  con- 
trary casket :  for,  if  the  devil  be  within,  and  that 
temptation  witliout,  I  know  he  will  choose  it.  I 
will  do  anything,  Neris.sa,  ere  I  will  be  married  to 
a  sponge. 

Ner.  Yon  need  not  f  rar,  lad}-,  the  having  jmy  of 
ibcso  lords;  (hey  have  acquainted  ine  with  their 


detenninations :  which  is,  indeed,  to  return  to 
their  home,  and  to  trouble  you  with  no  more  suit, 
unless  you  may  be  won  by  some  other  sort,  than 
your  father's  imposition  depending  on  the  caskets. 

For.  K  I  live  to  be'  as  old  as  Sibylla,  I  will  die 
as  chaste  as  Diana,  unless  I  be  obtained  by  the 
manner  of  my  father's  will.  I  am  glad  this  parcel 
of  wooers  are  so  reasonable ;  for  there  is  not  one 
among  them  but  I  dote  on  his  veiy  absence,  and  I 
pray  God  grant  them  a  fair  departure. 

Net.  Do  you  not  remember,  lady,  in  youi 
father's  time,  a  Venetian,  a  scholar,  and  a  soldier 
that-  came  hither  in  company  of  the  marquis  ol 
Montferrat  ? 

Por.  Yes,  yes ;  it  w.<is  Ba-ssauio ;  as  I  think,  so 
was  he  call'd. 

Ner.  True,  madam ;  he,  of  all  the  men  that 
ever  my  foolish  eyes  look'd  upon,  was  the  best  de- 
serving a  fair  lady. 

Por.  I  remember  him  well ;  and  I  remember 
him  worthy  of  thy  praise. — How  now?  what 
news  ?''^ — 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Sen'.  The  four  strangers  seek  for  you,  madam, 
to  take  their  leave :  and  there  is  a  forerunner  come 
from  a  fifth,  the  prince  of  Morocco,  who  brings 
word  the  prince,  his  master,  will  be  h'ere  to- 
night. 

Por.  K  I  could  bid  the  fifth  welcome  with  so 
good  heart  as  I  can  bid  the  other  four  farewell,  I 
should  be  glad  of  his  approach :  if  he  have  the 
condition  of  a  saint,  and  the  complexion  of  a  devil, 
I  had  rather  he  should  shrive  me  than  wive  me. 
Come,  Nerissa.  Sin-ah,  go  before. 
Whiles  we  shut  the  gate  upon  one  wooer,  another 
knocks  at  the  door.  \ Exeunt. 

SCENE  m.— Venice.     A  jmhlic  Place. 
Enter  Bassanio  ukc/.  Suvlock." 

Shy.  Three  thousand  ducats, — well. 

£ass.   Ay,  sir,  for  three  months. 

Sh>/.  For  three  months, — well. 

Bass:  For  the  which,  as  I  told  you,  Anionic 
shall  be  bound. 

Shy.  Antonio  shall  become  bound, — well. 

Bass.  May  you  stead  me?  Will  you  pleasure 
me?     Shall  I  know  your  answer? 

Shij.  Three  thousand  ducals,  for  three  months, 
and  Antonio  bound. 


AOT    I. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICK 


BCEKE    in. 


Enss.  Your  answer  to  that. 

Sh;/.  Antonio  is  a  good  man. 

Hans.  Have  you  heard  any  imputation  to  the 
contrary  ? 

Shij.  Oil  no,  no,  no,  no ; — my  meaning  in  saying 
he  is  a  good  man'^  is,  to  have  you  understand  me, 
tliat  ho  is  sufficient :  yet  his  means  are  in  suppo- 
sition :  lie  hath  an  argosy  hound  to  Tripolis, 
another  to  the  Indies ;  I  understand,  moreover, 
upon  the  Rialto,  he  hath  a  third  at  Mexico,  a 
fourth  for  England ;  and  other  ventures  he  hath, 
squander'd '  abroad.  But  ships  are  but  boards, 
sailors  but  men ;  there  be  land-rats  and  water- 
rats,''  water-thieves  and  land-thieves;  I  mean, 
'^lirates ;  and  then,  there  is  the  peril  of  waters, 
winds,  and  rocks :  The  man  is,  notwithstanding, 
sufficient ; — three  thousand  ducats ; — I  think  I  may 
take  his  bond. 

Bass.  Be  assured  you  may. 

Sh(/.  I  will  be  assured  I  may ;  and  that  I  may 
be  assured,  I  will  bethink  me.  May  I  speak  with 
Antiiiiio  ? 

Ha.ts.  If  it  please  you  to  dine  with  us. 

Skij.  Yes,  to  smell  pork !  to  eat  of  the  habita- 
tion which  your  prophet,  the  Nazarite,  conjui^ed 
the  devil  into  !  I  will  buy  with  you,  sell  with 
you,  talk  with  you,  walk  with  you,  and  so  follow- 
ing ;  but  I  will  not  eat  with  you,  drink  with  you, 
nor  pray  with  you.  What  news  on  the  Rialto  ? — 
Who  is  he  comes  here  ? 

Unter  Antonio. 

Bass.  This  is  signior  Antonio. 

Shi/.  [yls(W«.]  How  like  a  fawning  publican  he 
looks ! 
I  hate  him  for  he  is  a  Christian  : 
But  more,  for  that,  in  low  simplicity, 
He  lends  out  money  gratis,  and  biings  down 
The  rate  of  usance  here  with  us  in  Venice. 
If  I  can  catch  him  once  upon  the  hip," 
I  will  feed  fat  the  ancient  grudge  I  bear  him. 
He  hates  our  sacred  nation ;  and  he  rails. 
Even  there  where  merchants  most  do  congregate, 
On  me,  my  bargains,  and  my  well-won  thrift, 
Which  he  calls  interest.     Cursed  be  my  tribe 
If  I  forgive  him  1 

-Bass.  Shylock,  do  you  hear  ? 

Sh;/.  1  am  debating  of  my  present  store  : 
And,  by  the  near  guess  of  my  memory, 
I  cannot  instantly  raise  up  tlie  gross 
Of  full  three  thousand  ducats.     What  of  that! 
Tubal,  a  wealthy  Hebrew  of  my  tribe, 


Will  furnish  me.     But,  soft ;  liow  many  montlia 
Do  you  desire  ?     Rest  you  fair,  good  signior ; 

[To  Ant. 
Vour  woiship  was  the  last  man  in  our  mouths. 

Ant.  Shylock,  albeit  I  neither  lend  nor  borrow 
By  taking,  nor  by  givini^  of  excess 
Yet,  to  supply  the  ripe  wants  of  my  friend, 
I  '11  break  a  custom  : — Is  he  yet  posscss'd" 
How  much  ye  would  ? " 

Shy.  Ay,  ay,  three  thousand  ducats. 

Bass.  And  for  three  months. 

Shy.  I  had  forgot, — three  months ;    you   told 
me  so. 
Well  then,  your  bond  ;  and,  let  me  see.     But  hear 

you : 
Methought  you  said,  you  neither  lend  nor  boiTOW 
Upon  advantage. 

Ant.  I  do  never  use  it. 

Shy.  When  Jacob   graz'd   his   uncle   Laban's 
.sheep. 
This  Jacob  fi'om  our  holy  Abram  wa.s 
(As  his  wise  mother  wrought  in  his  behalf) 
The  third  possessor ;  ay,  he  was  the  third. 

Ant.  And  what  of  him?  did  he  take  interest? 

Shy.  No,  not  take  interest ;  not,  as'  you  would 
say. 
Directly  interest :  mark  what  Jacob  did. 
Wlien  Laban  and  himself  were  compromis'd 
That  all  the  eanlings*"  which  were  streak'd  and  piec 
Should  fall  as  Jacob's  hire ;  the  ewes,  being  rank, 
In  end  of  autumn  turned  to  the  rams : 
And  when  the  work  of  generation  was 
Between  these  woolly  brcc'lers  in  the  act, 
The  skilftd  shepherd  pill'd  me  certain  wands, 
And,  in  the  doing  of  the  deed  of  kind, 
He  stuck  them  up  before  the  fulsome  ewes , 
Who,  then  conceiving,  did  in  eaning-time 
Fall  particolour'd  lambs,-'  and  those  were  Jacob's. 
This  was  a  way  to  thrive,  and  he  was  bless'd ; 
And  thrift  is  blessing,  if  men  steal  it  not. 

Ant.  This  was  a  venture,  sir,  that  Jacob  serv'd 
for; 
A  thing  not  in  his  power  to  bring  to  pass. 
But  sway'd  and  fashion'd  by  the  hand  of  Heaven 
Was  this  inserted  to  make  interest  good  ? 
Or  is  your  gold  and  silver  ewes  and  rams? 

Shy.  I  cannot  tell ;  I  make  it  breed  as  fast : 
But  note  me,  signior. 

Ant.  Mark  you  this,  Bassanio. 

The  devil  can  cite  Scripture  for  his  purpose. 
An  evil  soul,  producing  holy  witness, 
Is  like  a  villain  with  a  smiling  cheek ; 

365 


ACT   I. 


THE  MERCHAlfT  OF  VENICE. 


BCEKE   in. 


A  goodly  apple  rotten  at  the  heart ; 

O,  what  a  goodly  outside  falsehood  hath ! 

Sky.  Three  thousand  ducats, — 't  is  a  good  round 
sum. 
Three  months  from  twelve,  then  let  me  see  the  rate. 

Ant.  Well,  ShylocK,  shall  we  be  beholding  to 
you? 

Shv.  Signior  Antonio,  many  a  time  and  oft,°^ 
In  the  Rialto,  you  have  rated  me 
About  my  monies,  and  my  usances : " 
Still  have  I  home  it  with  a  patient  shrug, 
For  suff'rance  is  the  badge  of  all  our  tribe ; 
^ou  call  me  '  misbeliever,'  '  cut-throat  dog,' 
And  spit  upon  my  Jewish  gaberdine, 
And  all  for  use  of4hat  which  is  mine  own. 
Well,  then,  it  now  appears  you  need  my  help : 
Go  to,  then ;  you  come  to  me,  and  you  say, 
"  Shylock,  we  would  have  monies : "  You  say  so ; 
You,  that  did  void  your  rheum  upon  my  beard, 
And  foot  me,  as  you  spurn  a  stranger  cur 
Over  your  threshold  ;  monies  is  your  suit. 
What  should  I  say  to  you  ?     Should  I  not  say, 
'  Hath  a  dog  money  ?  is  it  possible 
A  CUT  can  lend  three  thousand  ducats  ? "  or 
Shall  I  bend  low,  and  in  a  bondman's  key, 
With  'bated  breath,  and  whisp'ring  humbleness. 
Say  this, — 

•'  Fair  sir,  you  spet  on  me  on  Wednesday  last ; 
Vou  spurn'd  me  such  a  day ;  another  time 
You  call'd  me  dog ;  and  for  these  courtesies 
I  '11  lend  you  thus  much  monies  3 " 

Ant.  I  am  as  like  to  call  thee  so  again, 
To  spit  on  thee  again,  to  spurn  thee  too. 
If  thou  wilt  lend  this  money,  lend  it  not 
As  to  thy  fiiends ;  (for  when  did  friend.ship  take 
A  breed  of  baiTen  metal  of  his  fiiend  ?) 
But  lend  it  rather  to  thine  enemy ; 
Who,  if  he  break,  thou  may'st  with  better  face 
Exact  the  penalty. 

Ski/.  Wliy,  look  you,  how  you  storm  ! 

I  would  be  friends  with  you,  and  have  your  love ; 
Forget  the    shames    that   you    have   stain'd  me 

with ; 
Supply  your  present  wants,  and  take  no  doit 

8S6 


Of  usance  for  my  monies,  and  you  'U  not  heai-  me ; 
This  is  kind  I  ofi'er. 

Bass.  This  were  kindness. 

Ski/.  This  kindness  will  I  show : 
Go  with  me  to  a  notaiy  :  seal  me  there 
Your  single  bond ;  and,  in  a  merry  sport. 
If  you  repay  me  not  on  such  a  day. 
In  such  a  place,  such  sura,  or  sums,  as  are 
Express'd  in  the  condition,^''  let  the  forfeit 
Be  nominated  for  an  equal  pound 
Of  your  fair  flesh,  to  be  cut  off  and  taken 
In  v/hat  part  of  your  body  pleaseth  me. 

Ani.  Content,  in  faith  ;  I  '11  seal  to  such  a  bond, 
A.nd  say  there  is  much  kindness  in  the  Jew. 

Bass.  You  shall  not  seal  to  such  a  bond  for  me ; 
I  '11  rather  dwell  in  my  necessity. 

Ant.  Why,  fear  not,  man  ;    I  will  not  forfeit  it : 
Within  these  two  months,  that's  a  month  before 
This  bond  expires,  I  do  expect  return 
Of  thrice  thi'ee  times  the  value  of  this  bond. 

Sk>/.  O  father  Abram  !  wliat  these  Christians  aro, 
Whose  own  hard  dealings  teaches  them  suspect 
The  thoughts  of  others !    Pray  you,  tell  me  this  • 
If  he  should  break  his  day,^'  what  should  I  gain 
By  the  exaction  of  the  forfeiture  ? 
A  pound  of  man's  tlesh,  taken  from  a  man. 
Is  not  so  estimable,  profitable  neither, 
As  flesh  of  muttons,  beefs,  or  goats.     I  say, 
To  buy  his  favour  I  extend  this  friendship ; 
If  he  will  take  it,  so ;  if  not,  adieu ; 
And,  for  my  love,  I  pray  you  wrong  me  not. 

Ant.  Yes,  Shylock,  I  will  seal  unto  this  bond. 

Shy.  Then  meet  me  forthwith  nt  the  notary's; 
Give  him  direction  for  this  merry  bond, 
And  I  will  go  and  puree  the  ducats  straight ; 
See  to  my  house,  left  in  the  fearful  guard''^ 
Of  an  unthrifty  knave ;  and  presently 
I  '11  be  with  you.  [Jixit 

Ant.  Hie  thee,  gentle  Jew. 

This  Hebrew  will  turn  Claistian ;  he  grows  kind. 

Bass.  I  like  not  fair  terms,  and  a  \'illain's  mind. 

Ant.  Come  on ;  in  this  there  can  be  no  dismay 
My  ships  come  home  a  month  before  llie  day. 

r  tf-rfunl 


.•■.■^m,.^..^^.^.-^.^-  ~     . 


'  / 


/■ 


<^M^\j^ 


1.^ 


9  Ui?  i'nuncrhn  ^'^ob\h\~ 


THE  MEliCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


SCENK  I — n. 


ACT    II 


SCENE  I.— Belmont.     A  Boom  in  Portia's 
ffouse. 

Flourish  of  Cornets.'''  Enter  the  Pbince  of  Mo- 
rocco, and  Ms  Train  ;  Portia,  Nerissa,  and 
other  of  her  Attendants. 

Mor.  Mislike  me  not  for  my  complexion, 
Ihe  shadow'd  livery  of  tlie  burnish'd  sun. 
To  whom  I  am  a  neighbour,  and  near  bred. 
Bring  me  the  fairest  creature  northward  bom, 
Where  Phcebus'  fire  scarce  thaws  the  icicles. 
And  let  us  make  incision  for  your  love, 
To  prove  whose  blood  is  reddest,^'  his,  or  mine. 
I  tell  thee,  lady,  this  aspect  of  mine 
Hath  fear'd  the  valiant ;  by  my  love,  I  swear, 
The  best-regarded  virgms  of  our  clime 
Have  lov'd  it  too :  I  would  not  change  this  hue. 
Except  to  steal  your  thoughts,  my  gentle  queen. 

Par.  In  terms  of  choice  I  am  not  solely  led 
By  nice  direction  of  a  maiden's  eyes : 
Besides,  the  lottery  of  my  destiny 
Bars  me  the  right  of  vciluntavy  choosing : 
But,  if  my  father  had  not  scanted  me. 
And  hedg'd  me  by  his  wit,  to  yield  myself 
His  wife  who  wins  me  by  that  means  I  told  you. 
Yourself,  renowned  prince,  then  stood  as  fair 
As  any  comer  I  have  looked  on  yet. 
For  my  affection. 

Mor.  Even  for  that  I  thank  you ; 

Therefore,  I  pray  you,  lead  me  to  the  caskets. 
To  try  my  fortune.     By  this  scimitar. 
That  slew  the  Sophy,  and  a  Pereian  prince 
That  won  three  fields  of  sultan  Solyman, 
1  would  o'er-stare  the  sternest  eyes  that  look, 
Outbrave  the  heart  most  daring  on  the  earth. 
Pluck  the  young  sucking  cubs  fi-om  the  she-bear. 
Yea,  mock  the  lion  when  he  roars  for  prey. 
To  win  thee,  lady.     But,  alas  the  while ! 
If  Ilorcules  and  Lichas  play  at  dice, 
Which  is  the  better  man;  the  greater  throw 
May  turn  by  fortun«  fi-om  the  weaker  hand : 
So  is  Alcides  beaten  by  his  page ; 
And  so  may  I,  blind  fortune  leading  me. 


Miss  that  which  one  unworthier  may  attam. 
And  die  with  grieving. 

Por.  You  must  take  your  chance ; 

And  either  not  attempt  to  choose  at  all. 
Or  swear,  before  you  choose,  if  you  choose  wrong, 
Never  to  speak  to  lady  afterward 
In  way  of  marriage ;  thei'efure  be  advised. 

Mor.  Nor  will  not ;  come,  bring  me  unto  my 
chance. 

Por.  First,  forward  to  the  temple ;  after  dinner 
Your  hazard  shall  be  made. 

Mor.  Good  fortune,  then,        \_Cornels. 

To  make  me  bless'd,  or  cursed'st  among  men  ! 

\^E.rcunt. 

SCENE  II.— Venice.  A  street. 
Enter  Launcelot  Gobbo 
Laun.  Certainly  my  conscience  will  serve  me  to 
run  from  this  Jew,  my  master.  The  fiend  is  at 
mine  elbow,  and  tempts  me ;  saying  to  me, — Gobbo, 
Launcelot  Gobbo,  good  Launcelot,  or  good  Gobbo. 
or  good  Launcelot  tiobbo,  use  your  legs,  take  the 
start,  run  away.  My  conscience  says, — no ;  take 
heed,  honest  Launcelot ;  take  heed,  honest  Gobbo ; 
or  (as  aforesaid)  honest  Launcelot  Gobbo ;  do  not 
run :  scorn  nmning  with  thy  heels.^  Well,  the 
most  courageous  fiend  bids  me  pack.  Via!  says  the 
fiend ;  away  1  says  the  fiend,  for  the  heavens ;'"  rouse 
up  a  brave  mind,  says  the  fiend,  and  ran.  "Well,  my 
conscience,  hanging  about  the  neck  of  my  heart, 
says  very  wisely  to  me, — my  honest  fi'iend,  Launce- 
lot, being  an  honest  man's  son,  or  rather  an  honest 
woman's  son ; — for,  indeed,  my  father  did  something 
smack,  something  grow  to,  he  had  a  kind  of  taste ; 
— well,  my  conscience  sajs,  Launcelot,  budge  not: 
budge,  says  the  fiend ;  budge  not,  says  my  conscience. 
Conscience,  say  I,  you  counsel  well;  fiend,  say  I,  you 
counsel  ill :  to  be  ruled  by  my  conscience,  I  should 
stay  v.ith  the  Jew  my  master,  who  (God  bless  the 
mark  I)  is  a  kind  of  de^•i] ;  and  to  i-un  away,  from 
the  Jew,  I  should  be  ruled  by  the  fiend,  who, 
saving  your  reverence,  is  the  devil  himself.  Cer- 
tainly, the  Jew  is  the  very  de\a)  incarnation ;  and, 

867 


ACT    11. 


illE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


SCBKE   n. 


in  mv  conscience,  my  conscience  is  a  kind  of  liard 
conscience,  to  ofler  to  counsel  me  to  stay  -with  the 
Jew.  The  fiend  gives  the  more  fnendly  counsel : 
I  will  lun.  fiend ;  my  heels  are  at  your  command- 
ment :  I  will  run. 

Enter  Old  Gobbo,  icith  a  basket. 

Gob.  Master,  young  man,  you ;  I  pray  you, 
which  is  the  way  to  master  Jew's  ? 

Lauii.  \Aside^  0  Heavens,  this  is  my  true-be- 
gotten father !  who,  being  more  than  sand-blind, 
high-gravel  blind,"  knows  me  not :  I  will  try  con- 
fusions with  him. 

Gob.  Master  young  gentleman,  I  pray  you  which 
is  the  way  to  master  Jew's  ? 

Lawn.  Turn  upon  your  right  hand  at  the  nest 
turning,  but,  at  the  next  turning  of  all,  on  your 
left ;  many,  at  the  very  next  turning,  turn  of 
no  hand,  but  turn  down  indirectly  to  the  Jew's 
house. 

Gob.  By  God's  sonties,'^  't  will  be  a  hard  way  to 
hit.  Can  you  tell  me  whether  one  Launcelot  that 
dwells  with  him,  dwell  with  him,  or  no  ? 

Laun.  Talk  you  of  young  master  Launcelot? — 
Mark  me  now — [asi'rfe] — now  will  I  raise  the  wa- 
ters : — Talk  you  of  young  master  Launcelot  ? 

Gob.  No  master,  sir,  but  a  poor  man's  son :  his 
lather,  though  I  say  't,  is  an  honest  exceeding  poor 
man,  and,  God  be  thanked,  well  to  live. 

Laim.  Well,  let  his  father  be  what  a  will,  we 
talk  of  young  master  Launcelot. 

Gob.  Your  worship's  friend,  and  Launcelot," 
sir. 

Laun.  But  I  pray  you  ergo,  old  man,  ergo,  I 
beseech  you,  talk  you  of  young  master  Launce- 
lot? 

Gob.  Of  Launcelot,  an  't  please  your  master- 
ship. 

Laun.  Ergo.,  master  Launcelot;  talk  not  of 
master  Launcelot,  father ;  for  the  young  gentle- 
man (according  to  fates  and  destinies,  and  such 
odd  sayings,  the  sisters  three,  and  such  branches 
of  learning)  is,  indeed,  deceased ;  or,  as  you  would 
say  in  plain  terms,  gone  td  heaven. 

Gob.  MaiTy,  God  forbid !  the  boy  was  the  very 
staff  of  my  age,  my  veiy  prop. 

Laun.  Do  I  look  like  a  cudgel,  or  a  hovel-post, 
a  staff,  or  a  pi-op  ? — ^Do  you  know  me,  father  ? 

.  Gob.  Alack  the  day !  I  ];now  you  not,  young 
genlleman  :  but,  T  pray  you  tell  me,  is  my  boy 
(Go<l  rest  his  soul !)  alive  oi-  dead  ? 

Ijaun.  Do  you  not  know  me,  i'alhcr? 
86R 


Gob.  Alack,  sir,  I  am  sand-blind ;  I  know  you 
not. 

La:in.  Nay,  indeed,  if  you  had  your  eyes,  you 
might  fail  of  the  knowing  me :  it  is  a  wise  father 
that  knows  his  own  child.  Well,  old  man,  I  will 
tell  you  news  of  your  son:  Give  me  your  blessing: 
truth  will  come  to  light ;  murder  cannot  be  hid 
long ;  a  man's  son  mav ;  but,  in  the  end,  truth 
will  out. 

Gob.  Pray  you,  sir,  stand  up ;  I  am  sure  you  are 
not  Launcelot,  my  boy. 

Laun.  Pray  you,  let 's  have  no  more  fooling 
about  it,  but  give  me  your  blessing ;  1  am  Laun- 
celot, your  boy  that  was,  your  son  that  is,  your 
child  that  shall  be. 

Gob.  I  cannot  think  you  are  my  son. 

Laun.  I  know  not  what  I  shall  think  of  that: 
but  I  am  Launcelot,  the  Jew's  man ;  and  I  am  sure 
Margery,  j-our  wife,  is  my  mother. 

Gob.  Her  name  is  Margeiy,  indeed :  I  '11  be 
sworn,  if  ihou  be  Launcelot,  thou  art  mine  own 
flesh  and  blood.  Lord,  worshipped  might  he  be ! 
what  a  beard  hast  thou  got !  thou  hast  got  more 
hair  on  thy  chin  than  Dobbin  my  phill-horse"''  has 
on  his  tail.  \ 

Laun.  It  should  seem  ther   that  Dobbin's  tail       \ 
grows  "oackward ;  I  am  sure  he  liad  more  hair  of  his 
tail  than  I  have  of  my  face,  when  I  last  saw  him. 

Gob.  Lord,  how  art  thou  changed  !  How  dost 
thou  and  thy  master  agree  ?  I  have  brought  him 
a  present.     How  gree  you  now  ?" 

Laun.  Wei),  well ;  but  for  mine  own  part,  as  T 
have  set  up  my  rest''  to  run  away,  so  I  will  not 
rest  till  I  have  run  some  ground.  My  master 's  a 
very  Jew.  Give  him  a  present  ?  give  him  a  halter! 
I  am  famish'd  in  his  service :  you  may  tell  every 
finger  I  have  wMth  my  ribs.  Father,  I  am  glad 
you  are  come  :  give  me  your  present  to  one  master 
Bassanio,  who,  indeed,  gives  rare  new  liveries ;  if 
I  serve  not  him,  I  will  run  as  far  as  God  has  any 
ground. — 0  rare  fortune !  here  comes  the  man  ; — 
to  him,  father;  for  I  am  a  Jew,  if  I  serve  the  Jew 
any  longer. 

Enter  Bassanio,  toith  Leonardo,  and  other 
Followers. 

Bass.  You  may  do  so  i^but  let  it  be  s(^  hasted, 
that  sujjper  be  ready  at  the  farthest  by  five  of  the 
clock.  See  these  lettei's  delivered  ;  put  the  liveries 
to  making;  and  desire  Gratiano  to  come  anon  to 
my  lodging.  [Exit  a  Servant 

Laun.  To  him,  father 


TUE  MEliCIIANT  OF  VENICE. 


dCBSE   n. 


Gob.  God  bless  your  worsliip ! 

Basi.  Giainniei'cy !     Wouldst  tliou  aught  with 
me? 

Goh.  Hero  's  my  son,  sir,  a  poor  boy, — 

Littin.  Not  a  poor  boy,  sir,  but  the  rich  Jew's 
iii;iii;  that  would,  sir,  as  my  father  shall  specify, — 

(rob.  He  hath  a  great  infecliou,  sii',  as  cue  would 
say,  to  serve, — 

Zaun.  Indeed,  the  short  and  the  long  is,  I  serve 
the  Jew,  and  have  a  desire,  as  my  father  shall 
specify,— 

Gob.  nis  master  and  he  (saving  your  worship's 
rtnerenco)  are  scarce  cater-cousins  : 

Latin.  To  be  brief,  the  very  truth  is,  that  the 
Jfiw  having  done  me  wrong,  doth  cause  nie,  as  my 
father,  being  I  hope  an  old  man,  shall  frutify  unto 
you,— 

Goh.  I  have  here  a  dish  of  doves,  that  I  would 
bestow  upon  your  worship ;  and  my  suit  is, — 

Lciun.  In  very  brief,  the  suit  is  impertinent  to 
myself,  as  your  worship  shall  know  by  this  honest 
old  man ;  and,  though  I  say  it,  though  old  man, 
ynt,  poor  man,  my  father. 

Bass.  One  speak  for  both  : — What  would  you  ? 

Lduii.  Serve  you,  sir. 

Gob.  That  is  the  very  defect  of  the  matter,  sir. 

Bass.  I  know  thee  well ;  thou  hast  obtain'd  thy 
suit : 
Shy  lock,  thy  master,  spoke  viith  me  this  day,     . 
And  hath  preferr'd  thee,  if  it  be  preferment, 
To  leave  a  rich  Jew's  service,  to  become 
The  follower  of  so  poor  a  gentleman. 

IJaun.  The  old  proverb  is  very  well  parted  be- 
tween my  master  Shylock  and  you,  sir ;  you  have 
the  griice  of  God,  sir,  and  he  hath  enough. 

Bass.  Thou  speak'st  it  well.     Go,  father,  with 
tliy  son : — 
Take  leave  of  thy  old  master,  and  inquire 
My  lodging  out : — give  him  a  livery 

[To  his  Followers. 
More  garded"  than  his  fellows':  See  it  done. 

Laun.  Father,  in : — I  cannot  get  a  service  ?  no ! 
■ — 1  have  ne'er  a  tongue  in  my  head  ! — Well ; 
[looking  on  his  pal7)i\  if  any  man  in  Italy  have  a 
fairer  table,  which  doth  ofler  to  swear  upon  a 
book,''  I  shall  have  good  fortune, — Go  to,  here  's 
a  simple  line  of  life !  here  's  a  small  trifle  of  wives : 
Alafl  fifteen  wives  is  nothing ;  aleven  widows  and 
nine  maids,"  is  a  simple  coming  in  for  one  man: 
and  then,  to  'scape  drowning  thrice ;  and  to  be  in 
peril  of  ray  life  with  the  edge  of  a  featherbed; 
hero  are  simple  'scapes!     Well,  if  fortune  be  a 


woman,  she  'b  a  good  wench  for  this  gear. — Father, 
come.  I  '11  take  my  leave  of  the  Jew  in  the  twink- 
ling of  an  eye.  [E.rcunl  Lain,  arid  Old  Gob, 

Bass.  I  pi  ay  thee,  good  Leonardo,  think  on  this. 
These  things  being  bought,  and  orderly  bestow'd, 
Return  in  haste,  for  I  do  feast  to-night 
My  best-esteem'd  acquaintance :  hie  thee,  go. 

Leon.  My  best  endeavours  shall  be  done  herein 

£ntcr  GuATiANO. 

Gra.  Where  's  your  master  ? 

Leon.  Yonder,  sir,  he  walks. 

\Exit  Leonardo 

Gra.  Signior  Eassanio, — 

Bass.  Gratiano! 

Gra.  I  have  a  suit  to  you. 

Bass.  You  have  obtain'd  it. 

Gra.  You  must  not  deny  me :  I  nmst  go  with 
you  to  Belmont. 

Bass.  Why,  then  you  must.— But  hear  thee, 
Gratiano ; 
Thou  art  too  wild,  too  rude,  and  bold  of  voice ; 
Parts,  that  become  thee  happily  enough. 
And  in  such  eyes  as  ours  appear  not  faults. 
But  where  they  are  not  known,  why,  there  tlioy 

show 
Something  too  liberal : — pray  thee  take  pair 
To  allay  with  some  cold  drops  of  modesty 
Thy  skipping  spirit;   lest,  through  thy  wild  bo- 

haviour, 
I  be  miscousterd  iu  the  place  I  go  to,"" 
And  lose  my  hopes. 

Gra.  Signior  Bassanio,  hear  me : 

If  I  do  not  put  on  a  sober  habit, 
Talk  with  respect,  and  swear  but  now  and  then, 
Wear  prayer-books  in  my  pocket,  look  demurely ; 
Nay  more,  while  grace  is  saying,  hood  mine  eyes 
Thus  with  my  hat,  and  sigh,  and  say  amen ; 
Use  all  the  observance  of  civility. 
Like  one  well  studied  in  a  sad  ostent*' 
To  please  his  grandam, — never  trust  me  more. 

Bass.  Well,  we  shall  see  your  bearing. 

Gra.  Nay,  but  I  bar  to-night ;   you  shall  not 
gage  me 
By  what  we  do  to-night. 

Bass.  No,  that  were  pity ; 

I  would  entreat  you  rather  to  put  on 
Your  boldest  suit  of  mirth,  for  we  have  friends 
That  purpose  memment.     But  fare  you  well, 
I  have  some  business. 

Gra.  And  I  must  to  Lorenzo  and  the  ro^t , 
But  we  will  \'isit  you  at  supper-time.         [Eoxvia, 

369 


JCT  n. 


THE  MEKUilANT  OF  VENICE. 


bCENE    II  r V. 


SCENE  in.— VENICE.     A  Rown  in  Shylock's 
House. 

Enter  Jessica  and  Launcelot. 

Jes.  I  am  sorry  thou  wilt  leave  my  father  so; 
Our  house  is  hell,  and  thou,  a  merry  devil. 
Didst  rob  it  of  some  taste  of  tediousness. 
But  fare  thee  well :  there  is  a  ducat  for  thee  : 
And,  Launcelot,  soon  at  supper  shalt  thou  see 
Lorenzo,  who  is  thy  new  master's  guest : 
Give  him  this  letter ;  do  it  secretly, 
And  so  farewell  •,  I  would  not  have  my  father 
See  me  in  talk  with  thee. 

Laun.  Adieu  I — tears  exhibit  my  tongue.  Most 
beautiful  pagan, — most  sweet  Jew !  If  a  Christian 
do  not  play  the  knave''  and  get  thee,  I  am  much 
deceived :  But,  adieu !  these  foolish  drops  do  some- 
what drown  my  manly  spirit :  adieu !  [Exit. 

Jes.  Farewell,  good  Launcelot. 
Alack,  what  heinous  sin  is  it  in  me. 
To  be  asham'd  to  be  my  father's  child ! 
But  though  I  am  a  daughter  to  his  blood, 
[  am  not  to  his  manners :  0  Lorenzo, 
If  thou  keep  promise,  I  shall  end  this  strife ; 
Become  a  Christian,  and  thy  lo\nng  wife.      [Exit. 

SCENE  R^— Venice.     A  street. 

Enter  GR.K-nkif.0,  Lorekzo,  Salarino,  and  Solanio. 

Lor.  Nay,  we  will  slink  away  in  supper-time ; 
Disguise  us  at  my  lodging,  and  return 
All  in  an  hour. 

Crra.  We  have  not  made  good  preparation. 
Salar.  We   have  not  spoke  ns  yet  of  torch- 
bearers.*' 
Solan.  'T  is  vile,   unless   it   may  be   quaintly 
order'd ; 
ajid  better,  in  my  mind,  not  undertook. 
£or.  'T  is  now  but  four  of  clock ;  we  have  two 
hours 
lo  furnish  us. — 

Enter  Launcelot,  with  a  letter. 

Friend  Launcelot,  wh.at 's  the  news? 
Laun.  An  it  shall  please  you  to  break  up  this," 
it  shall  seem  to  signify. 

Lor.   I   know  the   hand  :   in   faith,  't  is  a  fail 
hand ; 
And  wliiter  than  the  paper  it  writ  on 
Is  the  fair  liand  that  writ. 

Gra.  Love-news,  in  faith  ! 

Laun.  By  your  leave,  sir. 
S70 


Lor.  Wliither  goest  thou  ? 

Laun.  Marry,  sir,  to  bid  my  old  master,  the 
Jew,  to  sup  to-night  with  my  new  ma.ster,  the 
Christian. 

Lor.  Hold  here,  take  this : — tell  gentle  Jessica, 
I  will  not  fail  her ; — speak  it  privately :  go. 
Gentlemen,  [Exit  Laun. 

Will  you  prepare  you  for  this  masque  to-night? 
I  am  provided  of  a  torchbearer. 

Salar.  Ay,  many,  I  '11  be  gone  about  it  straight 

Solan.  And  so  will  I. 

Lor.  Meet  me  and  Gratiano 

At  Gratiano's  lodginij  some  hour  hence. 

Salar.  'T  is  good  we  do  so. 

[Exeunt  Salar.  and  Solan 

Gra.  Was  not  that  letter  from  fair  Jessica  ? 

Lor.  I  must  needs  tell  thee  all.     She  hath  di- 
rected 
How  I  shall  take  her  from  her  father's  house ; 
What  gold  and  jewels  she  is  furnish'd  with ; 
What  page's  suit  she  hath  in  readiness. 
If  e'er  the  Jew  her  fether  come  to  heaven. 
It  will  be  for  his  gentle  daughter's  s.ake  : 
And  never  dare  misfortune  cross  her  foot, 
Unless  she  do  it  under  this  excuse, — 
That  she  is  issue  to  a  faithless  Jew. 
Come,  go  with  me ;  peruse  this  as  thou  goest : 
Fair  Jessica  shall  be  my  torchbearer.         [Exeunt 

SCENE  v.— Venice.     Before  Shylock's  ITovsc. 
Enter  Shylock  and  LAaNCELOT. 

Slxy.  Well,  thou  shalt  see ;  thy  eyes  shall  be  tliy 
judge. 
The  difference  of  old  Shylock  and  Bassanio: 
What,  Jessica ! — thou  shalt  not  gomiandise. 
As  thou  hast  done  with  me ; — What,  Jessica ! — 
And  sleep  and  snore,  and  rend  apparel  out ; — 
Why,  Jessica,  I  say  ! 

Laun.  Why,  Jessica ! 

Shy.  Who  bids  thee  call  ?     I  do  not  bid  thoe 
call. 

Laun.  Your  worship  was  wont  to  tell  mc  that  I 
could  do  nothing  without  bidding. 

Enter  Jessica. 

Jes.  Call  you  ?     What  is  your  will  ? 

Shy.  I  am  bid  forth  to  supper,  Jessica ; 
There  are  my  keys. — But  wheivtbro  should  I  c,o 
I  am  not  bid  for  love ;  they  flatter  me : 
But  yet  I  '11  go  in  hate,  to  feed  upon 
The  prodigal  Christian. — Jessiwi,  my  girl, 


AOT   II. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


BCBNK    VL 


Look  to  my  house : — I  am  right  lonth  to  go ; 
Tliere  is  some  ill  a  brewirg  towards  my  rest, 
For  I  did  dream  of  money-bags  to-niglit. 

[Mun.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  go ;  my  young  master 
lolh  expect  your  reproach. 

Shj.  So  do  I  his. 

Laun.  And  thoy  have  conspired  together; — I 
will  not  say,  3-ou  shall  see  a  masque ;  but  if  you 
do,  then  it  was  not  for  nothing  (hat  my  nose  fell  a 
bleeding  on  Black-Monday'"  last,  at  six  o'clock  i' 
the  morning,  felling  out  that  year  on  Ash-Wed- 
nesday was  four  year  in  th'  afternoon. 

Shy.  What !  are  there  masques  ?  Hear  you  me, 
Jessica ; 
Lock  up  my  doois ;  and  when  you  hear  the  drum, 
And  the  vile  squealing  of  the  wr3'-neck'd  fife, 
Clamber  not  you  up  to  the  casements  then, 
Nor  thrust  your  head  into  the  public  street, 
To  gaze  on  Chiistiau  fools  with  varnish'd  faces:'* 
But  stop  my  house's  ears,  I  mean  my  casements ; 
Let  not  the  sound  of  shallow  foppery  enter 
My  sober  house. — By  Jacob's  statf  I  swear, 
[  have  no  mind  of  feasting  forth  to-night: 
But  I  will  go. — Go  you  before  me,  sirrah ; 
Say,  I  will  come. 

Laun.  I  will  go  before,  sir. — 

Mistress,  look  out  at  window  for  all  this ; 
There  will  come  a  Christian  by. 
Will  bo  worth  a  Jewess'  eye.    \^Exit  L.^un. 

Shy.  What  says  that  fool  of  Hagar's  offspring  ? 
na? 

Jes.  His  words  were.  Farewell,  mistress ;  nothing 
else. 

Shy.  The  patch  is  kind  enough ;  but  a  huge  feeder, 
Snail-sluw  in  profit,  and  he  sleeps  by  day 
More  than  the  wild  eat:  drones  hive  n3t  with  me; 
Therefore  I  part  with  him,  and  part  with  him 
To  one  that  I  would  have  him  help  to  waste 
His  borrow'd  purse. — Well,  Jessica,  go  in  ; 
Perhaps  I  will  return  immediately ; 
Do  as  I  bid  you :  Shut  doors  after  you : 
Fast  bind,  fast  find  ;■" 
A  proverb  never  stale  in  thrifty  mind.  [Exit. 

Jes.  Farewell ;  and  if  my  fortune  be  not  cross'd, 
I  have  a  father,  you  a  daughter,  lost.  [Exit. 

SCENE  Yl.—The  same. 

Enter  Gkatiano  and  Salabino,  masqued,. 

Gra.  This  is  the  pent-house,  under  which  Lo- 
renzo 
Dosir'd  us  to  make  a  stand. 


Salar.  His  hour  is  almost  past. 

Om.  And  it  is  marvel  he  out-dwells  his  hour, 
For  lovers  ever  run  before  the  clock. 

Salar.  O,  ten  times  faster  Venus'  pigeons  fly" 
To  seal  love's  bonds  new  made,  than  Uiey  are 

wont 
To  keep  obliged  filth  unlbrfcited  ! 

Gra.  That  ever  holds :  who  riscth  from  a  fea* t^ 
With  that  keen  appetite  that  he  sits  down  ? 
Where  is  the  horse  that  doth  untread  .again 
His  tedious  measures,  with  the  unabated  fire 
That  he  did  pace  them  first?     All  things  thai 

are. 
Are  with  more  spirit  chased  than  enjoy'd. 
How  like  a  younker,  or  a  prodigal. 
The  scarfed  bark  puts  fi-om  her  native  bay,'' 
Hugg'd  and  embraced  by  the  strumpet  wind  ! 
How  like  a  j)rodigal  doth  she  return; 
With  over-weather'd  ribs,  and  ragged  s:iils, 
Lean,  rent,  and  beggar'd  by  the  stminpet  wind .' 

Enter  Lorenzo. 

Salar.  Here  comes  Lorenzo ; — more  of  this  here- 
after. 

Lor.  Sweet  finends,  your  patience  for  my  long 
abode : 
Not  I,  but  my  affairs,  have  made  you  wait. 
When  you  shall   please   to   plav  the   thieves  for 

wives, 
I  '11  watch  as  long  for  you  then. — Approach  ; 
Here  dwells  my  father  Jew  : — Ho  !  who  's  within  '. 

Enter  Jessica  above,  in  boy's  clothes. 

Jes.  Who  are  you?  Tell  me, for  more  certainty, 
Albeit  I  '11  swear  that  I  do  know  your  tongue. 

Lor.  Lorenzo,  and  thy  love. 

Jes.  Lorenzo,  certain  ;  and  m}'  lo\'e,  indeed ; 
For  who  love  I  so  much  ?  and  now  who  knows 
But  you,  Lorenzo,  whether  I  am  yours  ? 

Lor.  Heaven,  and  thy  thoughts,  are  witness  that 
thou  art ! 

Jes.  Here,  catch  this  casket ;    it  is  worth  die 
pains. 
I  am  glad 't  is  night,  you  do  not  look  on  me, 
For  I  am  much  asham'd  of  my  exchanire : 
But  love  is  blind,  and  lovers  cannot  see 
The  pretty  follies  that  themselves  commit; 
For  if  they  could,  Cupid  himself  would  blush 
To  see  me  thus  transformed  to  a  boy. 

Lor.  Descend,  for  you  must  be  my  torchbearer. 

Jes.  What !  must  I  hold  a  candle  to  my  shames! 
They  in  themselves,  good  sooth  are  too-too  light. 

871 


ACT   n. 


TUE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


SCENE    VTL 


vVhy,  't  is  an  oflice  of  discovery,  love, 
^ud  I  should  be  obscur'd. 

Lor.  So  you  are,  sweet, 

Even  in  the  lovely  garnish  of  a  boy. 
Bui  come  at  once ; 

For  the  close  night  doth  play  the  runaway. 
And  we  are  stay'd  for  at  Bassanio's  feast. 

Jes.  I  will  make  fast  the  doors,  and  gild  myself 
With  some  more  ducats,  and  be  with  you  straight. 

'  [Exit  from  above. 

Grii.    Now,  by  my  hood,  a  Gentile   and   no 
Jew.» 

Lor.  Beshrew  me,  but  I  love  her  heartily 
For  she  is  wise,  if  I  can  judge  of  her ; 
And  fair  she  is,  if  that  mine  eyes  be  true ; 
And  true  she  is,  as  she  hath  prov'd  herself; 
And  therefore,  like  berself,  wise,  fair,  and  true, 
Shall  she  be  placed  in  my  constant  soul. 

Enter  Jessica,  below. 

What,  art  thou  come  ? — On,  gentlemen ;  away  ! 
Our  masquing  mates  by  this  time  for  us  stay. 

[Exit,  with  Jessica  and  Salar. 

Enter  Antonio. 

Ant.  Who  's  there  ? 

Gra.  Signior  Antonio  ? 

Ant.  Fie,  fie,  Gratiano !  wbere  are  all  the  rest  ? 
'T  is  nine  o'clock :  our  friends  all  stay  for  you. 
No  masque  to-night ;  the  wind  is  come  about ; 
Bassanio  presently  will  go  aboard : 
I  have  sent  twenty  out  to  seek  for  you. 

Gra.  I  am  glad  on  't ;  I  desire  no  more  delight 
Than  to  be  under  sail  and  gone  to-night.    [E.teunt. 

SCENE  Vn. — Belmont.     A  Room  in  Portia's 
House. 

Flourish   of  Comets.      Enter  Portia,  with    the 
PniNCE  OF  Monocco,  and  both  their  Trains. 

Por.  Go  draw  aside  the  curtains,  and  discover 
The  sevcra    :Kskets  to  this  noble  prince : — 
Now  make  your  choice. 

Mor.   The   first,   of  gold,  who   this  inscription 
bears, — 

"  Who  cliooscih  mo  shall  gain  what  many  men  desire." 
The  second,  silver,  which  this  promise  carries : 

"Wlio  cliooseth  m?  shall  get  as  much  as  ho  deserves." 
Tliis  third,  dull  lea.1,  with  warning  all  as  blunt: 

"  Who  chooscth  mo  must  give  and  liazard  all  ho  hath." 

flow  shall  I  know  if  I  do  choose  the  right  ? 
872 


Por.    The   one   of  them   contains  my   picture, 
prince ; 
If  you  choose  that,  then  I  am  yours  withal. 

Mor.  Some  god  direct  my  judgment!  Let  me  see. 
I  will  survey  the  inscriptions  back  again : 
WTiat  says  this  leaden  casket  ? 

"  Who  chooseth  me  must  g  v-e  and  hazard  all  lie  hath." 
Must  give — For  what  ?  for  lead  ?  hazard  foi  .ead  ? 
This  ciisket  threatens :  Men  that  hazard  all 
Do  it  in  hope  of  fair  advantages  : 
A  golden  mind  stoops  not  to  shows  of  dross ; 
I  '11  then  nor  give,  nor  hazard,  ought  for  lead, 
What  says  the  silver,  with  her  vii'gin  hue  ? 

"  Who  chooseth  me  shall  get  as  mucli  as  he  deser\'ea." 
As  much  as  he  deserves  ? — Pause  there,  Morocco, 
And  weigh  thy  value  with  an  even  hand  : 
If  thou  be'st  rated  by  thy  estimation. 
Thou  dost  deserve  enough ;  and  yet  enough 
May  not  extend  so  far  as  to  the  lady : 
And  yet  to  be  afeard  of  my  deserving 
W^ere  but  a  weak  disabling  of  myself. 
As  much  as  I  deserve ! — Why,  that 's  the  lady  ; 
I  do  in  birth  deserve  her,  and  in  fortunes, 
In  gi'aces,  and  in  qualities  of  breeding ; 
But  more  than  these  in  love  I  do  deserve. 
What  if  I  stray'd  no  further,  but  chose  here  ? — 
Let 's  see  once  more  this  saying  gi-av'd  in  gold  : 

*'  Who  chooseth  me  shall  gain  what  many  men  desire.^ 

WTiy,  that 's  the  lady  :  all  the  world  desires  her  : 

From  the  four  cornere  of  the  earth  they  come. 

To  kiss  this  shrine,  this  mortal  breathing  saint. 

The  Ilyrcanian  deserts,  and  the  vasty  wilds 

Of  mde  Arabia,  are  as  through-fores  now, 

For  princes  to  come  view  fair  Portia  : 

The  watery  kingdom,  whose  ambitious  head 

Spits  in  the  face  of  heaven,  is  no  bar 

To  stop  the  foreign  spirits ;  but  they  come, 

As  o'er  a  brook,  to  see  fair  Portia. 

One  of  these  three  contains  her  heavenly  pictuie. 

Is  't  like  that  lead  contains  her  ?     'T  were  danma 

tion 
To  think  so  base  a  thought :  it  were  too  gross 
To  rib  her  cerecloth  in  the  obscure  grave." 
Or  shall  I  fliink  in  silver  she 's  immur'd, 
Being  ten  times  undervalued  to  tried  gold 
0  sinful  thought !     Never  so  rich  a  gem 
Was  set  in  worse  than  gold.     They  have  in  En 

gland 
A  coin  that  bears  the  figure  of  an  angel 
Stamped  in  gold  ;  but  tlint  's  insculp'd  upon ; 
But  here  an  angel  in  a  golden  bed 


ACT  II. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


SCENE  vni — u. 


Lies  all  widiin. — Deliver  me  the  key ; 
Here  do  I  choose,  and  thrive  I  as  I  may ! 

Por.  There,  take  it,  jiiiuce  ;  and  if  my  form  lie 
there, 
Th(>n  I  am  yours.      [He  unlocks  (he  golden  casket. 

Mor.  0  hell !  vvliat  have  we  here  ? 
A  carrion  death,  within  whose  empty  eye 
Tliere  is  a  written  scroll  ?     I  '11  read  tbo  writing. 

"  All  that  glisters  is  not  gold ; 
Often  huve  you  hoard  that  told : 
Miiiiy  a  man  his  life  hatli  sold 
But  my  outside  to  behold  : 
Gilded  toiubs  do  worms  infold. ^^ 
Had  you  been  as  wise  as  bold. 
Young  in  limbs,  in  judgment  old, 
Your  answer  had  not  been  insoroll'd  : 
Fare  your  well ;  your  suit  is  eold." 

Cold,  indeed,  and  labour  lost : 

Then,  farewell,  he.at ;  and,  welcome,  frost. — 
Portia,  adieu  1  I  have  too  griev'd  a  heart 
To  take  a  tedious  leave:  thus  losers  part.      \^Exit. 

For.  A  gentle  riddance  : — Draw  the  curt.ains ; 

go;— 

Let  all  of  his  complexion  choose  me  so.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  Vin.— Venice.     A  Street. 
Enter  Salarino  and  Solanio. 

Salar.  Why,  man,  I  saw  Bassanio  under  sail ; 
With  him  is  Gratiano  gone  along ; 
And  in  their  ship,  I  am  sure,  Lorenzo  is  not. 

Solan.  The  villain  Jew  with  outcries  rais'd  the 
duke. 
Who  went  with  him  to  search  Bassanio's  ship. 

Salar.  He  came  too  late,  the  ship   was  under 
sail: 
But  there  the  duke  was  given  to  understand. 
That  in  a  gondola  were  seen  together 
Lorenzo  and  his  amorous  Jessica  ; 
Besides,  Antonio  certified  the  duke. 
They  were  not  with  Bassanio  in  his  ship. 

Solan.  I  never  heard  a  passion  so  confus'd, 
So  strange,  outrageous  and  so  variable. 
As  the  dog  Jew  did  utter  in  the  streets : 
"My  daughter ! — O  my  ducats ! — O  my  daughter ! 
Fled  with  a  Christian  ? — O  my  Christian  ducats  !— 
Justice!  the  law!  my  ducats,  and  my  daughter! 
A  sealed  bag,  two  sealed  bugs  of  ducats. 
Of  double  ducats,  stol'n  fr  jm  me  by  my  daughter ! 
And  jewels  1  two  stones,  two  rich  and  precious 

stones, 
StoFiL  by  my  daughter ! — Justice !  find  the  girl ! 
She  hath  the  stones  upon  her,  and  the  ducats !" 


Salar.  Why,  all  the  boys  in  Venice  follow  him, 
Crying, — his  stones,  his  daughter,  and  his  ducats. 

Solan.  Let  good  Antonio  look  he  keep  his  day 
Or  he  shall  paj'  for  this. 

Salar.     '  !NfaiTy,  well  remember'd : 

I  roasoti'd  with  a  Fivnchman  yesterday," 
Who  told  me, — in  the  narrow  seas  that  part 
The  French  and  English,  there  miscarried 
A  vessel  of  our  country,  richly  fraught : 
I  thought  upon  Antonio  when  he  told  me, 
And  wishVl  in  silence  that  it  were  not  his. 

Solan.  You  were  best  to  tell  .\Mtoiiio  what  yon 
hear; 
Yet  do  not  suddenly,  ftjr  it  may  grieve  him. 

Salar.  A  kinder  gentleman  treads  not  the  earth 
I  saw  Bassanio  and  Antonio  part: 
Bassanio  told  him,  he  would  make  some  speed 
Of  his  return;  he  answer'd — "Do  not  so; 
Slubber  not  business  for  my  sake,  Bassanio, 
But  stay  the  very  ripiug  of  the  time ; 
And  for  the  Jew's  boml,  which  he  hath  of  me. 
Let  it  not  enter  in  your  mind  of  love  :" 
Be  merrj' ;  and  employ  your  chiefest  thoughts 
To  courtship,  and  such  fair  ostents  of  love 
As  shall  conveniently  become  you  there :" 
And  even  there,  his  ej'e  being  big  with  tears. 
Turning  his  face,  he  put  his  hand  behind  him. 
And  with  afi'eotion  \i'ondrous  sensible 
He  wrung  Bassanio's  hand,  and  so  they  parted. 

Solan.  I  think  he  only  loves  the  world  for  him. 
I  pray  thee,  let  us  go  and  find  him  out, 
And  quicken  his  embraced  hea\'iness 
With  some  delight  or  other. 

Salar.  Do  we  so.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  LX.— Belmont.     A  Boom  in  Portia's 

House. 

Enter  Nerissa,  ^vith  a  Servant. 

iVer.  Quick,  quick,  I  pray  thee ;  draw  the  cur- 
tain straight ; 
The  prince  of  Arragon  hath  ta'en  his  oath. 
And  comes  to  his  election  presently. 

Flourish  of  Cornets.     Enter  the  PRI^■CE  of  Arra- 
gon, Portia,  atid  their  Trains. 

Por.   Behold,  there   stand   the  caskets,  noble 
prince. 
If  you  choose  that  wherein  1  am  contain'd, 
Straight  shall  our  nupti:ii  rites  be  solemniz'd ; 
But  if  you  fail,  without  more  speech,  my  lord, 
You  must  be  gone  from  hence  immediately 

87S 


THE  MEKCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


8CKNB    IX. 


Ar.  1  am  enjoin'd  by  oath  to  observe   tliree 
things : 
First,  never  to  unfold  to  any  one 
Which  casket  t  was  I  chose  ;  next,  if  I  fail 
Of  the  right  casket,  never  in  my  life 
To  woo  a  maid  in  way  of  marriage  ;  lastly, 
If  I  do  fail  in  fortune  of  my  choice. 
Immediately  to  leave  you  and  be  gone. 

for.  To  these  injunctions  every  one  doth  swear 
That  comes  to  hazard  for  my  worthless  self. 

Ar.  And  so  have  I  address'd  me  :  Fortune  now 

To  my  heart's  hope ! — Gold,  silver,  and  base  lead. 

"  Who  choos€th  me  must  give  aad  liazartl  all  he  hath  :" 

You  shall  look  fairer,  ere  I  give,  or  hazard. 
What  says  the  golden  chest  ?  ha !  let  me  see  : 

"  Who  chooseth  me  shall  gain  what  many  men  desire." 
What    many  men    desire. — That    many  may  be 

meant 
By  the  fool  multitude,"  that  choose  by  show. 
Not  learning  more  than  the  fond  eye  doth  teach. 
Which    pries    not    to    th'  interior,    but,  like    the 

martlet. 
Builds  in  the  weather  on  the  outward  wall. 
Even  iu  the  force  and  road  of  casualty. 
I  will  not  choose  what  niany  men  desire. 
Because  I  will  not  jump  with  common  spirits. 
And  rank  me  with  the  barbarous  multitudes. 
Why,  then  to  thee,  thou  silver  treasure-house ; 
Tell  me  once  more  what  title  thou  dost  bear : 

"  Who  choosetl.  me  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves  ;" 

^nd  well  said  too :  for  who  shall  go  about 

To  cozen  fortune,  and  be  honourable 

Without  the  stamp  of -merit  ?     Let  none  presume 

To  wear  an  undeserved  dignity. 

(),  that  estates,  degrees,  and  otSces, 

Were  not  deriv'd  corruptly  !  and  that  clear  honour 

Were  purchas'd  by  the  merit  of  the  wearer ! 

How  many  then  should  cover  that  stand  bare ! 

How  many  be  commanded  that  command ! 

How  much  low  peasantry  would  then  be  glean'd 

From  the  true  seed  of  honour  !    ami  how  nmch 

honour 
Pick'd  from  the  chaff  ami  ruiu  of  (he  times, 
To  be  new  varaish'd  !     Well,  but  to  my  choice : 

"  Who  chooseth  mo  shal.  get  as  much  aa  ho  deserves :" 
I  will  a-ssume  desert: — Give  me  a  key  for  this. 
And  instantly  unlo<;k  my  fortunes  liere. 

Por.  Too  long  a  pause  for  that  which  you  find 

there. 
Ar    What's  here?  the  portrait  of  a  blinking 

idiot, 
874 


Presenting  me  a  schedule  ?     I  vrill  read  it. 

How  nnu'.h  unlike  ait  thou  to  Portia ! 

How  much  unlike  my  hopes  and  my  deservings 

"  Who  chooseth  me  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves.'' 
Did  I  deserve  no  more  than  a  fool's  head  3 
Is  that  rny  prize  ?  are  my  deserts  no  better  ? 

Por.  To  oft'end,  and  judge,  are  distinct  o£5cca, 
And  of  opposed  natures. 

Ar.  WTiat  is  here  ? 

"  The  fire  seven  times  tried  this , 
Seven  times  tried  that  judgment  is, 
That  did  never  choose  amiss  . 
Some  there  be  that  shadows  kiss 
Such  have  but  a  shadow's  bliss  : 
There  be  fools  alive,  I  wis,=» 
Silver'd  o'er  ;  and  so  was  this. 
Talie  what  wife  you  will  to  bed, 
I  will  ever  be  your  head  ; 
So  begone ;  you  are  sped." 

Still  more  fool  I  shall  appear, 

By  the  time  I  linger  here  : 

With  one  fool's  head  I  came  to  woo, 

But  I  go  away  with  two. 

Sweet,  adieu !  I  '11  keep  my  oath, 

Patiently  to  bear  my  wroth. 

[_Excunt  Arkagon  and  train 
Por.  Thus  hath  the  candle  sing'd  the  moth. 
O  these  deliberate  fools !  when  they  do  choose. 
They  have  the  wisdom  by  their  wit  to  lose. 

Ner.  The  ancient  saying  is  no  heresy ; — 
Hanging  and  wiving  go  by  destiny." 
Por.  Come,  draw  the  curtain,  Nerissa. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  Where  is  my  lady  ? 

Por.  Here ;  what  would  my  lord  ? 

Mess.  Madam,  there  is  alighted  at  your  gate 
A  young  Venetian,'  one  that  comes  before 
To  signify  th'  approaching  of  his  lord  : 
From  whom  he  bringeth  sensible  regreets  -'^ 
To  wit,  besides  commends  and  courteous  breath. 
Gifts  of  rich  value ;  yet  I  have  not  seen 
Sc  likely  an  ambassador  of  love : 
A  day  in  April  never  came  so  sweet. 
To  show  how  costly  summer  w;ts  at  hand, 
As  this  fore-spurrer  comes  before  his  lord. 

Por.  No  more,  I  pray  thee ;  I  am  half  afeard. 
Thou  wilt  say  anon  he  is  some  kin  to  thee. 
Thou  spend'stsuch  high-day  wit  in  praising  him. 
Come,  come,  Nerissa ;  for  I  long  to  see 
Quick  Cupid's  post,  that  comes  so  mannerly. 

Ner.  B.'issanio,  lord  Love,  if  thy  will  it  be  ! 

\i!xeunt. 


^-'■^ 


t 


^    «*' 


V 


dessk^ 


^;-' 
^ 


'A  I'l '  I 


ACT  III. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


ECKITE   L 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I.— Venice.     A  Street. 

filter  SoLANio  and  Salarino. 

Sclan.  Now,  what  news  on  the  Rialto? 

S<.  lar.  Why,  yet  it  lives  there  uncliecked,  that 
Antonio  hath  a  ship  of  rich  lading  wrecked  on  the 
narrow  seas, — the  Goodwins,  I  think  they  call  the 
place ;  a  very  dangerous  flat  and  fatal,  where  the 
carcases  of  many  a  tall  ship  lie  buri;;d,  as  they 
say,  if  my  gossip  Report  be  an  honest  woman  of 
her  word. 

Solan.  I  wouU  she  were  as  lying  a  gossip  in 
that,  as  evgr  knapped  ginger,''  or  made  her  neigh- 
bours believe  she  wept  for  the  death  of  a  third 
husband.  But  it  is  true, — without  any  slips  of 
prolixity,  or  crossing  the  plain  highway  of  talk, — 
that  the  good  Antonio,  the  honest  Antonio, — O 
that  I  had  a  title  good  enough  to  keep  his  name 
company ' — 

Salar.  Come,  the  full  stop. 

Solayi.  Ha, — what  sayest  thou  ? — Why,  the  end 
is,  he  hath  lost  a  ship. 

Salar.  I  would  it  might  prove  the  end  of  his 
losses ! 

Solan.  Let  me  say  amen  betimes,  lest  the  devil 
cross  my  prayer ;  for  here  he  comes  in  the  likeness 
of  a  Jew. 

Enter  Shylock. 

How  now,  Shylock?  what  news  among  the  mer- 
chants ? 

Shi/.  You  knew,  none  so  well,  none  so  well  as 
_,  ou,  of  mv  daughter's  flight. 

.Salar.  That 's  certain.  I,  for  my  part,  knew 
the  tailor  that  made  the  wing's  she  flew  withal. 

Solan.  And  Shylock,  for  his  own  part,  knew  the 
liiid  was  lledg'd;  and  then  it  is  the  complexion  of 
tliom  all  to  leave  the  dam. 

Shy.  She  is  damn'd  for  it. 

Salur.  That 's  certain,  if  the  devil  may  be  her 
judge. 

Shy.  My  own  flesh  and  blood  to  rebel ! 


Solan.  Out  upon  it,  old  carrion !  rebels  it  at 
these  years  ? 

Shy.  I  say,  -jj  daughter  is  my  flesh  and  blood. 

Salar.  There  is  more  difference  between  thyfle.sh 
and  hei-s,  than  between  jet  and  ivoiy ;  more  be- 
tween your  bloods,  than  there  is  between  red  %vino 
and  Rhenish. — But  tell  us,  do  you  hear  whether 
Antonio  liave  had  any  loss  at  sea  or  no  ? 

Shy.  There  I  have  another  bad  match  :  a  bank- 
rout,  a  prodigal,  who  dare  scarce  sliow  his  head  on 
the  Rialto ;  a  beggar,  that  was  us'd  to  come  so 
smug  upon  the  mart. — Let  him  look  to  his  bond  ! 
he  was  wont  to  call  me  usurer ; — let  him  look  to 
his  bond  :  he  was  wont  to  lend  money  for  a  Chris- 
tian courtesy ; — let  him  look  to  his  bond  ! 

Salar.  Why,  I  am  sure,  if  he  forfeit,  thou  wilt 
not  take  his  flesh  ?     What 's  that  good  for  ? 

Shy.  To  bait  fish  withal  1  if  it  will  feed  nothing 
else,  it  will  feed  my  revenge.  He  hath  disgrac'd 
me,  and  hindered  me  half  a  million ;  laughed  at 
my  losses,  mocked  at  my  gains,  scorned  my  nation, 
thwarted  my  bargains,  cooled  my  fiiends,  heated 
mine  enemies ;  and  what  "s  his  reason  ?  I  am  a  Jew. 
Hath  not  a  Jew  eyes?  hath  not  a  Jew  hands, 
organs,  dimensions,  senses,  afiections,  passions? 
fed  with  the  same  food,  hurt  with  the  same  wea- 
pons, subject  to  the  same  diseases,  healed  by  (he 
same  means,  warmed  and  cooled  by  the  same 
winter  and  summer,  as  a  Christian  is?  If  you  prick 
us,  do  we  not  bleed  ?  if  you  tickle  us,  do  we  not 
laugh  ?  if  you  poison  us,  do  we  not  die?  and  if  you 
wrong  us,  shall  we  not  revenge  ?  If  we  are  like 
you  in  the  rest,  we  will  resemble  you  in  that.  If 
a  Jew  wrong  a  Christian,  what  is  his  humility? 
revenge.  If  a  Christian  wrong  a  Jew,  what  should 
his  sufierance  be  by  Christian  example  ?  why, 
revenge.  The  \nllainy  you  teach  me  I  will  ex- 
ecute ;  and  it  shall  go  har^'  but  I  will  better  the 
instruction. 

Enter  a  Servant, 

Serv.  Gentlemen,  my  master  Antonio  is  at  his 
house,  and  desires  to  speak  with  yiu  both. 

.R7.S 


ACT  in. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


SCENE    n. 


Salar.  We  Lave  been  up  and  down  to  seek  Lim. 

Solan.  Hei-e  comes  another  of  the  tribe :  a  third 
cannot  be  matched,  unless  the  denl  himself  turn 
Jev?. 

\_Exevni  Solanio,  Salakino,  and  Servant. 

Enter  Tuhal. 

Shy.  How  now,  Tubal  ?  what  news  fi'om  Genoa? 
hast  thou  found  my  daughter? 

Tub.  I  often  came  where  I  did  hear  of  her,  but 
cannot  find  her. 

Shy.  Why  there,  there,  there,  there !  a  diamond 
gone,  cost  me  two  thousand  ducats  in  Frankfort ! 
The  curse  never  fell  upon  our  nation  till  now ;  I 
never  felt  it  till  now : — two  thousand  ducats  in 
that;  and  other  precious,  precious  jewels. — I  would 
my  daughter  were  dead  at  my  foot,  and  the  jewels 
in  her  ear !  would  she  were  hearsed  at  my  foot,  and 
the  ducats  in  her  coffin !  No  news  of  them  ? — Why, 
BO  : — and  I  know  not  how  much  is  spent  in  the 
search.  Why,  then  loss  upon  loss  P°  the  thief  gone 
"with  so  much,  and  so  much  to  find  the  thief;  and 
no  satisfaction,  no  revenge :  nor  no  ill  luck  Stirling 
but  what  lights  o'  my  shoulders;  no  sighs,  but  o' 
my  breathing;  no  tears,  but  o'  my  shedding. 

Tub.  Yes,  other  men  have  ill  luck  too.  Antonio, 
as  I  heard  in  Genoa, — 

Shy.  Wliat,  what,  what  ?  ill  luck,  ill  luck  ? 

Tab.  — hath  an  argosy  cast  away,  coming  from 
Tripolis. 

Shy.  I  thank  God  !  I  thank  God  !— Is  it  true  ? 
is  it  irue  ? 

Tub.  I  spoke  mth  some  of  the  sailors  that  es- 
caped the  wreck. 

Shy.  I  thank  thee,  good  Tubal ; — Good  news, 
good  news!  ha!  ha!  Where?  in  Genoa? 

Tub.  Your  daughter  spent  in  Genoa,  as  I  heard, 
one  night,  fourscore  ducats ! 

Shy.  Thou  stick'st  a  dagger  in  me ! — I  shall 
never  see  my  gold  again.  Fourscore  ducats  at  a 
sitting!  fourscore  ducats! 

Tub.  There  came  divers  of  Antonio's  creditors 
in  my  company  to  Venice,  that  swear  ho  cannot 
choose  but  break. 

Shy.  I  am  very  glad  of  it.  I  'II  plague  him;  I'll 
torture  him.    I  am  glad  of  it. 

Tub.  One  of  them  showed  me  a  ring,  that  he 
bad  of  your  daughter  for  a  monkey. 

Shy.  Out  upon  her!  Thou  torturest  me,  Tubal : 
it  was  my  turquoise;"'  I  had  it  of  Leah,  when  I 
was  a  bachelor :  I  would  not  have  given  it  for  a 
wildernes.?  of  monkeys, 
376 


Tub.  But  Antonio  is  certainly  undone. 

Shy.  Nay,  that  's  true,  that 's  very  true.  Go,  ' 
Tubal,  fee  me  an  officer ;  bespeak  him  a  fortnight 
before :  I  will  have  the  heart  of  him,  if  he  foifeit 
for  were  he  out  of  Venice,  I  can  make  what  mer- 
chandize I  will.  Go,  Tubal,  and  meet  me  at  oui 
synagogue ;  go,  good  Tubal ;  at  our  synagogue. 
Tubal.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  n.— Belmont.     A  Room  in  Portia's 
House. 

Enter  Bassanio,  Portia,  Gratiano,  Nerissa,  and 
Attendants.     The  caskets  are  set  out. 

For.  I  pray  you,  tarry ;  pause  a  day  or  two, 
Before  you  hazard ;  for,  in  choosing  wrong, 
I  lose  your  company  ;  therefore,  forbear  a  while : 
Thei'e  's  something  tells  me,  (but  it  is  not  love,) 
I  would  not  lose  you ;  and  you  know  yourself, 
Hate  counsels  not  in  such  a  quality  : 
But  lest  you  should  not  underetand  me  w-ell, 
(And  yet  a  maiden  hath  no  tongue  but  thought.) 
I  would  detain  you  here  some  month  or  two. 
Before  you  venture  for  me.     I  could  teach  you 
How  to  choose  right,  but  then  I  am  forsworn ; 
So  will  I  never  be  :  so  may  you  miss  me ; 
But  if  you  do,  you  '1!  make  me  wish  a  sin. 
That  I  had  been  forsworn.     Beshrew  your  eyes, 
They  have  o'erlook'd"'  me,  and  divided  me ; 
One  half  of  me  is  yours,  the  other  half  yours, — 
Mine  own,  I  would  say  ;  but  if  mine,  then  yours, 
And  so  all  yours !   0  !  these  naughty  times 
Put  bars  between  the  ownere  and  their  lights ; 
And  so,  though  yours,  not  yours. — Prove  it  so. 
Let  fortune  go  to  hell  for  it,  not  1.°' 
I  speak  too  long ;  but 't  is  to  peize  the  time. 
To  eke  it,^'  and  to  draw  it  out  in  length, 
To  stay  you  from  election. 

lUiss.  Let  me  choose ; 

For,  as  I  am,  I  live  upon  the  rack. 

For.  Upon  the  rack,  Bassanio  ?  then  confess 
What  treason  there  is  mingled  with  your  love. 

Bass.  None,  but  that  ugly  treason  of  mistrust, 
Which  makes  mo  fear  the  enjoying  of  my  love : 
There  may  as  well  be  amity  and  life 
'Tween  snow  and  fire,  as  treason  and  my  love. 

For.  Ay,  but  I  fear  you  speak  u]>on  the  lack, 
Wheie  men  enforced  do  speak  anything. 

Bass.  I'romisc  me  life,  and  I  '11  confess  the  truth. 

For.  Well,  then,  confess,  and  live. 

Bass.  Confess,  and  love, 

Had  been  the  very  sum  of  my  confession. 


THE  MERCUANT  OF  VENICE. 


O  liappy  torment,  wlicn  my  torturer 
Dolli  teach  ine  answeii!  for  deliverance ! 
But  iet  mo  to  my  fortune  anil  tlio  caskets. 

For.  Away  ther.     I  am  lock'd  in  one  of  them  ; 
[f  you  do  love  me,  you  will  find  me  out. 
Nerissa,  and  the  rest,  stand  all  aloof. 
Let  music  sound,  while  he  doth  make  his  choice ; 
Then,  if  ho  lose,  he  makes  a  swan-like  end. 
Fading  in  music:  that  the  comparison 
May  stand  more  proper,  my  eye  shall  be  the  stream. 
And  watery  death-bed  for  him.     lie  may  win; 
And  what  is  music  then  ?  then  music  is 
Even  as  the  flourish  when  true  subjects  bow 
To  a  new-crowned  monarch :  such  it  is, 
As  are  those  dulcet  sounds  in  break  of  day. 
That  creep  into  the  dreaming  bridegroom's  ear, 
And  summon  him  to  marriage.     Now  he  goes. 
With  uo  less  presence,*'  but  with  much  more  love. 
Than  young  Alcides,  when  he  did  redeem 
The  virgin  tribute,  paid  by  howling  Troy 
To  the  sea-monster:  I  stand^for  sacrifice ; 
The  rest  aloof  are  the  Dardanian  wives. 
With  bleared  visages,  come  forth  to  'N'iew 
The  issue  of  th'  exploit.     Go,  Hercules ! 
Live  thou,  I  live : — With  much,  much  more  dismay 
[  view  the  fight,  than  thou  that  mak'st  the  fray. 

Music,  whilst  Bassanio  comments  on  the  caskets 

to  himself. 

SONG. 

1.  Tell  me  wliere  is  fancy  bred, 
Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head? 
IIow  begot,  how  nourished  ? 

Keply,  reply. 

2.  It  is  eugender'd  in  the  eyes, 
"With  gazing  fed  ;  nnd  fancy  dies 
In  the  cradle  where  it  lies : 

Let  us  all  ring  fancy's  knell ; 
1  '11  begin  it, — Ding,  doug,  bell. 
Ali.  -Ding,  dong,  beU. 

£ass.  So  may  the  outward  shows  be  least  them- 
selves ; 
The  world  is  still  deceiv'd  with  ornament. 
In  law,  what  plea  so  tainted  and  corrupt, 
But,  being  season'd  vdth  a  gracious  voice. 
Obscures  the  show  of  evil  ?     In  religion. 
What  damned  error,  but  some  sober  brow 
A\'ill  bless  it,  and  approve  it  with  a  text. 
Hiding  the  grossness  with  fair  ornament  ? 
There  is  no  vice  so  simple,  but  assumes 
Son:e  mark  of  virtue  on  his  outw'ard  parts. 
How  many  cowards,  whose  hearts  are  all  as  false 
As  stairs  of  sand/°  wear  yet  upon  their  chins 

48 


The  beards  of  Hercules  and  frowning  Mars, 
Who,  inward  search'd,  have  livers  wiiite  as  milk; 
And  these  assume  but  valour's  excrement. 
To  render  theru  redoubted  1     Look  on  beauty," 
And  you  shall  .see  't  is  purchas'd  by  the  weight; 
Which  therein  works  a  n)iracle  in  nature. 
Making  them  lightest  that  wear  most  of  it : 
So  are  those  crisped  snaky  golden  locks. 
Which  make  such  wanton  gambols  with  (he  wind 
Upon  supposed  fairness,  often  known 
To  be  the  dowry  of  a  second  head, 
The  skull  that  bred  them  in  the  sepulchre 
Thus  ornament  is  but  the  gulled  shore^ 
To  a  most  dangerous  sea ;  the  beauteous  scarf 
Veiling  an  Indian  beauty ;  in  a  word. 
The  seeming  tnith  which  ctnming  times  put  on 
To  entrap  the  wisest.     Therefore,  thou  gaudy  gold, 
Hard  food  for  Midas,  I  will  none  of  thee  : 
Nor  none  of  thee,  thou  pale  and  common  drudge 
'Tween  man  and  man.    But  tiiou,  thou  mengi'e  lead, 
Which  rather  threat'uest  than  dost  promise  aught, 
Thy  paleness  moves  me  more  than  eloquence. 
And  here  choose  I.     Joy  be  the  consequence ! 
Por.  How  all  the  other  passions  fleet  to  air, 
As  doubtful  thouglits,  and  rash-embrac'd  despair 
And  shudd'iing  fear,  and  green-ey'd  jealousy  I 

0  love,  be  moderate,  allay  thy  ecstasy ; 
In  mea-sure  rain  thy  joy,  scant  this  excess; 

1  feel  too  much  thy  blessing;  make  it  less, 
For  fear  I  surfeit ! 

Bass.  What  find  I  here  ? 

[Opening  the  leaden  casktt. 
Fair  Portia's  counterfeit?®"     What  demi-god 
Hath  come  so  near  creation  ?     Move  these  eyes  f 
Or  whether,  riding  on  the  balls  of  mine. 
Seem  they  in  motion  ?     Here  are  sever'd  lips. 
Parted  with  sugar  breath ;  so  sweet  a  bar 
Should  sunder  such  sweet  tiiends.  Here,  in  her  hairs 
The  painter  plays  the  spider ;  and  hath  woven 
A  golden  mesh  t'  entrap  the  hearts  of  men, 
Faster  than  gnats  in  cobwebs :  But  her  eyes, — 
How  could  he  see  to  do  them?  ha\nng  made  one. 
Methinks  it  should  have  power  to  steal  both  his, 
And  leave  itself  unfurnish'd  :™  Yet  look,  how  far 
The  substance  of  my  praise  doth  wrong  this  shadow 
In  underprizing  it,  so  far  this  shadow 
Doth  limp  behind  the  substance. — Here's  the  scroll, 
The  continent  and  summary  of  my  fortime. 

"  You  that  choose  not  by  the  view. 
Chance  as  fair,  and  choose  as  trno: 
Since  this  fortune  falls  to  you, 
Be  content,  and  seek  uo  new. 

i.77 


AC  I   UI. 


THE  MERCHANT  OJ^'  VENICE. 


If  you  be  well  pleaded  with  this, 
And  hold  your  fortune  for  your  bliss, 
Turn  you  where  your  lady  is, 
And  claim  her  with  a  loving  kiss." 

A  gentle  scroll. — Fair  lady,  by  your  leave : 

[Kissing  her. 
I  come  by  note,  to  give  and  to  receive. 
Like  one  of  two  contending  in  a  prize. 
That  thinks  he  hath  done  well  in  people's  eyes, 
Hearing  applause  and  universal  shout. 
Giddy  in  spirit,  still  gazing,  in  a  doubt 
V.'hether  those  peals  of  praise  be  his  or  no ; 
So,  thrice  fair  lady,  stand  I,  even  so. 
As  doubtful  whether  what  I  see  be  true, 
Until  confirni'd,  sign'd,  ratified  by  you. 

Por.  You  see  me,  lord  Bassanio,  where  I  stand, 
Such  as  I  am  :  though,  for  myself  alone, 
I  would  not  be  ambitious  in  my  wish. 
To  wish  myself  much  better ;  yet,  for  you, 
I  would  be  trebled  twenty  times  myself; 
A  thousand  times  more  fair,  ten  thousand  limes 

more  rich ; 
That  only  to  stand  high  in  your  account, 
1  might  in  virtues,  beauties,  hvings,  friends, 
E.vceed  account :  but  the  full  sum  of  me 
Is  sum  of  nothing ;  which,  to  tenn  in  gross, 
I.s  an  unlesson'd  girl,  xmschool'd,  unpractis'd : 
Happy  in  this,  she  is  not  yet  so  old 
I  >ut  she  may  learn  ;  happier  than  this, 
She  is  not  bred  so  dull  but  she  can  learn ; 
Happiest  of  all,  in  that  her  gentle  spirit 
Commits  itself  to  yours  to  be  directed. 
As  from  her  lord,  her  governor,  her  king. 
Myself,  and  what  is  mine,  to  you  and  yours 
Is  now  converted :  but  now,  I  was  the  lord 
Of  this  fair  mansion,  master  of  my  servants. 
Queen  o'er  myself;  and  even  now,  but  now, 
This  house,  these  servants,  and  this  same  myself, 
Aie  yours,  my  loixl : — 1  give  them  with  this  ring; 
Which  when  you  part  from,  lose,  or  give  away, 
Let  it  presage  the  ruin  of  your  love. 
And  be  ray  vantage  to  exclaim  on  you. 

Bass.    Madam,    you    have    bereft    me    of    all 
words ; 
C)nly  my  blood  speaks  to  you  in  my  veins ; 
And  there  is  such  confusion  in  my  powers. 
As,  after  some  oration  fairly  spoke 
i5y  a  beloved  prince,  there  doth  appear 
Among  the  buzzing  pleased  multitude, 
Where  every  something,  being  blent  together,  ' 
Turns  to  a  wild  of  nothing,  save  of  joy, 
E.^press'd,  and  not  exprcss'd.     But  when  this  ring 
878 


Parts  fj'om  this  finger,  then  parts  life  from  heno« 
O,  then  be  bold  to  say,  Bassanio  's  dead, 

JVcr.  My  lord  and  lady,  it  is  now  out  time, 
That  have  stood  by  and  seen  our  wishes  prosper, 
To  cry,  good  joy  !  Good  joy,  my  lord  and  lady ! 

Gh-a.  My  lord  Bassanio,  and  my  gentle  lady, 
I  wish  yon  all  the  joy  that  you  can  wish. 
For  I  am  sure  you  can  wish  none  from  me , 
And,  when  your  honours  mean  to  solemnize 
The  bargain  of  your  faith,  I  do  beseech  you. 
Even  at  that  time  I  may  be  married  too. 

Bass.  With  all  my  heart,  so  thou  canst  get  a  wife, 

Gra.  I  thank  your  lordship ;  you  have  got  me 
one. 
My  eyes,  my  lord,  can  look  as  swift  as  yours 
You  saw  the  mistress,  I  beheld  the  maid ; 
You  lov'd,  I  lov'd ;  for  intermission" 
No  more  pertains  to  me,  my  lord,  than  you. 
Your  fortune  stood  upon  the  caskets  there  ; 
And  so  did  mine  too,  as  the  matter  falls : 
For  wooing  here,  until  I  sweat  agam. 
And  swearing,  till  my  very  roof  was  dry 
With  oaths  of  love,  at  last, — if  promise  last, — 
I  got  a  promise  of  this  fair  one  here. 
To  have  her  love,  provided  that  your  fortune 
Achiev'd  her  mistress. 

Por.  Is  this  trae,  Nerissa? 

N'er.  Madam,  it  is,  so  you  stand  pleas'd  witiial. 

Bass.  And  do  you,  Gratiano,  mean  good  faith  ? 

Gra.  Yes,  'faith,  my  lord. 

Bass.  Our  fe."ist  shail  be  much  hononr'd  in  youi 
marriage. 

Gra.  We  '11  play  with  them,  the  first  boy  for  a 
thousand  ducats ! 

JVcr.  What,  and  stake  down ' 

Gra.  No ;  we  shall  ne'er  win  at  tlwt  sport,  and 
stake  down. 
But  who  comes  here  ?  Lorenzo,  and  his  infidel  ? 
What!  and  my  old  Venetian  friend,  Solanio? 

Enter  Lorenzo,  Jessica,  and  Solanio. 

Bass.  Lorenzo,  and  Solanio,  welcome  hither, 
If  that  the  youth  of  my  new  interest  here 
Have  power  to  bid  you  welcome  : — By  your  leave 
I  bid  my  very  friends  and  countrymen. 
Sweet  Portia,  welcome. 

Por.  So  do  I,  my  lord  ; 

They  are  cntirel}'  welcome. 

Lor.  I  thank  your  honour :—  For  my  part,  my 
lord, 
My  ]>urposo  was  not  to  have  seen  you  hero ; 
But  meeting  with  Solanio  by  the  way, 


ACT    III. 


THE  MERCUANT  OF  VENICE. 


BCENE   n. 


Up  did  entreat  me,  past  aJl  saying  nay, 
To  come  with  Mm  along. 

Solan.  I  did,  my  lord, 

And  I  have  reason  for  it.     Signior  Antonio 
Commends  him  to  you.     [^Oives  Bassanio  a  letter. 

Bass.  Ere  I  ope  his  letter, 

I  ]3ray  you  tell  mo  how  my  good  friend  doth. 

Solan.  Not  sick,  my  lord,  unless  it  be  in  mind  ; 
Nor  well,  unless  in  mind  :  his  letter  there 
Will  show  you  his  estate. 

Gra.  Nerissa,  cheer  yon  stranger;  bid  her  welcome. 
Your  hand,  Solauio.   What 's  the  news  from  Venice? 
IIow  doth  that  royal  merchant,'"  good  Antonio? 
[  know  he  will  be  glad  of  our  success ; 
We  are  the  Jasons ;  we  have  won  the  fleece." 

Solan.  I  would  you  had  won  the  fleece  that  he 
hath  lost ! 

Por.   There  are  some  shrewd  contents  in  yon 
same  paper. 
That  steal  the  colour  from  Bassanio's  cheek ; 
Some  dear  friend  dead  ;  else  nothing  in  the  world 
Could  turn  so  much  tha  constitution 
Of  any  constant  man.     What,  worse  and  worse  ? 
With  leave,  Bassanio ;  I  am  half  yourself. 
And  I  must  freely  have  the  half  of  anything 
That  this  same  paper  brings  you. 

Bass.  O  sweet  Portia, 

Here  are  a  few  of  the  unpleasant'st  words 
That  ever  blotted  paper !  Gentle  lady. 
When  I  did  first  impart  my  love  to  you, 
I  treely  told  you,  all  the  wealth  I  had 
Ran  in  my  veins, — I  was  a  gentleman ; 
And  then  I  told  you  trae :  and  yet,  dear  lady, 
Rating  myself  at  nothing,  you  shall  see 
How  much  I  was  a  braggai't.     When  I  told  you 
My  state  was  nothing,  I  should  then  have  told  you 
That  I  was  worse  than  nothing ;  for,  indeed, 
I  have  engag'd  myself  to  a  dear  friend, 
Eiigag'd  my  friend  to  his  mere  enemy. 
To  feed  my  means.     Here  is  a  letter,  lady ; 
The  paper  as  the  body  of  my  friend. 
And  every  word  in  it  a  gaping  wound, 
Issuing  life-blood.     But  is  it  true,  Solanio  ? 
Have  all  his  ventures  lail'd  ?     What,  not  one  hit? 
From  Tri  polls,  from  Mexico,  and  England, 
From  Lisbon,  Barbary,  and  India  ? 
And  not  one  vessel  'scape  the  dreadful  touch 
Of  merclianl-marring  rocks? 

Solan.  Not  one,  my  lord. 

Besides,  it  should  appear,  that  if  he  had 
Th<^  present  money  to  discharge  the  Jew, 
He  would  not  take  it      Never-  did  I  know 


A  creature  that  did  bear  the  shape  of  njan, 
So  keen  and  greedy  to  confound  a  man. 
He  plies  the  duke  at  morning,  and  at  night, 
And  doth  im])each  the  freedom  of  the  state. 
If  they  deny  him  justice  :  twenty  .tierchaits. 
The  duke  himself,  and  the  magnilicoes 
Of  greatest  port,  have  all  persuaded  with  him, 
But  none  can  drive  him  from  the  envious  plea 
Of  foifeiture,  of  justice,  and  his  bond. 

Jes.  When  I  was  with  him,  I  liave  hoard  him 
swear 
To  Tubal,  and  to  Chus,  his  countrymen, 
That  he  would  rather  have  Antonio's  flesh. 
Than  twenty  times  the  value  of  the  sum 
That  he  did  owe  him ;  and  I  know,  my  lord, 
If  law,  authority,  and  power  deny  not. 
It  will  go  hard  with  poor  Antonio.  ' 

Por    Is   it   your  dear  friend   that  is  thus   in      i 
trouble  ?  ; 

Bass.  The  dearest  friend  to  me,  the  kindest  man, 
The  best  condition'd  and  unwearied'.st  spirit 
In  doing  courtesies ;  and  one  in  whom 
The  ancient  Roman  honour  more  appears. 
Than  any  that  draws  breath  in  Italy. 

Por.  What  sum  owes  he  the  Jew  ? 

Bass.  For  me,  three  thousand  ducats. 

Por.  What,  no  more  ? 

Pay  him  six  thousand,  and  deface  the  bond ; 
Double  six  thousand,  and  then  treble  that, 
Before  a  friend  of  this  description 
Shall  lose  a  hair  through  Bassanio's  fault. 
First,  go  with  me  to  church,  and  call  me  wifa 
And  then  away  to  Venice  to  your  friend ; 
For  never  shall  you  lie  by  Portia's  side 
With  an  unquiet  soul.     You  shall  have  gold 
To  pay  the  petty  debt  twenty  times  over ; 
When  it  is  paid,  bring  your  true  friend  along : 
My  maid  Nerissa,  and  myself,  meantime, 
Will  live  as  maids  and  widows.     Come,  awav , 
For  you  shall  hence  upon  your  wedding-day : 
Bid  your  friends  welcome,  show  a  merry  cheer : 
Since  you  are  dear  bought,  I  will  love  you  dear. 
But  let  me  hear  the  letter  of  your  friend. 

Bass.  [Reads^ 

"Sweet  Bassanio,  my  ships  liave  all  miscjirrie  1,  my 
creditors  grow  cruel,  my  estate  is  very  low,  my  bfnd  to 
the  Jew  is  forfeit;  and  since,  in  paying  it,  it  is  impcssiblo 
I  should  live,  all  debts  are  clear'd  between  you  and  I,  if  I 
might  but  see  you  at  my  death ;  notwithstanding,  use  yooi 
pleasure :  if  your  love  do  not  persuade  you  to  come,  let  not 
my  letter." 

Por.  O  love,  despatch  all  business,  and  be  gone. 

819 


iCT    111. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


BCEins  rv. 


Bass.  Since  I  have  your  good  leave  to  go  away, 
I  will  make  hast* :  but,  till  I  come  again, 

No  bed  shall  ere  be  guilty  of  my  stay. 
Nor  rest  be  interposer  'twixt  us  twain. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  m.— Venice.     A  Street. 

Enter  Shtlock,  Salarino,  Antonio,  and  Gaoler. 

Shj.  Gaoler,look  to  him.  Tell  not  me  of  mercy ; — 
This  is  the  fool  that  lent  out  mone}'  gratis ; — 
Gaoler,  look  to  him. 

Ant.  Hear  me  yet,  good  Shylock. 

Shy.  I  '11  have  my  bond ;  speak  not  against  my 
bond ; 
1  have  sworn  an  oath  that  I  will  have  my  bond : 
Thou  call'dst  me  dog,  before  thou  hadst  a  cause : 
But,  since  I  am  a  dog,  beware  my  fangs : 
Tlie  duke  shall  grant  me  justice. — I  do  wonder. 
Thou  naughty  gaoler,  that  thou  art  so  fond 
To  come  abroad  with  him  at  his  request. 

Ant.  I  pray  thee,  hear  mo  speak. 

Shy.  I  '11  have  my  bond ;  I  ^vill  not  hear  thee 
speak : 
I  'il  have  my  bond  ;  and,  therefore,  speak  no  more. 
I  '11  not  be  made  a  soft  and  dull-ey'd  fool. 
To  shake  the  head,  relent,  and  sigh,  and  yield 
To  Ciiristian  intercessors.     Follow  not ; 
I  'U  have  no  speaking ;  I  will  have  my  bond. 

[Exit  StiT. 

Salar.  It  is  the  most  impenetrable  cur. 
That  ever  kept  with  men. 

Ant.  Let  hira  alone ; 

r  'II  fjllow  him  no  more  with  bootless  pr.ayers. 
He  seeks  my  life ;  his  reason  well  I  know : 
I  oft  dcliver'd  from  his  forfeitures 
Many  that  have  at  times  made  moan  to  me ; 
Therefore  he  hates  me. 

Salar.  I  am  sure  the  duke 

Will  never  grant  this  forfeiture  to  hold. 

Ant.  The  duke  cannot  deny  the  course  of  law; 
For  the  commodity  that  strangers  have 
With  us  in  Venice,  if  it  be  denied," 
Will  much  impeach  the  justice  of  the  .state; 
Since  that  the  trade  and  profit  of  the  city 
Consisteth  of  all  nations.     Therefore,  go : 
These  giiefs  and  losses  have  so  'bated  me. 
That  I  shall  hardly  spare  a  pound  of  flesh 
To-morrow  to  my  bloody  creditor. 
Well,  gaoler,  on : — Pray  God,  Bassanio  come 
To  see  rnc  pay  his  debt,  and  then  I  care  not ! 

[Exeunt. 

8R0 


SCENE  rv.— Belmont     A  Room  in  Portia's 
House. 

Enter  Portia,  Nerissa,  Lorenzc  ,  Jessica,  and 
Balthazar. 

Lor.  Madam,  although  I  speak  it  in  your  pre^ 
sence. 
You  have  a  noble  anil  a  true  conceit 
Of  godlike  amity ;  which  appears  most  strongly 
In  bearing  thus  the  absence  of  your  lord. 
But  if  you  knew  to  whom  you  show  this  honour, 
How  tnxe  a  gentleman  you  send  relief, 
How  dear  a  lover  of  my  lord,  your  husband, 
I  know  you  would  be  prouder  of  the  work, 
Than  customary  bounty  can  enforce  you. 

Por.  I  never  did  repent  for  doing  good. 
Nor  shall  not  now  :  for  in  companions 
That  do  converse  and  waste  the  time  together, 
Whose  souls  do  bear  an  equal  yoke  of  love, 
There  must  be  needs  a  like  proportion 
Of  lineaments,  of  manners,  and  of  spirit : 
Wliich  makes  me  think,  that  this  Antonio, 
Being  the  bosom  lover  of  my  lord," 
Must  needs  be  like  my  lord.     If  it  be  so. 
How  little  is  the  cost  I  have  bestow'd 
In  purchasing  the  semblance  of  m_y  soul 
From  out  the  state  of  hellish  cruelty ! 
This  comes  too  near  the  praising  of  myself; 
Therefore,  no  more  of  it:  hear  other  things. 
Lorenzo,  I  commit  into  your  hands 
The  husbandry  and  manage  of  my  house. 
Until  my  lord's  return :  for  mine  own  part, 
I  have  toward  heaven  breath'd  a  secret  vow 
To  live  in  prayer  an<l  contemplation. 
Only  attended  by  Nerissa  here. 
Until  her  husband  and  my  lord's  return  : 
There  is  a  monastery  two  miles  off. 
And  tl).ere  we  will  abide.     I  do  desire  you 
Not  to  deny  this  imposition, 
The  which  my  love,  and  some  necessity. 
Now  lay  upon  you. 

Lor.  Madam,  with  all  my  heart, 

I  shall  obey  you  in  all  fair  commands. 

Por.  My  people  do  already  know  my  mind, 
And  will  acknowledge  you  and  Je.ssica 
In  ]ilace  of  lord  Bassanio  and  myself: 
So  fare  you  well,  till  wo  shall  meet  agaiti. 

Lor.  Fair  thoughts  and  liappy  houi's  attend   on 
you ! 

Jcs.  I  wish  your  ladyship  all  heart's  content. 

Por.  I  thank  you  for  your  wish,  and  am  well 
pleas'd 


ACT    UI. 


THE  MEKCHAJ!^T  OF  VENICE. 


BCKJIB   V. 


To  wisli  it  back  on  you  :  fare  you  well,  Jessica. 

[^Exeunt  Jes.  a7id  Lor. 
Now,  Balthazar, 

As  I  havo  ever  found  thee  honesf,  true, 
So  li.'t  iDy  find  thee  still.     Take  this  same  letter, 
And  use  thou  all  the  endeavour  of  a  man 
In  speed  to  Padua  ;  see  thou  render  this 
Inio  my  cousin's  hand,  doctor  Bellario ; 
And,  look,\vhat  notes  and  garments  he  doth  give  tliee, 
Bring  them,  I  pray  thee,  with  imagin'd  sjieed'^ 
Unto  the  traject,"  to  the  common  ferry 
Which  trades  to  Venice : — Waste  no  time  in  words, 
But  get  thee  gone ;  I  shall  be  there  before  thee. 

Balth.  Madam,  I  go  with  all  convenient  speed. 

[Exit. 

Por.  Come  on,  Nerissa ;  I  have  work  in  hand. 
That  you  yet  know  not  of :  we  '11  see  our  husbands 
Before  they  think  of  us. 

Ncr.  Shall  they  see  us  ? 

Por.  They  shall,  Nerissa ;  but  in  such  a  habit, 
That  they  shall  think  we  are  accomplished 
With  that  we  lack.     I  '11  hold  thee  any  wager, 
'^Vlien  we  are  both  accoutred  like  young  men, 
I  '11  prove  the  prettier  fellow  of  the  two, 
Anii  wear  my  dagger  with  the  braver  grace ; 
.\nd  speak,  between  the  change  of  man  and  boy, 
With  a  reed  voice ;  and  turn  two  mincing  steps 
Into  a  manly  stride ;  and  speak  of  frays, 
Like  a  fine  bragging  youth  :  and  tell  quaint  lies. 
How  honourable  ladies  sought  my  love, 
Which  I  denying,  they  fell  sick  and  died  ; — 
I  could  not  do  withal  :'*   then  I  '11  repent, 
And  wish,  for  all  that,  that  I  had  not  kill'd  them  : 
And  twenty  of  these  puny  lies  I  '11  tell, 
That  men  shall  swear  I  have  discontinued  school 
Above  a  twelvemonth : — I  have  within  my  mind 
A  thousand  raw  tricks  of  these  bragging  Jacks, 
Which  I  will  practise. 

Ner.  Why,  shall  we  turn  to  men  ? 

Por.  Fie !  what  a  question  's  that. 
If  thou  wert  near  a  lewd  interpreter ! 
But  come ;  I  '11  tell  thee  all  my  whole  device 
When  I  am  in  my  coach,  which  stays  for  us 
At  the  park  gate ;  and  therefore  haste  away, 
For  we  must  measure  twenty  miles  to-day. 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  y.—The  same.     A  garden. 

Unter  Launcelot  and  Jessica. 

Laun.  Yes,  truly ; — for,  look  you,  the  sins  of 
the  father  are  to  be  laid  upon  the  children  ;  there- 


fore, I  promise  you  I  fear  yon."  I  was  always  plain 
with  you,  and  so  now  I  speak  my  agitation  of  tho 
matter.  Therefore,  be  of  good  cheer ;  for  truly, 
I  think,  you  are  danm'd.  There  is  but  one  hope 
in  it  that  can  do  you  any  good "  and  that  is  but 
a  kind  of  bastard  hope  neither. 

Jes.  And  what  hope  is  that,  I  pray  thee  5 

Laun.  Marry,  you  may  partly  hope  that  your 
father  got  you  not,  that  you  are  not  tho  Jew's 
daughter. 

Jis.  That  were  a  kind  of  bastard  hope,  indeed ; 
so  the  sins  of  my  mother  should  be  visited  upon 
me. 

Laun.  Truly  then  I  fear  you  are  damned  both 
by  father  and  mother :  thus  when  I  shun  Scylla,'" 
your  father,  I  fall  into  Charybdis,  your  mother; 
well,  you  are  gone  both  ways ! 

Jes.  I  shall  be  sav'd  by  my  husband ;  he  hath 
m.ade  me  a  Christian. 

Laun.  Truly,  the  more  to  blame  he :  we  were 
Christians  enow  before ;  e'en  as  many  as  could  well 
live,  one  by  another.  This  making  of  Christians 
will  raise  the  price  of  hogs ;  if  we  grow  all  to  be 
pork-eaters,  we  shall  not  shortly  have  a  rasher  on 
the  coals  for  money.  " 

JSnier  Lorenzo. 

Jes.  I  '11  tell  my  husband,  Launcelot,  what  you 
say  ;  here  he  comes. 

Lor.  I  shall  grow  jealous  of  you,  shortly,  Laun- 
celot, if  you  thus  get  my  wife  into  corners. 

Jes.  Nay,  you  need  not  fear  us,  Lorenzo.  Laun 
celot  and  I  are  out :  he  tells  me  flatly,  there  is 
no  mercy  for  me^in  heaven,  because  I  am  a  Jew's 
daughter :  and  he  says,  you  are  no  good  membei 
of  the  commonwealth ;  for,  in  converting  Jews  to 
Christians,  you  raise  the  price  of  pork. 

Lor.  I  shall  answer  that  better  to  the  com- 
monwealth, than  you  can  the  getting  up  of  tho 
negi-o's  belly ;  the  Moor  is  with  child  by  you, 
Launcelot. 

Laun.  It  is  much,  that  the  Moor  should  be  more 
than  reason  :  but  if  she  be  less  than  an  honest 
woman,  she  is,  indeed,  more  than  I  took  her  for. 

Lor.  How  every  fool  can  play  upon  the  word  1 
I  think  the  best  grace  of  wit  will  shortly  turn  into 
silence,  and  discourse  grow  commendable  in  none 
only  but  parrots. — Go  in,  sirrah ;  bid  them  piepare 
for  dinner. 

Latin.  That  is  done,  sir ;  they  have  all  stomachs. 

Lor.  Goodly  Lord,  what  a  wit-snapper  nre  you 
then  bid  them  prepare  dinner. 

381 


AC1    IV. 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  VENICE. 


Laun.  That  is  done,  too,  sir :  ouly,  cover  is  tlie 
word. 

Lor.  Will  you  cover  then,  sir  ? 

Laun.  Not  so,  sir,  neither;  I  know  my  duty. 

Lor.  Yet  more  quarrelling  with  c.casion  !  "Wilt 
Ihou  show  the  whole  wealth  of  thy  wit  in  an 
instant?  I  pray  thee,  understand  a  plain  man  in 
his  plain  meaning  ;  go  to  thy  fellows ;  bid  them 
cover  the  table,  serve  in  the  meat,  and  we  will 
come  in  to  dinner. 

Laun.  For  the  table,  sir,  it  shall  be  serv'd  in ; 
for  the  meat,  sir,  it  shall  be  covered ;  for  your 
coming  in  to  dinner,  sir,  why,  let  it  be  as  humours 
and  conceits  shall  govern.  [Exit  Laux. 

Lor.    O   dear   discretion,   how  his   words   are 
suited !«' 
The  fool  hath  planted  in  his  memory 
An  army  of  good  words ;  and  I  do  know 
A  m.iuy  fools,  that  stand  in  better  place, 
Garnish'd  like  him,  that  for  a  tricksy  word 
Defy  the  matter.     How  cheer'st  thou,  Jessica  ? 
And  now,  good  sweet,  say  thy  opinion ; — 
Flow  dost  thou  like  the  lord  Bassanio's  wife  ? 


Jes.  Past  all  expressing !  It  is  very  meet 
The  lord  Bassanio  live  an  upright  life ; 
For,  having  such  a  blessing  in  his  lady, 
He  finds  the  joys  of  heaven  here  on  earth ; 
And,  if  on  earth  he  do  not  mean  it,  then. 
In  reason  he  should  never  come  to  heaven. 
Why,  if  two   gods    should    play  some    heavenly 

match, 
And  on  the  wager  lay  two  earthly  women, 
And  Portia  one,  there  must  be  something  else 
Pawned  with  the  other ;  for  the  poor  rude  world 
Hath  not  her  fellow. 

Lor.  Even  such  a  husband 

Hast  thou  of  me,  as  she  is  for  a  wife. 

Jcs.  Nay,  but  ask  my  opinion  too  of  that. 

Lor.  I  will  anon ;  first,  let  us  go  to  dinner. 

Jes.  Nay,  let  me  praise  you,  while   I  have  a 
stomach. 

Lor.  No,  pray  thee,  let  it  serve  for  table-talk  ; 
Then,  howsoe'er  thou  speak'st,  'mong  other  things 
I  shall  digest  it. 

Jes.  Well,  I  '11  set  you  forth.  [Exeunt 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I.— Venice.     A  Court  of  Justice. 

Enter  the  Duke,  the  Magnificoes,'*  Aktoxio,  B.is- 
sANio,  Gratiano,  Salarino,  Solakio,  and  others. 

Duke.  What,  is  Antonio  here  ? 

Ant.  Ready,  so  please  your  grace. 

Duke.  I  am  sorry  for  thee ;  thou  art  come  to  answer 
A  stony  adversary,  an  inhuman  wretch 
[Incapable  of  pity,  void  and  empty 
From  any  dram  of  mercy. 

Ant.  I  have  heard 

Your  grace  hath  ta'en  great  pains  to  qu.alify 
Uis  rigorous  course;  but  sin(!e  he  stands  obdurate, 
And  that  no  lawful  means  can  carry  me 
Out  of  his  envy's  reach,"  I  do  oppose 
My  patience  to  his  fury  ;  and  am  arm'd 
To  suffer,  with  a  quietness  of  spirit, 
Tlie  very  tyranny  and  rage  of  his. 

Duke.  Go  one,  and  call  the  Jew  into  the  court. 

Solan.  He's  ready  at  the  door:  lie  comes,  my  lord. 
«82 


Enter  Shtlock. 

Duke.  Make  room,  and  let  him  stand  before  our 
face. 
Shylock,  the  world  thinks,  and  I  tliink  so  too. 
That  thou  but  lead'st  this  fashion  of  thy  malice 
To  the  last  hour  of  act ;  and  then,  't  is  thought 
Thou  'It  show  thv  mercy  and  remors<>,  more  strange 
Than  is  thy  strange  ai)parent  cruelty : 
And  where  thou  now  exact'st  the  penalty, 
(Which  is  a  pound  of  this  poor  merchant's  flash,) 
Thou  vvilt  not  only  lose  the  forfeiture. 
But,  touch'd  with  human  gentleness  and  lov6, 
Forgive  a  moiety  of  the  principal ; 
Glancing  an  eye  of  pity  on  his  losses, 
Tliat  have  of  late  so  huddled  on  his  back, 
Enow  to  press  a  royal  merchant  down. 
And  pluck  commiseration  of  his  state 
From  br.a,ssy  bosoms,  and  rough  hearts  of  flint, 
From  stubborn  Turks  and  Tartars,  never  fiain'd 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


SCENB    1. 


To  offices  of  teiidar  courtesy. 

We  nil  expect  a  gentle  answer,  Jew. 

Shy    I  have  possess'd  your  grace  of  what  I 
purpose ; 
\nd  by  our  holy  Snbbatli  have  I  Sflorn 
.0  have  the  dui  and  forfeit  of  my  bond: 
If  you  deny  it,  let  the  danger  Jight 
Upon  your  charter,  and  your  city's  freedom. 
You  '11  ask  me,  why  I  rather  choose  to  have 
A  weight  of  carrion  flesh,  than  to  receive 
Three  thousand  ducats.     I  '11  not  answer  that : 
But,  say,  it  is  my  humour :  Is  it  answer'd  ? 
What  if  my  house  be  troubled  with  a  rat. 
And  I  be  pleas'd  to  give  ten  thousand  ducats 
To  have  it  ban'd  ?     What,  are  you  answer'd  yet  ? 
Some  men  there  are  love  not  a  gaping  pig ;''' 
Some,  that  are  mad  if  they  behold  a  cat ; 
And  others,  when  the  bagpipe  sings  i'  the  nose 
Cannot  contain  their  urine :  for  aflection, 
Master  of  passion,  sways  it  to  the  mood 
Of  what  it  likes,  or  loathes.    Now,  for  yoxir  answer: 
As  there  is  no  firai  reason  to  be  render'd. 
Why  he  cannot  abide  a  gaping  pig ; 
Why  he,  a  harmless  necessary  cat; 
^^'lly  he,  a  woollen  bagpipe,'' — but  of  force 
Mu.^t  yield  to  such  ine\dtable  shame, 
As  to  oftend,  himself  being  ofl'ended ; 
So  can  I  give  no  reason,  nor  I  will  not. 
More  than  a  lodg'd  hate,  and  a  certain  loathing, 
I  bear  Antonio,  that  I  follow  thus 
A  losing  suit  against  him.     Ai'e  you  answer'd  ? 

Bass.  This  is  no  answer,  thou  unfeeling  man. 
To  excuse  the  current  of  thy  cruelty. 

Sliy.  I  am  not  bound  to  please  thee  with  my 
answer. 

Bass.  Do  all  men  kill  the  things  they  do  not 
love  ] 

Shy.  Hates  any  man  the  tiling  he  would  not  kill  ? 

Bass.  Every  offence  is  not  a  hate  at  fii'st. 

Shy.  What,  wouldst  thou  have  a  serpent  sting 
thee  twice  ? 

Ant.  I  pray  you,  think  you  question  with  the 
Jew, 
You  may  as  well  g  J  stand  upon  the  beach, 
And  bid  the  main  flood  bate  his  usual  height ; 
You  may  as  well  use  question  with  the  wolf. 
Why  he  hath  made  the  ewe  bleat  for  .the  lamb; 
You  may  as  well  forbid  the  mountain  pines 
To  wag  their  higli  tops,  and  to  make  no  noise. 
When  th-ey  are  iVelteu  with  the  gusts  of  heaven ; 
You  may  as  well  do  anything  most  hard, 
Aa  seek  to  soften  that  (than  which  what 's  harder  ?) 


His  Jewish  heart : — Therefore,  I  do  beseech  you. 
Make  no  more  offers,  use  no  further  means, 
But,  with  all  brief  and  plain  conveniency, 
Let  me  have  judgment,  and  tlie  Jew  his  wiL. 

Bass.  For  thy  three  thousand  ducats  here  is  six 

Shy.  If  every  ducat  in  six  thousand  ducat-s 
Were  in  six  parts,  and  every  part  a  ducat, 
I  would  not  draw  them, — I  would  have  my  biwd. 

Duke.  How  shalt  thou  hope  for  mercy,  rend'ring 
none? 

Shy.  What  judgment  shall  I  dread,  doing  no 
wrong  ? 
You  have  among  you  many  a  jiurcha.s'd  slave, 
Which,  like  your  asses,  and  your  dogs,  and  mui-;.-*, 
You  use  in  abject  and  in  slavish  parts. 
Because  you  bought  them : — Shall  I  say  to  you. 
Let  them  be  free,  marry  them  to  your  heirs  ? 
Why  sweat  they  under  burthens  ?  let  their  beds 
Be  made  as  soft  as  yours,  and  let -their  palates 
Be  season'd  with  such  viands  1     You  will  answer. 
The  slaves  are  ours : — So  do  I  answer  you. 
The  pound  of  flesh,  which  I  demand  of  him. 
Is  dearly  bought.;  't  is  mine,  and  I  will  have  it : 
If  you  deny  me,  fie  upon  your  law  ! 
There  is  no  force  in  the  decrees  of  Venice : 
I  stand  for  judgment:  answer,  shall  I  have  it? 

Duke.  Upon  my  power,  I  may  dismiss  this  court, 
Unless  Bellario,  a  learned  doctor. 
Whom  I  have  sent  for  to  detennine  this, 
Come  here  to-day. 

Solan.  My  lord,  here  stays  without 

A  messenger  with  letters  from  the  doctor. 
New  come  from  Padua. 

Duke.  Bring  us  the  letters ;  call  the  messenger. 

Bass.  Good  cheer,  Antonio !  What,  man  !  com- 
age  yet ! 
The  Jew  shall  have  my  flesh,  blood,  bones,  and  all, 
Ere  thou  shalt  lose  for  me  one  drop  of  blood. 

Ant.  I  am  a  tainted  wether  of  the  flock, 
Meetest  for  death  ;  the  weakest  kind  of  fruit 
Drops  earliest  to  the  gi'ound,  and  so  let  me : 
You  cannot  better  be  employ'd,  Bassanio, 
Than  to  live  still,  and  write  mine  epitaph. 

Enter  Nerissa,  dressed  like  a  laioyer's  clerk. 

Duke.  Came  you  from  Padua,  from  Bellario  ? 
I^er.  From  both,  my  lord :  BeUario  greets  your 
grace.  [Presents  a  letter. 

Bass.  Why  dost  thou  whet  thy  Icnife  so  earncstlyl 
Sky.  To  cut  the  forfeiture  from  'hat  bankixiul 
there. 

Gra.  Not  on  thy  sole,  but  on  thy  soul,  harsh  Jew 

S88 


ACT  rv. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


SCENE    1. 


Thou  mak'st  thy  knife  keen ;  but  no  metal  can, 
No,  not  the  hangman's  axe,  bear  half  the  keenness 
Of  thy  sharp  en\'y.     Can  no  prayers  pierce  thee  ? 

Shy.  No,  none  that  thou  hast  wit  enough  to 
make. 

Gra.  O,  be  thou  damn'd,  inexorable  dog 
And  for  thy  life  let  justice  be  accus'd. 
Thou  almost  mak'st  me  waver  in  my  faith, 
To  hold  opinion  with  Pythagoras, 
That  souls  of  animals  infuse  themselves 
Into  the  trunks  of  men  :  thy  cunish  spirit 
Govern'd  a  wolf,  who,  hang'd  for  human  slaughter. 
Even  from  the  gallows  did  his  fell  soul  fleet. 
And,  whilst  thou  lay'st  in  thy  unhallow'd  dam, 
Infus'd  itself  in  thee;  for  thy  desires 
Are  wolfish,  bloody,  starv'd,  and  ravenous. 

Shj.  Till  thou  canst  rail  the  seal  from  off  my 
bond. 
Thou  but  offend'st  thy  lungs  to  speak  so  loud : 
Repair  thy  wit,  good  youth,  or  it  will  fall 
To  endless  ruin. — I  stand  here  for  law. 

Duke.  This  letter  from  Bellario  doth  commend 
A  young  and  learned  doctor  to  our  court : — 
Where  is  ho  ? 

Ncr.  He  attendeth  here  hard  by, 

To  know  your  answei',  whether  you  '11  admit  him. 

Duke.  With  all  my  heart : — some  three  or  foiu' 

of  \'0U 
Go  give  him  courteous  conduct  to  this  place. — 
Meantime,  the  court  shall  hear  Bellario's  letter. 

\_Clerk  reads. 

"Your  grace  shall  understand  that,  at  the  receipt  of 
your  letter,  I  am  very  sick ;  but  in  the  instant  that  your 
messenger  came,  in  loving  visitation  was  with  me  a  young 
doctor  of  Home ;  his  name  is  Balthazar:  I  acquainted  him 
with  the  cause  in  controversy  between  the  Jew  and  Antonio 
the  merchant;  wo  turn'd  o'er  many  books  together:  he  is 
furnished  with  my  opinion  ;  whicli,  bettered  with  his  own 
learning  (the  greatness  whereof  1  cannot  enough  commend), 
comes  with  him,  at  my  importunity,  to  fill  up  your  grace's 
request  in  my  stead.  I  beseech  you,  let  his  lack  of  years 
be  no  impediment  to  let  him  lack  a  reverend  estimation; 
for  I  never  knew  so  young  a  body  with  so  old  a  head.  I 
leave  him  to  your  gracious  acceptance,  whose  trial  shall 
better  publish  his  commendation." 

Duke.  You  hear  tlie  learn'd  Bellario,  what  he 
writes: 
And  here,  I  take  it,  is  the  doctor  come. — 

Unier  PoRxrA,  dressed  like  a  doctor  of  laws. 

Give  me  yoiu-  hand :  Came  you  from  old  Bellario  ? 
Par.  I  did,  my  lord. 

Duke.  You  are  welcome :   take  your 

place. 

Sfi4 


Are  you  acquainted  with  the  difference 
That  holds  this  present  question  in  the  court? 

Por.  I  am  informed  throughl}'  of  the  ;ause. 
Which  is  the  mercl'ant  here,  and  which  the  Jew 

Duke.    Antonio  and  old  Shylock,  both  stand 
forth. 

Por.  Is  your  name  Shylock  ? 

Shy.  Shylock  is  my  name. 

Por.  Of  a  strange  nature  is  the  suit  you  follow ; 
Yet  in  such  rule  that  the  Venetian  law 
Cannot  impugn  you,  as  you  do  proceed. — 
You  stand  within  his  danger,*  do  you  not?  [  T'o  Ant. 

Ant.  Ay,  so  he  says. 

Por.  Do  you  confess  the  bond  ? 

Ant.  I  do. 

Por.  Then  must  the  Jew  be  merciful. 

Shy.  On  what  compulsion  must  I?  tell  me  that 

Por.  The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain'd ; 
It  droppeth,  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Ujion  the  place  beneath  :  it  is  t^nce  bless'd  ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes : 
'T  is  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown ; 
His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power, 
The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty. 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings ; 
But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway. 
It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings. 
It  is  an  attiibute  to  God  himself; 
And  earthly  poorer  doth  then  show  likest  God's, 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Therefore,  Jew, 
Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this — 
That  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation :  we  do  pray  for  mercy ; 
And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy.     I  have  spoke  thus  nmch. 
To  mitigate  the  justice  of  thy  plea ; 
Wliicli  if  thou  follow,  this  strict  court  of  Venice 
Must  needs  give  sentence  'gainst  the  merchant 
there. 

Shy.  My  deeds  upon  my  head !     I  crave  the 
law, 
The  penalty  and  foifeit  of  my  bond. 

Por.  Is  he  not  able  to  discharge  the  money  ? 

Bass.  Yes,  here  I  tender  it  for  liirn  in  the  court 
Yea,  thrice  the  sum:  if  that  will  net  suffice, 
1  will  bo  bound  to  pay  it  ton  times  o'er. 
On  forfeit  of  ni_v  li.'uids,  my  head,  my  heart : 
If  this  will  not  stilliee,  it  must  apjiear 
That  malice  bears  down  .truth."'  And  I  beseech  you, 
Wrest  once  the  law  to  your  .'mthority  : 
To  do  a  great  right,  do  a  little  wronc, 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE 


SCBKB    I. 


Au(l  curb  this  cruel  devil  of  his  will. 

For.  It  must  not  be.    There  is  no  power  in  Venice 
C  'an  alter  a  decree  established : 
"I"  will  be  recorded  for  a  precedent ; 
\ii(l  many  an  error,  by  the  same  example, 
■.Vill  rush  into  the  state: — it  cannot  be. 

Shy.  A  Daniel  come  to  judgment  1  yea,  a  Daniel ! 
0  wise  young  judge,  how  I  do  honour  thee ! 
For.  I  pray  you,  let  me  look  upon  the  bond. 
Shi/.  Here 'tis,  most  reverend  doctor;  here  it  is. 
For.  Sliylock,  there  's  thrico  thy  money  offer'd 

thee. 
Sh'/.  An   oath,  an  oath,  I  have   an   oath   in 
heaven : 
Shall  I  lay  perjury  upon  my  soul  ? 
No,  not  for  Venice. 

Por.  Why,  this  bond  is  forfeit ; 

And  lawfully  by  this  the  Jew  may  claim 
A  Dound  of  flesh,  to  be  by  him  cut  ofiF 
Nearest  the  merchant's  heart: — Bo  merciful ; 
Take  thrice  thy  money ;  bid  mo  tear  the  bond. 

Shi/.  When  it  is  paid  according  to  the  tenor. 
It  doth  appear  you  are  a  worthy  judge ; 
You  know  the  law  ;  your  exposition 
ITath  been  most  sound :  I  charge  you  by  the  law, 
Whereof  you  are  a  well -deserving  pillar, 
Pi'ocei^d  to  judgment :  by  my  soul  I  swear. 
There  is  no  power  in  the  tongue  of  man 
To  alter  me :  I  stay  here  on  my  bond. 

Ayit.  Most  heartily  I  do  beseech  the  coui't 
To  give  the  judgment. 

For.  Why,  then,  thus  it  is : 

You  must  prepare  your  bosom  for  his  knife. 
Shy.  0  noble  judge  !  O  excellent  young  man ! 
For.  For  the  intent  and  puqiose  of  the  law 
Hath  full  relation  to  the  penalty. 
Which  here  appeareth  due  upon  the  bond. 

Shi/.  "T  is  very  true :  O  wise  and  upright  judge ! 
How  much  more  elder  art  thou  than  thy  looks ! 
For.  Therefore,  lay  bare  your  bosom. 
Shy.  Ay,  his  breast : 

So  says  the  bond  ; — Doth  it  not,  noble  judge ! — 
Ne.-n-est  his  heart, — those  are  the  very  words. 
Por.  It  is  so.     Are  there  balance  here  to  weigh 

the  flesh  2^ 
Shy.  I  have  them  ready. 
For.  Have  by  some  surgeon,  Shylock,  on  your 
charge. 
To  .stop  his  wounds,  lest  he  do  bleed  to  death. 
Shy.  Is  it  so  nominated  in  the  bond  ? 
Por.  It  is  not  so  express'd ;  But  what  of  that  ? 
'T  were  good  you  do  so  much  for  charity. 


Shy.  I  cannot  find  it ;  't  is  not  in  the  bond. 
For.  Come,  merchant,  have  you  anything  to 


sayi 


pre- 


Ant.  But   little ;    I   am    arni'd,   and   well 
par'd. — 
Give  me  your  hand,  Bassanio ;  fare  you  welll 
Grieve  not  that  I  am  fiiU'u  to  this  for  you. 
For  herein  Fortune  shows  herself  more  kind 
Than  is  her  custom :  it  is  still  her  use. 
To  let  the  wretched  man  outlive  his  wealth. 
To  view  with  hollow  eye,  and  wrinkled  brow, 
An  age  of  poverty  ;  from  which  ling'ring  penance 
Of  such  misery  dolh  she  cut  me  oft'. 
Commend  me  to  your  honourable  wife : 
Tell  her  the  process  of  Antonio's  end ; 
Say  how  I  lov'd  you,  speak  me  foir  in  death ; 
And,  when  the  tale  is  told,  bid  her  bo  judge 
Whether  Bassanio  had  not  once  a  love. 
Repent  not  you  that  you  shall  lose'  your  friend, 
And  he  repents  not  that  he  pays  your  debt ; 
For,  if  the  Jew  do  cut  but  deep  enough, 
I  '11  pay  it  instantly  with  all  my  he.art. 

Bass.     Antonio,  I  am  manied  to  a  wife. 
Which  is  as  dear  to  me  as  life  itself; 
But  life  itself,  my  wife,  and  all  the  world. 
Are  not  with  me  esteem'd  above  thy  life ; 
I  would  lose  all,  ay,  sacrifice  them  all 
Here  to  this  devil,  to  deliver  you. 

For.  Your  wife  would  give  you  little  thank* 
for  that, 
K  she  were  by,  to  hear  you  make  the  offer. 

Gra.  I  have  a  wife,  whom  I  protest  I  love ; 
I  would  she  were  in  heaven,  so  she  could 
Entreat  some  power  to  change  this  currish  Jew. 
iVf  r.  'T  is  well  you  oft'er  it  behind  her  back ; 
The  wish  would  make  else  an  unquiet  house. 
Shy.  These  be  the  Christian  husbands  !    I  have 
a  daughter ; 
Would  any  of  the  stock  of  Barrabas'' 
Had  been  her  husband,  rather  than  a  Christian! 

[Aside, 
AVe  trifle  time  ;  I  pray  thee  pursue  sentence. 
For.  A  pound  of  that  same  merchant's  flesh  is 
thine ; 
The  court  awards  it,  and  the  law  doth  give  it. 
Shy.  Most  rightful  judge  ! 
For.  And  you  must  cut  this  flesh  from  off  his 
breast ; 
The  law  allows  it,  and  the  court  awards  it. 

Shy.  !Most  leaiTied  judge  ! — A  sentence  !  come, 

prepare. 
Por.  Tarry  a  little ; — there  is  something  else. — ■ 

38.T 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


SCENE  1. 


'riiis  bond  doth  give  thee  here  no  jot  of  blood ; 

The  words  expressly  are,  a  pound  cf  flesh  : 

Then  take  thy  bond,  take  thou  thy  pound  of  flesh ; 

But,  in  the  cutting  it,  if  thou  dost  shed 

One  dro]!™  of  Christian  blood,  thy  lands  and  goods 

Are,  b\'  the  laws  of  Venice,  confiscate 

Unto  the  state  of  Venice. 

Gra.  0  upright  judge ! — Mark,  Jew ! — 0  learned 
judge ! 

Shy.  Is  that  the  law  ? 

For.  Thyself  shalt  see  the  act : 

For,  as  thou  urgest  justice,  be  assur'd 
Thou  shalt  have  justice,  more  than  thou  desirest. 

Gra.  0  learned  judge  ! — Mark,  Jew ; — a  learned 
judge ! 

Sliy.    I  take    this   offer,  then, — pay  the  bond 
thrice, 
And  let  the  Christian  go. 

Bass.  Here  is  the  money. 

For.  Soft! 
The  Jew  shall  have  all  justice ; — soft; — no  haste ; — 
He  shall  have  nothing  but  the  penalty. 

Gra.  O  Jew  !  an  upright  judge,  a  learned  judge  ! 

For.  Therefore,  prepare  tliee  to  cut  ofi"  the  flesh. 
Shed  thou  no  blood ;  nor  cut  thou  less,  nor  more. 
But  just  a  pound  of  flesh  :  if  thou  tak'st  more, 
Or  less,  than  a  just  pound, — be  it  but  so  much 
As  makes  it  light,  or  heavT-,  in  the  substance. 
Or  the  division  of  the  twentieth  part 
Of  one  poor  scniple, — nay,  if  the  scale  do  turn 
Rut  in  the  estimation  of  a  hair, — 
Thou  diest,  and  all  thy  goods  are  confiscate. 

Gra.  A  second  Daniel ;  a  Daniel,  Jew  ! 
Now,  infidel,  I  have  thee  on  the  hip. 

For.  Why  doth  the  Jew  pause  ?  take  thy  for- 
feiture. 

Shy.  Give  me  my  principal,  and  let  me  go. 

Bass.  I  have  it  ready  for  thee ;  here  it  is. 

For.  He  hath  refus'd  it  in  the  open  court; 
He  shall  have  merely  justice,  and  his  bond. 

Gra.  A  Daniel,  still  say  I ;  a  second  Daniel ! 
I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teaching  me  that  word. 

Shj.  Shall  I  not  have  barely  my  principal  ? 

For.  Tliou  shalt  have  nothing  but  the  forfeiture. 
To  be  so  taken  at  thy  ])eril,  Jew. 

Shy.  Why,  then  the  devil  give  him  good  of  it! 
I  '11  stay  no  longer  question. 

For.  Tarry,  Jew ; 

The  law  hath  yet  another  hold  on  3-ou. 
It  is  enacted  in  the  laws  of  Venice, — 
If  it  be  prov'd  against  an  alien, 
lliat  by  direct,  or  indirect  attempts, 
886 


He  seek  the  life  of  any  citizen. 
The  party  'gainst  the  which  he  doth  contrive 
Shall  seize  one  half  his  goods ;  the  other  half 
Comes  to  the  privy  coffer  of  the  state ; 
And  the  offender's  life  lies  in  the  mercy 
Of  the  duke  only,  'gainst  all  other  voice. 
In  which  predicament,  I  say,  thou  stand'st : 
For  it  appears  by  manifest  proceeding. 
That,  indirectly,  and  directly  too, 
Thou  hast  contriv'd  against  the  very  life 
Of  the  defendant ;  and  thou  hast  incurr'd 
The  danger  formerly  by  me  rehears'd. 
Down,  therefore,  and  beg  mercy  of  the  duke. 

Gra.  Beg  that  thou  may'st  have  leave  to  hang 
thyself : 
And  yet,  thy  wealth  being  forfeit  to  the  state. 
Thou  hast  not  left  the  value  of  a  cord  ; 
Therefore,  thou  must  be   hang'd   at  the   state's 
charge. 

Duke.  That  thou  shalt  see  the  difference  of  oar 
spirit, 
I  pardon  thee  thy  life  before  thou  ask  it : 
For  half  th}'  wealth,  it  is  Antonio's ; 
The  other  half  comes  to  the  general  state, 
W^hich  humbleness  may  drive  unto  a  fine. 

For.  Av,  for  the  state  ;  not  for  Antonio. 

Shy.  Nay,  take  my  life  and  all ;  pardon  not  that 
You  take  my  house,  when  you  do  take  the  prop 
That  doth  sustain  my  house ;  you  take  my  life, 
When  you  do  take  the  means  whereby  I  live. 

For.  What  mercy  can  you  render  him,  Antonio? 

Gra.  A  halter  gratis ;  nothing  else,  for  God'a 
sake! 

Ant.  So  please  my  lord  the  duke,  and  all  the 
court, 
To  quit  the  fine  for  one  half  of  his  giX)ds, 
I  am  content,  so  he  will  let  me  have 
The  other  half  in  use,  to  render  it, 
Upon  his  death,  unto  the  gentleman 
That  lately  stole  his  daughter ; 
Two  things  provided  more, — That,  for  this  favour, 
He  presently  become  a  Christian  ; 
The  other,  that  he  do  record  a  gift, 
Here  in  tlie  court,  of  all  he  dies  possess'd. 
Unto  his  son  Lorenzo  and  his  daughter. 

Duke.  He  shall  do  this ;  or  else  I  do  recant 
The  pardon  that  I  lato  pronounced  here. 

For.  Art  thou  contented,  Jew  ?  what  dost  thou 
say? 

Shy.  I  am  content." 

For.  Clerk,  draw  a  deed  of  gift. 

Shy.  I  pray  you  give  me  leave  to  go  from  henco : 


niE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


[  am  not  well.     SoiiJ  the  deed  after  me, 
And  I  will  sign  it. 

Duke.  Get  thee  gone,  but  do  it. 

Gra.  In  christ'ning,  thou  shall  have  two  god- 
fathers ; 
Had  I  been  judge,  thou  shouldst  liave  had  ten 

more,'* 
To  bring  thee  to  the  gallows,  not  the  font.  \Ex.  Sht. 

Duke.  Sir,  I  entreat  you  home  with  me  to  dinner. 

Por.  I  humbly  do  desire  your  grace  of  pardon. 
[  must  away  this  night  toward  Padua, 
And  it  is  meet  I  presently  set  forth. 

Duke.  I  am  sorry  that  your  leisure  ser\  es  you  not. 
Antonio,  gratify  this  gentleman  ; 
For,  in  my  mind,  you  are  much  bound  to  liim. 

[^Exeunt  Duke,  Magnificoes,  and  Train. 

Bass.  Most  worthy  gentleman,  I  and  my  friend 
Have  by  your  wisdom  been  this  day  acquitted 
Of  grievous  penalties;  in  lieu  whereof, 
Three  thousand  ducats,  due  unto  the  Jew, 
We  freely  cope  your  courteous  pains  withal. 

Ant.  And  stand  indebted,  over  and  above, 
la  love  and  service  to  you  evermore. 

Por.  He  is  well  paid  that  is  well  satisfied : 
And  I,  delivering  you,  am  satisfied. 
And  therein  do  account  myself  well  paid  ; 
My  mind  was  never  yet  more  mercenary. 
I  pray  you  know  me,  when  we  meet  again ; 
I  wish  you  well,  and  so  I  take  my  leave. 

Bass.  Dear  sir,  of  force   I  must  attempt  you 
further ; 
Take  some  remembrance  of  us,  as  a  tiibute, 
Not  as  a  fee  :  grant  me  two  thiugs,  I  pray  you. 
Not  to  deny  me,  and  to  pardon  me. 

Por.  You  press  me  far,  and  tlierefore  I  will  yield. 
Give  me  your  gloves,  I  '11  wear  them  for  your 

sake ; 
And,  for  your  love,  I  '11  take  this  ring  from  you : — 
Do  not  draw  back  your  hand ;  I  '11  take  no  more. 
And  you  in  love  shall  not  deny  me  this. 

Bass.  This  ring,  good  sir, — alas,  it  is  a  trifle  ; 
I  will  not  shame  myself  to  give  you  this. 

Por.  I  will  have  nothing  else  but  only  this ; 
And  now,  methinks,  I  have  a  mind  to  it. 

Bass.  There  's  more  depends  on  this  than  on 
the  value. 
The  dearest  ring  in  Venice  will  I  give  you, 
And  find  it  out  by  pi'oclamation ; 
Only  for  this  I  pray  you  pardon  me. 

Por.  I  see,  sir,  you  are  liberal  in  offers : 
You  taught  me  first  to  beg ;  and  now,  methinks. 
You  teach  me  how  a  beggar  should  be  answer  d. 


Bass.  Good  sir,  this  ring  was  given  me  hy  my 
wife; 
And,  when  slie  put  it  on,  she  made  me  vow 
Thfit  I  should  neither  sell,  nor  give,  nor  lose  it. 

Por.  That  'scuse  serves  many  men  to  save  their 
gifts. 
An  if  your  wife  be  not  a  mad  woman, 
And  know  how  well  I  have  deserv'd  this  ring. 
She  would  not  hold  out  enemy  for  ever. 
For  giring  it  to  me.     Well,  peace  be  with  you '. 
^Exeunt  Por.  and  Ner. 

Ant.  My  lord  Bassanio,  let  him  have  the  ring  , 
Let  his  deservings,  and  my  love  withal. 
Be  valued  against  your  wife's  commandment. 

Bass.  Go,  Gratiano ;  run  and  overtake  him ; 
Give  him  the  ring ;  and  bring  him,  if  thou  canst, 
Unto  Antonio's  house  : — away,  make  haste. 

^Exit  Gkatiano 
Come,  you  and  I  will  thither  presently. 
And  in  the  morning  early  will  we  both 
Fly  toward  Belmont.     Come,  Antonio.      \^Exeuni 

SCENE  n.— Venice.     A  Street. 

ErJer  Portia,  and  Nerissa. 

Por.  Inquire   the  Jew's  house    out,  give   hire 
this  deed, 
And  let  him  sign  it ;  we  '11  away  to  night. 
And  be  a  day  before  our  husbands  home : 
This  deed  will  be  well  welcome  to  Lorenzo. 

Enter  Gratiano. 

Gra.  Fair  sir,  you  are  well  o'erta'en : 
My  lord  Bassanio,  upon  more  advice,*' 
Hath  sent  you  here  this  ring,  and  doth  entreat 
Your  company  at  dinner. 

Por.  That  cannot  be : 

His  ring  I  do  accept  most  thankfully, 
And  so,  I  pray  you,  tell  him :  Furthermore, 
I  pray  you,  show  my  youth  old  Shylock's  house. 

Gra.  That  will  I'do. 

JVcr.  Sir,  I  would  speak  with  you  :— 

I  '11  see  if  I  can  get  my  husband's  ring, 

[To  Portia 
WTiich  I  did  make  him  swear  to  keep  for  ever. 

Por.  Thou  mayst,  I  warrant.     We, shall  havt 
old  swearing,^' 
That  they  did  give  the  rings  away  to  men ; 
But  we  '11  outface  them,  and  outswear  them  to. 
Awav,  make  haste ;  thou  know'st  where  I  will  tariy. 

iVfr.  Come,  good  sir,  will  you  show  me  to  this 
house  3  [Eteuni, 

887 


ACT   V. 


THE  IViERCHAJS^T  OF  VENICE. 


SCENE    1. 


ACT    Y. 


SCENE  L— Belmont.     The  Garden  0/ Portia's 
Ilouse. 

Enter  Lorenzo  and  Jessica. 

Lor.  The  moon  shines  bright : — In  such  a  night 
as  this, 
When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees, 
And  they  did  make  no  noise, — in  such  a  night, 
Troilus,  inethinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  walls. 
And  sigh'd  his  soul  toward  the  Grecian  tents, 
Where  Cressid  lay  that  night. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night, 

Did  Thisbe  fearfully  o'ertrip  the  dew ; 
And  saw  the  lion's  shadow  ere  himself. 
And  ran  dismay'd  away. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night, 

Stood  Dido  with  a  willow  in  her  hand" 
Upon  the  wild  sea-banks,  and  wav'd  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night,'^ 

Medea  gatber'd  the  enchanted  herbs 
That  did  renew  old  .S&on. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night. 

Did  Jessica  steal  from  the  wealthy  Jew ; 
And  with  an  iinthrift  love  did  run  from  Venice, 
As  far  as  Belmont. 

Jen.  In  such  a  night, 

Did  young  Lorenzo  swear  he  lov'd  her  well ; 
Stealing  her  soul  with  many  vows  of  faith, 
And  ne'er  a  true  one. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night. 

Did  pretty  Jessica,  like  a  little  shrew. 
Slander  her  love,  and  he  forgave  it  her. 

Jes.  I  would  out-night  you,  did  no  body  come : 
FJut,  hark,  I  liear  the  footing  of  a  man. 

Enter  Stephano. 

Lor.   Who   comes  so   fast  in   silence   of   the 

night  ? 
Steph.  A  friend. 
Lor.  A  friend  ?  what  friend  ?  your  name,  I  pray 

you,  friend. 
Stq)k.  Stephano  is  my  name  ;  and  I  bring  word, 
868 


Mj  mistress  will  before  the  break  of  day 
Be  here  at  Belmont ;  she  doth  stray  about 
By  holy  crosses,  where  she  kneels  and  prays 
For  happy  wedlock  hours. 

Lor.  Who  comes  with  her? 

Steph.  None,  but  a  holy  hermit,  and  her  maid. 
I  pray  you,  is  my  master  yet  retura'd  ? 

Lor.  He  is  not,  nor  we  have  not  heard  from 
him. — 
But  go  we  in,  I  pray  thee,  Jessica, 
And  ceremoniously  let  us  prepare 
Some  welcome  for  the  mistress  of  the  house. 


Enter  Launcelot. 


sola 


Laun.  Sola,  sola !  wo  ha,  ho !  sola, 

Lor.  "Who  calls  ? 

Laun.  Sola !  Did  you  see  master  Lorenzo,  ano 
mistress  Lorenzo  ?  sola,  sola  ! 

Lor.  Leave  hallooing,  man  ;  here. 

Laun.  Sola !   Where  ?  where  ? 

Lor.  Here. 

Laun.  Tell  him  there  's  a  post  come  from  my 
master,  with  his  horn  full  of  good  news;"  my 
master  will  be  here  ere  morning.  [Exit, 

Lor.  Sweet  soul,  let 's  in,  and  there  expect  their 
coming. 
And  yet  no  matter ; — Wliy  should  we  go  in  ? 
My  friend  Stephano,  signify,  I  pray  you, 
Within  the  house,  your  mistress  is  at  hand  : 
And  bring  your  music  forth  into  the  air. 

\E,xil  Stephano. 
How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank  ! 
Here  we  will  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears ;  soft  stillness,  and  the  night. 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica.     Look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patens  of  bright  gold.'* 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  behold'st 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings. 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-cy'd  cherubin  : 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls ; 
But  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it— 


ACT    V. 


THE  MERCnANT  Ui-   VENICE. 


SCENE    1. 


Enter  Musicians. 

Come,  ho !  and  wake  Diana  with  a  hymn ; 
With  sweetest  touches  pierce  your  mistress'  ear, 
And  di'aw  lier  home  with  music.  [^Afusic. 

Jcs.  I  am    never   merry  when   I   hear  sweet 

music. 
Lor.  The  reason  is,  your  spirits  are  attentive : 
For  do  but  note  a  wild  and  wanton  lierd. 
Or  race  of  youthful  and  unhandled  colts. 
Fetching  mad  bounds,  bellowing,  and  neighing 

loud, 
Which  is  the  hot  condition  of  their  blood ; 
If  they  but  hear  perchance  a  trumpet  sound. 
Or  any  air  of  music  touch  their  ears, 
You  shall  perceive  them  make  a  mutual  stand, 
rheir  savage  eyes  tum'd  to  a  modest  gaze, 
By  the  sweet  power   of  music  :    Therefore,  the 

poet 
Did   feign   th.it  Oi-pheus  drew  trees,  stones,  and 

floods, — 
Since  nought  so  stockish,  hard,  and  full  of  rage. 
But  music  for  the  time  doth  change  his  nature  ; 
The  man  that  hath  no  music  in  himself, 
Nor  is  not  raov'd  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds. 
Is  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and  spoils ; 
Ihe  motions  of  his  spirit  are  dull  as  night, 
And  his  affections  dark  as  Erebus  : 
Let  no  such  man  be  trusted. — Mark  the  music. 

Enter  Portia  and  Neiussa  at  a  distance. 

for.  That  light  we  see  is  burning  in  mv  hall. 
IIow  far  that  little  candle  throws  his  beams ! 
So  shines  a  good  deed  in  a  naughty  world. 

Her.  When  the  moon  shone,  we  did  not  see  the 
candle. 

Por.  So  doth  the  greater  glory  dim  the  loss  : 
A  substitute  shines  biightly  as  a  king, 
Until  a  king  be  by ;  and  then  his  state 
Empties  itself,  as  doth  an  inland  brook 
Into  the  main  of  waters.     Music !  hark  ! 

ly'er.  It  is  3-our  music,  madam,  of  the  house. 

For.  Nothing  is  good,  I  see,  without  respect ;" 
Methinks  it  sounds  much  sweeter  than  by  dav. 

JVer.  Silence  bestows  ihat  virtue  on  it,  madam. 

Por.  The  crow  doth  sing  as  sweetly  as  the  lark. 
When  neither  is  attended  ;  and,  I  think 
The  nightingale,  if  she  should  sing  by  day, 
When  every  goose  is  cackling,  would  be  thought 
No  better  a  musician  than  the  wren. 
IIcw  many  things  by  season  soason'd  are 
To  their  right  praise,  and  true  perfection ! — 


Peace !    Row  the  moon  sleeps  with  Endymion,"" 
And  would  not  be  awak'd  !  [Music  ceases 

Lor.  That  is  the  voice, 

Or  I  am  much  deceiv'd,  of  Portia. 

Por.  lie  knows  me,  as  the  blind  man  knows 
the  cuckoo. 
By  the  bad  voice. 

Lor.  Dear  lady,  welcome  home. 

Por.  We  have  been  praying  for  our  husbands' 
■welfare. 
Which  speed,  we  hope,  the  better  for  our  words. 
Are  they  return'd  ? 

Lor.  Madam,  they  are  not  yet ; 

But  there  is  come  a  messenger  before, 
To  signify  their  coming. 

Por.  Go  in,  Nerissa ; 

Oive  order  to  my  servants,  that  they  take 
No  note  at  all  of  our  being  absent  hence ; 
Nor  you,  Lorenzo  : — Jessica,  nor  you. 

[A  tucket  .sounc/?."" 

Lor.    Your  husband   is   at  hand  ;    I   hear  his 
trumpet : 
We  are  no  tell-tales,  madam  ;  fear  you  not. 

Por.  This  night,  methinks,  is  but  the  daylight 
sick. 
It  looks  a  little  paler;  't  is  a  day. 
Such  iis  the  day  is  when  the  sun  is  hid. 

Enter  Bassanio,  Antoxio,  Gratiano,  and  their 
Followers. 

Bass.  We  should  hold  day  with  the  Antipodes. 
If  you  would  walk  in  absence  of  the  sun. 

Por.  Let  me  give  light,  but  let  me  not  be  light ; 
For  a  light  wife  doth  make  a  heavy  husband, 
And  never  be  Bassanio  so  for  me ; 
But  God  sort  all ! — You  are  welcome  home,  my 
lord. 
Bass.  I  thank  you,  madam :  give  welcome  to 
my  friend. — 
This  is  the  man,  this  is  Antonio, 
To  whom  I  am  so  infinitely  bound. 

Por.  You  should  in  all  sense  be  much  bound 
to  him. 
For,  as  I  hear,  he  was  much  bound  for  you. 
A7it.  No  more  than  I  am  well  acquitted  of. 
Por.  Sir,  you  are  veiy  welcome  to  pur  house : 
It  must  appear  in  other  ways  than  words; 
Therefore,  I  scant  this  breathing  courtesy. 

[Gka.  and  Ner.  talk  apart 
Gra.  By  yonder  moon,  I  swear  you  do  me  wrong 
In  faith,  I  gave  it  to  the  judge's  clerk : 
Would  he  were  gelt  that  had  it,  for  my  part, 

889 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


SCEKE    I. 


Since  vou  do  take  it,  love,  so  mur.b  at  heart, 

Por.  A  quarrel, ho,  already!  what 's  the  matter ? 

Gra.  About  a  hoop  of  gold,  a  paltry  ring 
That  she  did  give  ine ;  whose  poesy  was. 
For  all  the  world,  like  cutler's  poetry 
[Jpon  a  knife,  "  Love  me,  and  leave  me  not." 

Ner.  What  talk  you  of  the  poesy,  or  the  value  ? 
Vou  swore  to  me,  when  I  did  give  it  you. 
That  you  would  w(*ir  it  till  the  hour  of  death  ; 
And  that  it  should  lie  with  you  in  your  grave : 
Though  not  for  me,  yet  for  your  vehement  oaths, 
i'ou  should  have  been  respective,'"  and  have  kept 

it. 
fiave  it  a  judge's  clerk  ! — no,  God  's  my  judge 
The  clerk  will  ne'er  wear  hair  on  's  face  that  had  it ! 

Gra.  He  will,  an  if  he  live  to  be  a  mari. 

Ncr.  Ay,  if  a  woman  live  to  be  a  man. 

Gra.  Now,  by  this  hand,  I  gave  it  to  a  youth, — 
A  kit  d  of  boy  ;  a  little  scrabbed  boy,'"' 
No  higher  than  thyself,  the  judge's  clerk ; 
A  prating  boy,  that  begg'd  it  as  a  fee ; 
r  could  not  for  my  heart  deny  it  him. 

Por.  You  were  to  blame,  I  must  be  plain  with 
you, 
To  part  so  slightly  with  your  wife's  fiist  gift ; 
A  thing  stuck  on  with  oaths  upon  your  Suger, 
And  so  riveted  with  foith  unto  your  flesh. 
r  gave  my  love  a  ring,  and  made  him  swear 
Never  to  part  with  it ;  and  hero  he  stands — 
[  dare  be  sworn  for  him,  he  would  not  leave  it, 
Nor  pluck  it  from  his  finger,  for  the  wealth 
That  the  world  mg^ters.     Now,  in  faith,  Gratiano, 
You  give  your  wife  too  unkind  a  cause  of  grief; 
An  't  were  to  me,  I  should  be  mad  at  it. 

Bass.  Why,  I  were  best  to  cut  my  left  hand  off. 
And  swear  I  lost  the  ring  defending  it.        \Aside. 

Gra.  My  lord  Bassanio  gave  his  ring  away 
Unto  the  judge  that  begg'd  it,  and,  indeed, 
Deserv'd  it  too ;  and  then  the  boy,  his  clerk. 
That  took  some  pains  in  writing,  he  begg'd  mine  : 
And  neither  man,  nor  master,  would  take  aught 
But  the  two  rings. 

Por.  What  ring  gave  you,  my  lord  ? 

Not  that,  I  hope,  which  you  receiv'd  of  inc. 

Bass.  If  1  could  add  a  lie  unto  .1  fault, 
r  would  deny  it ;  but  you  see,  my  finger 
llatli  not  the  ring  upon  it;  it  is  gone. 

Por.  Even  so  voitl  is  your  false  heart  of  tnith. 
By  heaven,  I  will  ne'er  come  in  vour  bed 
Until  I  see  the  ring. 

Ncr.  Nor  I  in  yoiU'S, 

Till  I  again  see  mine. 
SOO 


Bass.  Sweet  Portia, 

If  you  did  know  to  whom  I  gave  the  ring,'"' 
If  you  did  know  for  whom  I  gave  the  ring. 
And  would  conceive  for  what  I  gave  the  ring. 
And  how  unwillingly  I  left  the  ring. 
When  nought  would  be  accepted  but  the  rins. 
You  would  abate  the  strength  of  your  displeasure 

Por.  If  you  had  known  the  virtue  of  the  ring. 
Or  half  her  worthiness  that  gave  the  ring. 
Or  your  own  honour  to  contain'"  the  ring. 
You  would  not  then  have  parted  with  the  ring. 
What  man  is  there  so  much  unreasonable. 
If  you  had  pleas'd  to  have  defended  it 
With  any  terms  of  zeal,  wanted  the  modesty 
To  urge  the  thing  held  as  a  ceremony  ? 
Nerissa  teaches  me  what  to  believe ; 
I  '11  die  for  't,  but  some  woman  had  the  nng. 

Bass.  No,  by  mine  honour,  madam,  by  my  soul 
No  woman  had  it,  but  a  civil  doctor. 
Which  did  refuse  three  thousand  ducats  of  me. 
And  begg'd  the  ring;  the  wdiich  I  did  deny  him. 
And  suti'er'd  him  to  go  displeas'd  away ; 
Even  he  that  had  held  up  the  very  life 
Of  my  dear  friend.     What  should  I  say    sweet 

lady  ? 
I  was  enforc'd  to  send  it  after  him ; 
I  was  beset  with  shame  and  courtes)' ; 
My  honour  would  not  let  ingratitude 
So  much  besmear  it.     Pai'don  me,  good  lady ; 
For,  by  these  blessed  candles  of  the  night. 
Had  you  been  there,  I  think,  you  would  have 

begg'd 
The  ring  of  me  to  give  the  worthy  doctor. 

Por.  Let  not  that  doctor  e'er  come  near  my 
house : 
Since  he  hath  got  the  jewel  that  I  lov'd. 
And  that  which  you  did  swear  to  keep  for  me, 
I  will  become  as  liberal  as  you  ; 
I  'U  not  deny  him  anything  I  have, 
No,  not  my  body,  nor  my  husband's  bed  : 
Know  him  I  shall,  I  am  well  sure  of  it : 
Lie   not  a  night  from   home ;    watch    me,  like 

Argus  ; 
If  you  do  not,  if  I  be  left  alone. 
Now,  by  mine  honour,  which  is  yet  mine  own, 
I  '11  have  that  doctor  for  my  bedfellow. 

Ner.  And  I  his  clerk ;  therefore  be  well  advi.s'd. 
How  you  do  leave  me  to  mine  own  protection. 

Gra.  Well,  do  you   so  :   let  not  me  take  him 
then  : 
For,  if  I  do,  I  'II  mar  the  young  clerk's  pen. 

Ant.  I  am  th'  unhappy  subject  of  these  quarrcU 


ACT  V.                                       THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE.                                    scknb  i. 

Por.  Sir,  tfi-ievc  not  you ;   you   are  welcome 

And  I  have  better  news  in  store  for  you 

DOtwithstanding. 

Thau  you  expect :  unseal  this  letter  soon  ; 

Rass.  Portia,  forgive  me  this  enforced  wrong ; 

There  you  shall  find,  three  of  your  argosies 

And,  in  the  hearing  of  these  many  friends, 

Are  richly  come  to  liarbom-  suddo/dy  : 

1  swear  to  thee,  even  by  thine  own  fair  eyes. 

You  shall  not  know  by  what  strange  accident 

Wherein  I  see  myself, — 

I  chanced  on  this  letter. 

Por.                Mark  you  but  that ! 

Anl.                 I  am  dumb. 

In  both  my  eyes  he  doubly  sees  himself: 

Bass.  Were  you  the  doctor,  and  I  knew  you 

In  each  eye  one : — swear  by  your  double  self,"" 

not? 

And  there  's  an  oath  of  credit. 

Gra.  Were  you  the  clerk,  that  is  to  make  ma 

Bass.                   Nay,  but  hear  me  ; 

cuckold  ? 

Pardon  this  fault,  and  by  my  soul  I  sweai-. 

Ner.  Ay ;  but  the  clerk  that  never  means  to  do  it, 

I  never  more  will  break  an  oath  wltb  thee. 

Unless  he  live  until  he  be  a  man. 

Ant.  I  once  did  lend  my  body  for  his  wealth, 

Bass.  Sweet  doctor,  you  shall  be  my  bedfellow ; 

Which,  but  for  him  that  bad  your  husband's  ring, 

When  I  am  absent,  then  lie  with  my  wife. 

\To  Portia. 

Ant.  Sweet  lady,  you  have  given  me  life,  and 

Had  quite  miscarried :  I  dare  be  bound  again, 

living; 

My  soul  upon  the  forfeit,  that  your  lord 

For  here  I  read  for  certain,  that  my  ships 

Will  never  more  break  fixith  advisedly. 

Are  safely  come  to  road. 

Por.  Then  you  shall  be  his  surety.     Give  liim 

Por.                 How  now,  Lorenzo  ? 

this. 

My  clerk  hath  some  good  comforts,  too,  for  you. 

And  bid  him  keep  it  better  than  the  other. 

Ner.  Ay,  and  I  '11  give  them  him  without  a 

Ant.  Here,  lord  Bassanio ;  swear  to  keep  this 

fee. — 

ring. 

There  do  I  give  to  you  and  Jessica, 

Bass.  By  Heaven,  it  is  the  same   I   gave  the 

From  the  rich  Jew,  a  special  deed  of  gift. 

doctor ! 

After  his  death,  of  all  he  dies  possess'd  of. 

Por.  I  had  it  of  him  :  pardon  me,  Bassanio ; 

Lor.  Fair  ladies,  you  drop  manna  in  the  way 

Fur  by  this  ring  the  doctor  lay  with  me. 

Of  starved  people. 

Ner,  And  pardon  me,  my  gentle  Gratiano ; 

Por.                  It  is  almost  morning. 

Fur  that  same  scrubbed  boy,  the  doctor's  clerk. 

And  yet,  I  am  sure,  you  are  not  satisfied 

111  lieu  of  this  last  night  did  lie  with  me. 

Of  these  events  at  full.     Let  us  go  in  ; 

Gra.  Why,  this  is  like  the  mending  of  highways 

And  cliarge  us  there  upon  iutei-'gatories. 

In  summer,  when  the  ways  are  fair  enough : 

And  we  will  answer  all  things  faithfully. 

What !  are  we  cuckolds,  ereAve  have  deserv'd  it? 

Gra.  Let  it  be  so  :  The  first  inter'gatoiy, 

Por.  Speak  not  so  grossly. — You  are  all  amaz'd : 

That  my  Nerissa  shall  be  sworn  on,  is. 

Here  is  a  letter,  read  it  at  yo  \x  leisure  ; 

Whether  till  the  next  night  she  had  rather  stay, 

It  comes  from  Padua,  from  Bellario  : 

Or  go  to  bed  now,  being  two  hours  to  day  ? 

There  you  shall  find  that  Portia  was  the  doctor; 

But  were  the  day  come,  I  should  wish  it  dark. 

Nerissa  there,  her  clerk ;  Lorenzo  here 

Till  I  were  couching  with  the  doctor's  clerk. 

Shall  witness,  I  set  forth  as  soon  as  you, 

Well,  while  I  live,  I  '11  fear  no  other  thing 

And  but  e'en  now  return'd;  I  have  not  yet 

So  sore,'"  as  keeping  safe  Nerissa's  ring 

Enter'<l  my  house. — Antonio,  you  are  welcome ; 

\Ex(mnt. 

391 

1 

NOTES  TO  THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


■  Enter  Antonic,  Salarino,  and  Solanio. 

"  Nothing  can  be  more  confused,"  observes  Mr.  Knight, 
"  tlmu  the  manner  in  wliich  tlie  names  ot  Salarino  and  S>- 
lanio  are  indicated  in  the  folio  of  1623."  I  have  followed 
Mr.  Kniglit's  edition  in  his  distribution  of  the  speeches  to 
these  characters  ;  and  also  in  substituting  Sohinio  for 
Salcrio  iu  Act  iii.  I  see  no  occasion,  observes  Lord  Clied- 
worth,  for  the  insertion  of  the  latter  name.  Gratiano  calls 
the  bringer  of  his  letter  his  old  Venetian  friend,  which 
exactly  suits  Solanio,  who  had  appeared  before  to  bo  the 
friend  both  of  Gratiano  and  Lorenzo.  Seymours  Kemarks, 
1805,  i.  110. 

5  Tour  argosUs  with  portly  sail. 

Argosies  were  ships  of  great  burthen,  used  both  for 
merchandize  and  w.ir.  In  the  next  line,  Stcevens  proposes 
to  read  o/the  Jlood;  but  comp.are  the  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,  ii.  2,^ 

Marking  the  embarked  traders  on  the  flood. 

"  The  Venetians,  in  those  times,  sent  their  Argosies,  or 
Argosers,  yearly  to  Southampton,  laden  with  Turkey,  I'er- 
Bian,  and  Indian  Merchandize.  The  last  Argoser  that  came 
thus  from  Venice  was  in  tlie  Ve.ar  1587,  and  was  unfortu- 
nately lost  near  the  Isle  of  Wiglit  with  a  rich  cirgo  and 
many  passengers."    Anderson^s  Origin  of  Commerce^  i.  423. 

'  VaiXing  Tier  high  top  lou-er  than  her  ribs. 

Vailing,  bending,  bowing,  lowering.  "  I  do  vail  to  it 
with  reverence,"  Every  Man  out  of  his  Humour.  The 
Andrew  was  the  name  of  the  vessel,  perhaps  a  favourite 
Italian  appellation  of  ships,  from  the  celebrated  Andrew 
Doria. 

*  Lei  no  dog  'baric. 

A  proverbial  expression.  Stcevens  quotes  tlio  following 
from  I'alsgravo's  Aeolastus,  LHO, — "nor  there  shall  no 
doggo  barke  at  mine  ententes."        * 

<*  When,  I  am  very  sure. 

Altered  by  Rowe  to  who,  but  without  necessity.  As  Mr. 
Collier  justly  observes,  the  original  reading  is  in  Shakes- 
poarcV  manner,  and  it  was  not  unusual  for  him  to  leave 
tho  nominative  case  of  the  verb  to  be  understood.  Mr. 
CollicrB  next  restoration, — "It  is  that; — any  thing  now!" 
— <lo»troyB,  I  fear,  tho  eenso  of  the  conversation. 
892 


"  For  this  gear. 
That  is,  literally,  tor  this  matter  or  business. 

'  A  vu>re  swelling  port. 

Port,  show,  appearance,  demeanour.     "  Port,  behaviour 
gestae,"  Coles,  1677. 

^  Prest  unto  it. 
That  is,  ready  for  it.    So,  in  an  old  ballad,— 

Whan  they  had  fared  of  the  best, 
With  bred  and  ale  and  weyne. 

To  tlie  bottys  they  m.ade  them  prest., 
With  bowes  anci  boltys  foil  feyno. 

And,  in  the  Herrings  Tayle,  4to.  Lond.  1508, — 

The  ruine  tlireatning  point  bent  to  his  enemie, 
As  planted  canon  gainst  a  wall  prest  to  begin. 

8  Sovietimes from  her  eyes. 

Mr.  Knight  explains  sometimes,  formerly  ;  a  sense  I  sniv 
peet  the  word  never  bore,  but  some  time  was  used  as 
equivalent  to,  at  one  time.  Why  will  not  the  ordinary 
meaning  of  tho  term  be  permitted  to  serve  in  the  present 
passage  ? 

To  Catd's  daughter,  that  is,  compared  to  Cato's  daughter. 
So,  in  a  subsequent  scene,  "ten  times  undervalued  to 
try'd  gold." 

">  Ay,  that 's  a  colt,  indeed. 

Colt,  n  wild  youth.  A  play  upon  words.  See  notes  to 
Love's  Labour 's  Lost,  No.  36. 

"  Wliat  think  you  of  tlie  Scottish  lord. 
So  the  quartos.     The  folio  reads  otlier  lord,  and  the 
change  was  probably  made  for  fear  of  giving  olTenco  to 
King  James  and  his  countrymen. 

la  How  710W  /  what  netvs  ? 

These  words  arc  omitted  iu  the  first  folio,  most  probably 
accidentally.     Condition,  temper,  disposition. 

'"  Enter  Bassanic  and  SKyloch. 

Shylock,  as  Upton  remarks  in  his  CriticiJ  Observation.*, 
1748,  p.  2ii9,  is  merely  a  corruption  of  the  .lewish  name  of 
Scialac.  It  is  worthy,  however,  of  remark  that  Shvloelc 
was  an  English  family  name,  and  Mr.  Lower  notices  o 
power  of  attorney  from  John  rescmcrsho  to  Richard  .Shy- 
lok  of  IIoo,  CO.  S  jssex,  and  others,  to  deliver  seizon  of  idl 


NOTES  TO  THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


his  lands  in  that  county  to  certain  persona  therein  named. 
Tliis  docninent  is  diitcd  in  July,  H!i5.  Bindley  possessed 
an  old  painplilct,  entitled,  '*Culeb  Shillocko  liis  Prophecie, 
or  tho  Jcwes  X'redietion,''  1607.  Shylock  was  repre- 
«ented  on  the  stage  with  red  huir,  as  appears  from  a  MS. 
elegy  on  Burbage, — 

with  the  red-haired  Jew, 

Which  soupht  the  bankrupt  merehanta  pound  of  flesh, 
By  woman-lawyer  caught  in  his  own  mesh. 

This  peculiarity  in  the  "dressing"  of  the  Jew  is  also 
alluded  to  by  Jordan,  in  a  curious  ballad  in  his  Royal 
Arbor  of  Loyal  Pocsie,  IGG-t,  founded  on  the  story  of  the 
play ;  and  Mr.  Collier  thinks  the  other  particulars  of  his 
dress  and  appearance,  mentioned  in  the  ballad,  are  faithfij 
representations  of  the  custom  of  the  stage  in  Shakespeare's 
time.  For  this  reason  I  annex  a  copy  of  the  ballad,  which 
is  entitled,  "  The  Forfeiture,  a  Komanee ;  Tune,  Dear^  let 
mc  TLOW  this  evening  die:'''' — 


You  that  do  look  with  Christian  hue, 

Attend  unto  my  sonnet, 
,  1 11  tell  you  of  as  vile  a  Jew, 

As  ever  wore  a  bonnet. 
Ko  Jevr  of  Scotland  I  intend, 

My  story  not  so  mean  is  : 
This  Jew  in  wealth  did  much  transcend 

Under  the  states  of  Venice. 


Where  he  by  usury  and  trade, 

Did  much  exceed  in  riches  ; 
His  beard  was  red  ;  his  face  was  made 

Not  much  unlike  a  witch's. 
His  habit  was  a  Jewish  gown, 

That  would  defend  all  weather  ; 
His  chin  turu'd  up,  his  nose  hung  down. 

And  both  ends  met  together. 

Yet  ttiis  deformed  father  had 

A  daughter  and  a  wise  one, 
So  sweet  a  virgin  never  lad 

Did  ever  set  his  eyes  on. 
He  that  could  call  this  lady  foul 

Must  be  a  purblind  noddy  ; 
But  yet  she  had  a  Christian  soul 

Lodg'd  in  a  Jewish  body. 

Within  the  city  there  did  live, 

The  truth  if  you  will  search  on't. 
One  whose  ill  fate  will  make  ycu  grieve, 

A  gallant  Christian  Merchant ; 
Who  did  abound  in  wealth  and  wit. 

In  youth  and  comely  feature, 
Whose  love  unto  a  friend  was  knit 

As  strong  as  bonds  of  nature. 


A  gentleman  of  good  renown. 

But  of  a  sinking  fortune, 
Who  having  no  estate  of  's  own, 

Doth  thus  his  friend  importune  : 
Friend,  lend  me  but  one  thousand  pound ; 

It  shall  again  be  paid  ye, 
For  I  have  very  lately  found 

A  fair  and  wealthy  lady. 


The  Merchant  then  makes  this  reply; 

Friend,  1  am  out  of  treasure, 
But  I  will  make  my  credit  fly, 

To  do  my  friend  a  pleasure. 
There  is  a  Jew  in  Town  (quoth  he), 

Who  though  he  deadly  hate  me, 
Yet  caise  my  wealth  is  strong  at  sea, 

This  favour  will  not  bate  me. 
50 


Wlien  they  were  come  unto  the  Jew, 

lie  <lid  demand  their  pleasure  ; 
Tlje  merchant  answers,  I  of  you 

W<»uld  borrow  so  much  treasuro. 
The  Jew  replies,  you  shall  not  ha  't, 

If  such  a  Hum  would  save  ye, 
Unless  in  three  nmntlis  you  will  pay  't 

Or  forfeit  what  I  M  have  ye. 

If  at  the  three  months  end  yon  do. 

As  you  shall  seal  and  sign  to  't. 
Not  nay  the  money  which  is  due, 

Wlaore'er  I  have  a  mind  to  't, 
I  'II  cut  a  pound  out  of  your  flesh. 

The  merchant  is  contented. 
Because  he  knew  in  half  that  time, 

His  shipping  would  prevent  it. 


Ill  news  by  every  ship  comes  in. 

His  ships  are  drown'd  and  fired; 
The  Jew  his  forfeiture  doth  win 

For  three  months  are  expired. 
He  is  arrested  for  the  debt  j 

The  Court  must  now  decide  it : 
The  flesh  is  due,  and  now  the  Jew 

Is  ready  to  divide  it. 


The  Merchant's  friend  that  had  tlio  gold 

Now  being  richly  married, 
Offered  the  sum  down  three  times  told 

To  have  his  friend's  life  spared. 
'T  would  not  be  took,  but  straight  steps  in 

One  in  Doctor's  apparrel, 
Who,  though  but  young,  doth  now  begin 

Thus  to  decide  the  quarrel. 

Jew,  we  do  grant  that  by  the  law, 

A  pouml  of  flesh  your  due  is. 
But  if  one  drop  of  blood  you  draw, 

We  '11  show  you  what  a  Jew  ift ; 
Take  but  a  pound,  as  't  was  agreed. 

Be  sure  you  eut  no  further. 
And  cut  no  less,  lest  for  the  deed, 

You  be  arraigu'd  for  murther. 


The  Jew  enrag'd  doth  tear  the  bond, 

And  dares  not  do  the  slaughter. 
He  quits  the  Court,  and  then  't  was  found 

Tho  Doctor  proves  his  daughter. 
Who  for  the  love  she  long  time  bore, 

From  a  true  heart  derived, 
To  be  his  wife,  and  save  his  life, 

This  subtle  slight  contrived. 


The  court  consent  and  they  are  wed; 

For  hatching  of  this  slaughter 
The  Jew's  estate  is  forfeited, 

And  given  to  his  daughter. 
She  is  baptiz'd  in  Christendom, 

The  Jew  cries  out  he  's  undone; 
I  wish  such  Jews  may  never  come 

To  England,  nor  to  London. 


William  Thomas,  in  his  '^Historj-e  of  Italye,  a  boofcfi  ex 
ceding  profitable  to  be  red,  because  it  iutrcateth  of  the 
astate  of  many  of  dy  vers  eommonwealthes,  how  they  have 
bene  and  now  be  governed,"  4to.  Lond.  1561,  in  treating  ol 
tho  "  Venetian  astate,"  gives  the  following  curious  notice 
of  the  Jews: — *' It  is  almoste  incredyble  what  gaine  the 
Venetians  receive  by  the  usury  of  the  Jewes,  both  pryvalely 
and  in  common  ;  for  in  everye  citee,  the  Jewes  kepe  open 
shops  of  usurie,  taking  gaiges  of  ordinarie  for  sv.  in  the 
hundred  by  the  yere,  and  if,  at  the  yeres  ende,  the  gaigc  bo 
not  redemed,  it  is  forfeitc,  or  at  the  least  doocn  away  to  d 
great  disadvantage  ;  by  reason  wherof  the  Jewes  are  out  oi 

Sd3 


NOTES  TO  THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


measure  wcalthie  in  those  pnrties."  According  to  Coryat's 
Crudities,  IGll,  p.  234,  "all  tlieir  goodes  are  confiscated  aa 
soone  as  they  embrace  Christiauitv:  and  tliis  I  heard  is  the 
reason,  because,  whereas  many  of  them  doe  raise  their 
fortunes  by  usury,  in  so  much  that  they  doe  sometimes  not 
only  shearo,  but  also  flea  many  a  poore  Christian's  estate 
by  their  griping  extortion,  it  is  therefore  decreed  by  the 
Pope,  and  other  free  princes  in  whose  territories  they  live, 
that  they  shall  make  a  restitution  of  all  their  ill-gotten 
goods,  and  so  diselogge  their  soides  and  consciences,  when 
they  are  admitted  by  holy  baptisme  into  the  bosome  of 
Clirist's  church."  It  is  just  possible  there  may  be  some 
sonnexion  between  this  regulation,  and  the  termination  of 
the  trial  by  Shylock's  compelled  recantation  of  his  faith  in 
Act  iv. 

"  In  saying  he  is  a  good  man. 

Good,  a  technical  phrase  in  the  colloquial  language  of 
merchants,  equivalent  to  sulstantial.  Compare  Massinger's 
Fatall  Dowry,  1632,— 

To  these  I  turne. 

To  these  soft-hearted  men,  that  wisely  know 
The^  are  onely  good  men,  tluit pay  what  ihty  owe. 

Ill  an  old  novel,  called  the  Adventures  of  David  Simple, 
1744,  a  character  applies  the  term  to  a  wealthy  rogue. 
"  Darid  seemed  surprized  at  that  epithet,  and  awked  how  it 
was  possible  a  fellow  whom  he  had  just  citched  in  such  a 
piece  of  villainy  could  be  called  a  good  man  ?  At  which 
words,  the  other,  with  a  sneer  at  bis  folly,  told  him  he 
meant  that  he  was  worth  a  plumb.  Perhaps  he  miglit  not 
understand  that  neither,  for  he  began  to  take  him  for  a 
fool,  but  he  meant  by  a  plumb  £100,000." 

"  Squander'd,  scattered,  dispersed.  Still  used  in  War- 
wickshire. "  His  family  are  iill  grown  up,  and  squandered 
about  the  country,"  i.e.,  settled  in  different  places.  Ac- 
cording to  Wilbraham,  p.  80,  it  is  still  in  use  in  Cheshire. 
Howell  mentions,  *'  many  thousand  islands,  that  lie  squan- 
i^red  in  the  vast  ocean." 


"  There  be  lar^rats,  and  water-rats. 

Water-rats,  a  jocnlar  term  for  pirates,  is  not  peculiar  to 
Shakespeare.  Compare  a  rare  tract,  the  Abortive  of  an 
Idle  Houre,  1620,— 

Some  theeves  are  wat^r-rait«,  some  way-purs-takers  ; 
Some  canters  are,  and  othersome  houso-brcakera. 


"  If  I  can  catch  him  once  upon  the  hip. 

That  is,  at  an  advantage.  The  phrase  occurs  throe 
'.inics  in  Shakespeare.  ^^J^tre  au  dussus  du  vent  encontre, 
t/>  have  the  wind,  advantage,  or  upper  hand  of;  to  have  on 
tl\e  hip."    Cotgrave. 


"  I'ossets'd,  i.e.,  informed. 

"  now  much  ye  would. 

So  the  first  quarto,  printed  for  Ileyes,  1600 ;  at  least, 
BUch  Lithe  reading  in  my  copy  of  that  edition.  Mr.  Collier, 
however,  says  it  road.",  "How  much  yon  would?"  The 
•ccond  quarto  has,  "  ilov/  much  he  would  havef"  A  little 
further  on,  I  think  wo  should  follow  the  old  editions  iu 
reading  Abram,  instead  oi Alraliam,  which  spoils  the  metre. 
304 


^  Eanlin^s,  lambe  just  bom.  From  the  An?lo-Saxcn 
eanian,  to  bring  forth.  Fill,  to  peel,  to  take  the  pill  or 
bark  off.  "A  pill,  rind,"  Coles.  lund,  n.ature.  Full, 
let  fall. 


"  FaU party-colour' d  lamls. 

Party-coloured,  variegated,  variously  coloured.  "  Item^ 
heis  also  verily  perswaded  that  if  women  could  butgoverne 
one  little  peece  of  flesh,  the  tongue  I  meane,  so  many  of 
them  would  not  goe  with  party-coulerd  faces." — Harry 
White's  Humour,  1660. 


"  Many  a  time  and  oft. 

"  Many  a  time  and  oft"  is  a  convention.il  tautology,  still 
in  provincial  use.  It  occurs  in  that  very' early  poem  on 
the  Deposition  of  Eiehard  II.,  published  by  the  Camden 
Society,  ed.  Wright,  p.  2, — "  This  made  me  to  muse  many 
tyme  and  ofte."  Kemble  erroneously  read,  "  many  a  time, 
and  oft  on  the  Eialto." 

The  Rialto  here  alluded  to  was  not  the  bridge  of  the 
Eialto,  but  the  Exchange.  C'or}-at,  writing  in  Shakes- 
peare's time,  says,  "  The  Eiidto,  which  is  at  the  farther 
side  of  the  bridge,  as  you  come  from  &t.  Marks,  is  a  most 
stately  building,  being  the  Exchange  of  Venice,  where  the 
Venetian  gentlemen  and  the  merchants  doe  meete  twice  a 
day,  betwixt  eleven  and  twelve  of  the  cloeke  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  betwixt  five  and  sixe  of  the  clocke  in  the  after- 
nooni3.  This  Ei.ilto  is  of  a  goodly  height,  built  all  with 
bricke,  as  the  palaces  are,  adorned  with  many  fairo  walkcs 
or  open  galleries  that  I  have  before  mentioned,  and  rath  a 
pretty  quadrangular  court  adjoyning  to  it.  But  it  is  inlb- 
riour  to  our  Exchange  in  London,  though,  indeede,  there 
is  a  farre  greater  quantity  of  building  in  tliis  then  in  ours." 
Coryat's  Crudities,  1611,  p.  169.  Compare  Thomas's 
Historye  of  Italye,  1561.  f.  74. 


23  About  my  monies,  and  my  usances. 

Usance  is  interest  rf  vtdni-y.  The  "rate  of  usance"  has 
been  already  mentioned.  "And  spit  upon,  &c."  Spd  foi 
spit  is  not  unusual  in  old  English,  but  it  appears  to  be  an 
unnecessary  antiquarian  refinement  to  retain  it  here,  Mr. 
Knight  writes  spet  in  this  speech,  aiid  spits  in  act  ii.  sc.  7. 
In  the  passage  quoted  by  Mr.  Knight  from  Milton,  the 
author's  own  MS.  has  spits.  See  Seymour's  Eemarks,  i.  115. 


'*  Expressed  in  the  condition. 

In  old  legal  phraseology,  a  condition  was  nearly  syno- 
nymous with  a  bond,  so  called  because  usu.iUy  commencing 
with  the  words,  "The  condition  of  this  obligation  is  such." 

Dwell,  abide,  continue. 

^Ifhe  should  hreah  his  day. 

That  is,  not  keep  his  appointment  for  paying  the  money 
So  in  the  Eayre  Mnyde  of  the  Exchange,  1607, — 

If  you  do  hrcah  yovr  dap,  assure  yourself 
That  I  will  take  the  forfeit  of  your  bond. 


2'  In  the  fearful  guard  of  an  Unthrifty  }:ruiw. 

Fearful  Iiad  formerly  two  significations,  giving  cause  of 
fear,  and  being  apt  to  fear.  It  is  hero  used  iu  the  former 
sense.    Compare  Notes  to  the  Tempest,  No.  60. 


NOTES  TO  THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


='  FltmrisTi  of  cornets. 

Tlio  foUowiiiff  stage  direction  is  iii  tlie  first  edition  :— 
•'  E/itcr  Slorocluia,  ii  Uiwnio  Moore,  all  in  white,  and  tliroe 
or  fouro  fDllowcra  accordingly,  with  I'ortia,  Nerissa,  and 
their  traine." 

^  To  prove  whose  blood  is  reddest. 

KednoBS  of  blood  was  formerly  considered  a  sign  of 
ooura^e.  "  It  nppereth,  in  the  time  of  the  Saxons,  that 
the  manner  over  their  dead  was  a  red  cloath,  as  we  now 
use  a  blacl\.  The  Pagans  refused  blacke,  because  it  repre- 
pcnteth  darknesse,  tcarmed  the  infernal  colour:  and  ao  did 
the  olde  Ensjlish.  The  red  of  valiauncie,  and  that  was 
over  kings,  lords,  knights,  and  valyaunt  souldiours :  white 
over  cleargio  men,  in  token  of  their  profession  and  honest 
life,  and  over  virgins  and  matrons,"  Batman  uppon  Bar- 
Iholome,  15S2,  f.  29. 

Fear'd,  frightened,  terrified.  Wit,  sagacity,  power  of 
mind. 


**  Scorn  running  with  thy  hetU- 

A  pleonasm  quite  in  unison  with  Launcelot's  phrase- 
ology. Pistol  has  something  of  the  same  kind,  when  he 
Bays,  "he  hears  with  ears." 


30  Away  !  says  the  fiend,  for  the  heavens! 

Ftrr  19  several  times  used  in  the  sense  of  hy  in  these 
[ihiys.  For  the  heaven.i,  i.e.,  by  the  heavens,  is  merely,  as 
fiilford  observes,  a  petty  Oath. 

"  It  is  not  improbable,"  says  Douce,  "  that  this  curious 
struggle  between  Launcelot's  conscience  and  the  fiend 
might  have  been  suggested  by  some  well-known  story  in 
Shakespeare's  time,  grafted  on  tlie  following  Monkish  fa- 
ble." It  occurs  in  a  manuscript  collection  of  apologues 
ascribed  to  Odo  de  Ceriton,  an  English  Cistercian  Monk  of 
the  12th  century.  "  Multi  sunt  sicut  niulier  delicata  ct  pi- 
gra.  Talis  vero  mulicr  dum  jiicet  mane  in  leeto,  et  audit 
pulsari  ad  missam,  cogitat  secum  quod  vadat  ad  missam. 
Et  cum  caro,  quse  pigra  est,  timet  frigus,  rcspondet  et 
dicit, — Quare  ires  ita  mane,  nonne  .seis  quod  elerici  pulsaiit 
canipanas  propter  oblationes  ?  donniadhuc;  et  sic  transit 
pars  dici.  Postca  iterum  conscieiilia  punijit  earn  quod  va- 
dat ad  nussam.  Sed  caro  respondet,  et  dicit, — Quare  ires 
tu  tam  cito  ad  ecclesiam  ?  eerto  tu  destrueros  corpus  tunm, 
si  ita  mane  surrexeris,  et  hoc  Deus  non  vult  ut  homo 
destruat  seipsum ;  ergo  quiesce  et  dormi.  Et  transit  alia 
pars  diei.  Iterum  conscientin  punijit  earn  quod  vadat  ad 
ecclesiam  ;  sed  ca7'0  dicit,  Ut  quid  ires  tam  cito  ?  Ego  bene 
Bcio  quod  talis  viclna  tua  nondum  vadit  ad  ecclesiam  ;  dor- 
mi  parum  adhuc.  Et  sic  transit  alia  pars  diei.  Postca 
vunijit  earn  conscientia.,  sed  caro  dicit,  Non  oportet  quod 
edhuo  vadas,  quia  sacerdos  est  curialis  et  bene  expoctabit 
te;  attcnde  ct  dormi.  Et  sic  dormiendo  transit  tenipus. 
Et  tamen  ad  ultimum  verccundia  taeita  atqnc  coacta,  sur- 
git  ct  vadit  ad  ecclesiam,  et  invcnit  portas  clausas."  Two 
MSS.  of  this  work  are  in  the  Bodleian  Library,  and  one  in 
the  British  Museum,  MS.  Arundel  292. 

31  Mors  than  sand-blind,  high-gravel  blind. 

The  last  epithet  is  Launcelot's  humorous  exaggeration 
of  sand-blind.  Try  confusions,  is  another  p)lecc  of  qnaint- 
no8s,  for  try  conclusions,  i.e.,  experiments ;  though  the 


error  seems  rather  too  broad  for  Launcelot's  character,  who 
is  not,  strictly  speaking,  a  "  mistaking  clown."  One  of  the 
quartos  reads  conclusions. 

"  By  God^s  sontiet. 

It  is  difficult  to  give  a  certain  ex|)janation  of  those  old 
oaths.     Sonties  is  probably  a  corruption  of  saints. 

"  Your  worship' 8 frieiul,  and  Launcelot. 

The  conjunction  is  lierc  rcdunda!it.  There  is  a  difflculty 
in  the  line,  but  Capell  observes  that  from  the  son  bcmg 
termed  young  Launcelot,  it  is  probable  that  the  father  had 
the  same  Christian  name. 

3*  Dobbin,  my  philjrhorse. 

Phill-horse  is  the  same  as  thill-horse,  the  shaft-horse. 
The  form  is  said  to  be  still  in  use  in  the  Midland  counties. 

3*  IJmc  gree  you  nmo. 

Literally,  How  agree  you  now?  So,  in  tlie  play  of  Wit 
and  Science,  p.  89, — 

Nay,  nor  yet  nether  hence  ye  shall  gad ! 
We  wyll  gre  better  or  ye  pas  hence. 

3"  /  have  set  vp  my  rest. 

That  is,  I  have  deterir.ined,  set  all  my  hopes  upon. 
"  Couther  tout  a  bander  et  a  racUr,  To  venture  all  on 
deeperut  tcarmes,  to  set  all  on  sixes  and  seuens." — (Jit- 
grave. 

"  Garded,  ornamented  with  gards  or  trimmings,  edg- 
ings of  lace,  &o.   See  Fairholt's  Costume  in  England,  p.  513. 

»«  Whith  doth  offer  to  swear  vpon  a  book. 

The  break  seems  more  properly  to  be  placed  after  for- 
tune than  after  loot,  the  latter  punctuation  being  usually 
adopted.  The  sentence  ends  abruptly.  "  If  any  man  in 
Italy  have  a  fidrcr  table,  which  says  I  shall  have  good  for- 
tune as  certainly  as  if  it  took  an  oath," — I  am  deceived 
The  t.able,  in  palmistry,  was  a  space  between  certain  lines 
on  the  skin  within  the  hand,  not  the  palm  itself.  The  lino 
of  life  extended  from  the  wrist  to  the  thumb.  Lilly,  the 
astrologer,  gives  the  following  particulars  of  the  latter  in 
his  Book  of  Fortune,  p.  SR, — ■ 

"  First  then,  of  the  Line  of  Life,  the  wdiich,  whenever 
inspection  is  made,  ought  to  be  observ'd  with  a  curiosity 
as  nice  as  admirable. 

"  Now  this  little  line  extends  itself  clear  from  the  wrist 
to  the  Mount  of  Jupiter;  which,  if  well-colour'd,  placed, 
and  proportion'd,  denotes  a  serene  and  calm  life  of  tran- 
quillity :  Otherwise,  if  a  star  reach  the  Mount  of  Venus, 
Mars,  or  Jupiter,  sundry  mischiefs  and  calamities  will 
follow. 

"Now  if  a  doi.ble  line  happens,  then  it  promises  the 
man  long  life,  the  favour  of  kings  and  nobles,  with  sacoess 
in  war,  and  business  of  what  sort  soever." 

3»  Al-even  widows  and  nine  maids. 

So  the  original,  aleven,  in  Shakespeare's  time,  being  a 
common  vulgarism.  It  is  al.so  archaic.  "  I  have  had 
therto  Icohys  aleven,"  MS.  Cantab.  Ff.  i.  6,  xv  cent. 

Liberal,  free,  licentious. 

SUS 


NOTES  rO  THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


<o  ]  he  misa:t.sttT''d  in,  the  place  I  go  U\. 

Miscdnster,  to  misconstrue,  the  old  word  used  by  Sliake- 
ipeare.  "Theodorus,  the  atheist,  complayned  that  his 
pcholiers  were  woont,  how  pUiine  soever  hec  spake,  to  mis- 
contter  him,"  Gosson's  Schoole  of  Abuse,  1579. 

"  Well  studied  in  a  sad  ostent. 

Ostent,  show,  appearance.  The  term  again  occurs  in  this 
act,  "  such  fair  ostents  of  love."    So  Chapman, — 

I  see  almifrhty  ^ther  in  the  smoke 

Of  all  his  clouds  desoendintr,  and  the  sky 

Hid  in  the  dim  ostents  of  tragedy. 

Bearing^  behaviour,  deportment, 

^"^  If  a  Christian  do  not  pkiy  the  l-nave. 

The  three  old  copies,  printed  before  the  second  folio, 
read,  do  not  flay.  The  last  named  authority  has  did,  a 
reading  generally  adopted,  but,  I  think,  erroneously. 
Shakespeare  frequently  uses  the  present  for  the  past  tense. 
Thus,  in  King  John.,  we  have  waft  for  wafted^  heat  for 
heated;  in  Jii^hard  IIL^  expiate  for  expiated;  in  Jlaebeth, 
exasperate  for  exasperated,  &c.  In  the  same  manner,  do 
seems  to  be  here  used  for  did.  la  the  Tempest^  have  oc- 
curs for  had.  See  note,  no.  29,  where  1  have  probably 
given  an  incorrect  reason  for  the  use  of  the  present  tense. 

<3  We  have  not  epoke  us  yet  of  torchhearem. 

That  is,  we  have  not  yet  bespoke  our  torclibearcrs.  The 
preposition  was  often  added  to  the  verb  iu  this  mode  of 
construction. 

**  An  it  shall  pU-ise  you  to  hreah  vp  this. 

Jireah  up,  equivalent  to  Ireah.  It  here  means,  to  open 
the  letter.  In  Elizabethan  phr.aseology,  the  preposition  vp 
was  added  to  certain  verbs,  scarcely,  in  most  cases,  con- 
vcj'ing  even  a  slight  intensative  power. 

**  ify  nose  fill  a-bUeding  on,  Blach-Monday. 

According  to  Stowe,  as  quoted  by  Grey,  Easter  Jlonday 
was  called  Hack  Monday,  on  account  of  unusually  severe 
weather  which  destroyed  many  men  in  the  army  of  Ed- 
ward III.  on  that  day,  when  he  was  encamped  near  Paris. 
Bleeding  at  the  nose  was  formerly  considered  a  bad  omen. 

t^guealing,  squeaking,  shrieking. 

<°  To  gale  on  Christian  fools  with,  varnisWd  faces: 

Yar  mrnishtfaees,  and  gay  and  painted  cloths, 
Are  but  to  tempt  fooles ;  every  man  this  knowtis. 

77(6  A'<wc  Metamorphosis,  1000,  MS. 

Patrh,  a  fool,  so  called  from  his  costume. 

*'  Fast  bind,  fast  find. 

"  AlanJonfait  larron,  Prov.,  Things  carelessly  left,  Inyd 
up,  or  lookeil  unto,  make  them  theevcs  that  otherwise 
would  bo  honest :  we  i^i\y,fiist  hind.,  fast  fivd,''^  ('otgravc. 
The  arrangement  of  these  lines  dill'crs  slightly  from  tliat 
adopted  by  my  prcdeccssor.s,  but  the  termination  of  a 
hpc'bch  by  ono  short  and  onu  long  line  is  not  uncommon  in 
BhaUcspcarc. 

Hflfi 


"  Ten  times  fifCer  Venrua*  pigeons  fly. 

The  pigeons  are,  of  course,  the  birds  drawing  the  chari  )t 
of  the  goddess.  It  is  Venus  herself  who  is  supposed  lo 
seal  love's  bonds.  Dr.  Johnson  gives  an  erroneous  inter 
protation  of  the  passage. 

"  The  scarfed  larlc  p'its from  her  native  hau 
Scarfed,  decorated  with  flags. 

"''  A  Gentile,  and  )W  Jew. 

A  play  upon  words,  gentle,  i.e.,  gentleman,  being  fre- 
quently written  gentile.  "The  d.ay  drew  on,  and  the  getu- 
tiles  were  come,  and  all  was  in  aredinesse,  and  still  Jack 
forgat  not  the  pie,  but  stood  faintly  sickc,  and  refused  bis 
meate,"  Armin's  Nest  of  Ninnies,  1608. 

^^  To  rib  her  cerecloth,  in  th.e  obscure  grave. 
Sih,  to  enclose  as  with  ribs. 

'=  G-ilded  tombs  do  worms  infold. 

All  the  old  copies  read,  gihled  timber.  Tit.  Johnson 
made  the  correction,  which  is  supported  by  a  passage  in 
the  101st  sonnet.  There  is  a  similar  thought  in  Sylvester's 
Du  Bartas, — 

-stately  tombs,  externly  gilt  and  garnisht, 


With  dust  and  bones  inwardly  filled  and  furnisht. 

58 1  reasoned  with  a  Frenchman  yesterday. 

Reason'd,  discoursed.  Florio  translates,  rffi^/onnrf!,  -'to 
reason,  to  discourse,  to  speake,  to  t,alke,  to  parlie."  Not 
World  of  Words,  1611. 

5*  Let  it  not  enter  in  your  mind  of  love. 

Tour  mind  of  lore,  in  the  phraseology  of  the  time,  is 
equivalent  to,  your  loving  mind.  So,  in  Measure  for  Mea- 
sure, p.  156, — 

Yet  hath  he  in  him  such  a  mind  of  honour. 

w  By  the  fool  multitude. 

By,  in  old  writers,  is  frequently,  as  in  this  place,  syno- 
nymous with  of.  "  Any  simple  juilgcmcnt  might  easily 
perceive  by  whom  it  was  meant,  that  is,  by  lady  Elizabeth, 
Quecno  of  England,"  Puttenham's  ,\rte  of  English  Poesic, 
1589.  Force,  power.  Jump  icith,  agree  with,  act  the 
same  with. 

68  There  befools  alive,  /wis. 

I  wis,  in  medieval  English,  is  an  adverb,  meaning,  mt 
tainly,  undoubtedly,  from  the  Anglo-Saxon  ge-wli ;  but 
this  sense  of  the  word  was  lost  in  Shakespeare's  time, 
when  it  had  come  to  bo  regarded  as  a  pronoun  and  verb, 
/  knmv.  Mr.  Dyce  prints  the  medieval  form  i-u>is  in  his 
edition  of  Middlcton's  Michaelmas  Tcrme,  1607  but.  1 
thiidi,  quite  erroneously. 

'•'  Hanging  and  wiving  go  by  destiny. 

In  the  first  folio  Shakespeare,  the  present  and  plural 
tenses  are  often  wrongly  employed,  though  no  doubt  faith- 
fully copied  from  the  poet's  nmmiscript,  the  griunuiatical 
usage  of  tne  tluio  admitting  such  license.     But  the  cditoj 


KOTES  TO  THE  MERCHANT  OF  'NTINICE. 


hnve,  by  genorivl  consent,  vcntureJ  to  iiltcr  n  plirascolofry 
which  would  oll'end  modern  cnrs.  Tlic  old  editions  lierc 
r(<id,  "goes  by  destiny."  Thia  proverb  \a  alluded  to  in 
U  adibrus, — 

Ifmatriniony  and  hanging  ^o 

By  dest'ny,  why  not  whi[)ping^  too  ? 

Whiit  mod'eino  else  can  cure  the  fits 

Of  lovers,  when  they  lose  their  wits  i 

Lovo  is  a  boy  by  poets  stylM  ; 

Then  spare  the  rod,  and  spoil  the  child. 


"  Jle  hringeth  sensible  regreets. 

Rtgreets,  fresh  salutations,  greetings. 

Yet  ere  myself  could  reach  Virginia's  chamber, 
Cue  was  before  me  with  regreets  from  him. 

Weister's  Worts,  ed.  Dyce,  ii.  186. 

"  As  ever  knapped  ginger. 

Knap,  to  break  oil'  short.  Cotgrave  has  "Breuste  for 
brouste,  broused,  or  knapp'd  off." 

Knap  the  thread,  and  thou  art  free ; 
'     But  t  is  otherwise  with  me. 

Uerrich''!  Works,  i,  179. 

""  Why,  then,  loss  vpon  loss. 

Mr.  Collier  seems  to  have  felt  the  improb.ibility  of  the 
ordinary  reading,  but  neither  he,  nor  any  of  the  editoi's, 
observes  that  the  second  folio  supplies  the  above  plausible 
correction. 

"  It  was  my  turqvoiee. 

The  turquoise  was  formerly  much  valued,  it  being  sup- 
nosed  to  change  colour  when  its  owner  was  in  bad  health. 
'*  Turcois,"  says  Swan,  Ki35,  "  is  a  compassionate  stone  ; 
if  tlie  wearer  of  it  be  not  well,  it  changcth  colour,  and 
lookcth  piUo  and  dim  ;  but  increaseth  to  his  pcrfectnesse, 
as  the  wearer  recovcrcth  to  his  health."  Compare,  also, 
Cartwright, — 

Or  faithful  turquoises,  which  heaven  sent 
For  a  discovery,  not  a  punishment/; 
To  shew  the  ill,  not  nialie  it,  and  to  tell. 
By  their  pale  looks,  the  bearer  was  not  well. 

It  is  a  fine  trait  in  Shylock'a  character  when,  in  the  midst 
of  his  feelings  of  avarice  and  revenge,  he  exhibits  nimself 
susceptible  of  the  power  of  a  love  reminiscence. 


"  They  Tiaiie  fei'look'd  me. 

Overlooked,  as  by  a  witch.    See  note  WS    o  the  Merry 
Wicei  of  Windsor. 


'3  Lit  fortune  go  to  hell  for  it, — not  I. 

ilie  meaning  is,  says  Heath,  "  If  the  worst  I  fear  should 
happen,  and  it  should  prove  in  the  event,  that  1,  who  am 
justly  yours  by  the  free  donation  I  have  made  you  of  ray- 
Bclf,  should  yet  not  be  yours  in  consequence  of  an  unlucky 
choice,  let  fortune  go  to  hell  for  robbing  you  of  your  just 
duo,  not  I  for  v'olating  my  oath." 

Peize^  to  weigh.    See  Minsheu,  in  v. 


"  To  eh  it. 

TliC  editors  have  not  remarked  that  the  folio  reads  ich, 
and  tlie  cpiarto  eck,  which  thuut'li  possibly  misprints  hero, 
are  genuine  archaic  fciruis.  £c!ie,  I'rom  the  A.S.  fVan.,  is 
founil  in  medieval  English;  ami  kh,to  eko  out,  is  giver 
by  Kennett  in  .MS.  Lansd.  lO.'SS,  as  a  provincialism. 


'^  With  no  hss  prese'.ce. 

Meaning,  as  Dr.  Johnson  observes,  "with  the  flame  dig- 
nity of  mien." 

Fancy,  love.  Gracious,  p.easing.  Approve,  justify,  to 
approve  of. 

"'  As  stairs  of  sand. 

The  orthography,  or,  rather,  oacography  of  the  first  folio, 
is  not  very  puzzling  even  to  those  quite  unaccustomed  to 
the  perusal  of  old  books  ;  but  occasionally  a  word  occurs 
which  may  create  a  doubt  to  tliis  class  of  readers.  The 
original  hero  reads  stayers,  a  very  common  old  spelling  of 
the  modem  word  stairs,  but  adopted  by  Mr.  Knight,  with 
an  extraordinary  specimen  of  criticism,  which  scarcely  re- 
quired the  lengthened  refutation  of  Mr.  Dyee.  See  his 
Remarks,  p.  66. 

Extrement,  hair  or  beard. 


"  Looh  on  beauty. 

Seauty  here  alludes  to  artificial  beauty,  the  result  cf 
painting,  and  the  comparison  is  afterwards  carried  on  with 
the  "supposed  fairness"  of  false  hair.  Those  are  "lightest" 
of  character  that  "  wear  most  of  it,"  i.e.,  the  painting  or 
ceruse. 

Tlie  lines  which  follow  contain  a  happy  satire  on  the 
custom  of  wearing  periwigs,  which  had  become  so  ex- 
tremely fashionable  about  the  year  l.'JSo,  hoih  with  laditS 
and  gentlemen,  that  children  were  often  decoyed  away  and 
deprived  of  their  hair  for  the  purposes  of  the  m.inufacture. 
Kich,  in  his  Honestie  of  this  Age,  16U,  complains  of 
women  going  to  church,  "so  be-paynted,  so  be-periwigd, 
so  bc-poudred,  so  be-pcrfumed,  so  be-starched,  so  be-laced, 
and  so  bee-imbroidered."  It  appears  from  the  English 
Ape,  15S8,  that  periwigs  were  to  be  had  of  all  colours. 


"  Thus  ornament  is  but  a  guiled  shore. 

Gulled,  deceiving,  deceitful.  It  is  merely  one  instance 
amidst  the  many  in  Elizabethan  writers,  of  the  passive 
participle  being  used  for  the  active.  It  is,  by  a  iacile  li- 
cense, rendered,  in  many  cases,  equiv.alent  to  the  adjective 
from  the  same  root.  We  have  had  a  similar  instance  in 
Measure  for  Measure.     See  Notes,  No.  99. 

The  reader's  attention  to  this  and  other  grammatical 
idioms  of  Shakespeare's  time  is  earnestly  requested.  An 
acquaintance  with  them  will  enable  him  to  understtind  the 
full  signification  of  numerous  passages,  which  appear  at 
first  sight  to  be  harsh  and  difficult.  It  must  be  recollected 
that  these  variations,  which  would  now  be  considered 
grammatically  incorrect,  are  found  in  the  best  writers  con- 
temporary with  the  poet ;  yet  so  little  are  tliey  generally 
understood,  that  a  fierce  controversy  has  lately  raged  in  a 
literary  periodical  on  the  meaning  of  one  of  them,  in  which 
the  depths  of  philosophy  have  been  searched  for  the  illus- 
tration of  a  passage,  an  explanation  of  which  a  very  slight 

397 


NOTES  TO  THE  MERCUANT  OF  VENICE. 


knowledge  of  Eliziibctliaa  grammar  would  have  immedi- 
alely  furnislied. 

«» Itiir  Portia^s  counUffeit. 

Countd-feit,  portrait.  "  If  a  painter  were  to  drawe  anie 
Ot  their  counUr/tU  on  a  table,  he  needes  no  more  but  wet 
his  pencill,  and  dab  it  on  their  cheekes,"  Nash's  Pierce 
Penilesse,  15;I2. 

'0  And  l^iave  iUelf  unfurnislC d. 

That  is,  says  llalone,  leave  itself  incomplete,  unaccom- 
panied with  the  other  usual  component  parts  of  a  por- 
Irsiit. 

The  Iiint  for  this  passage,  observes  Steevens,  appears  to 
have  been  taken  from  Greene's  History  of  Faire  Bellora, 
afterwards  publislied  under  the  title  of  A  Paire  of  Turtle 
Doves,  or  the  Tragicidl  History  of  Bellora  and  Fidelio,  "  If 
Apelles  had  beeue  tusked  to  have  drawne  her  counterfeit, 
her  two  bright-burning  lampes  would  have  so  dazled  liis 
quicke-seeing  sences,  that  quite  dispairing  to  expresse 
with  his  cuur.iDg  pensill  so  admirable  a  worke  of  nature, 
he  iiad  been  inforced  to  have  staid  his  hand,  and  k/t  this 
earthly  Venus  unjir.Uhid  '' 

"'  For  intermission. 
Intermission,  delay,  dilatoriness. 

*-  How  doth  that  royal  jnercliant. 

A  royal  mercliant  was,  properly,  one  who  was  employed 
by  a  sovereign  in  any  mercantile  transactions.  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher's  Beggars'  Busii  was  altered  under  the  title 
of  the  Koyal  Merchant,  4to.  n.  d.,  but  printed  about  t!ie 
jear  1706. 

"^  We  are  the  Jasons,  tee  have  won  Ihejleece, 

Douce  says  the  meaning  is,  ''  Antonio,  'with  his  aryosie, 
is  not  tlie  successful  Jason  ;  we  are  the  persons  who  have 
won  the  fleece."  Constant,  serious;  a  sense  of  the  word 
which  again  occurs  in  TiDelfth  Night. 

"  If  it  le  denied. 

Kit  refers  to  commcdity,  the  sense  will  bo  as  ilr.  Collier 
gives  it: — "if  the  commodity,  or  advantage,  which  stran- 
gers enjoy  in  Venice  be  denied,  that  denial  will  much  im- 
peach the  justice  of  the  st.ate,  which  derives  its  profits  from 
all  nations."  The  repetition,  however,  of  the  verb  dtny 
would  almost  prove  tliat  it  refers  to  the  course  o/law  ;  and 
Capell  proposes  to  read,  'TwUl  m-uch  imjieach. 

"  Tlie  hoscm  Inter  of  my  lard. 

later  is  here,  as  in  several  other  places,  used  in  the 
(cnso  o( friend. 

"  With  imagin'd  speed. 
Thi'it  if,  speed  swift  as  imaginatiqn. 

"  Unto  the  traject. 

Tho  Onl  copies  read  tranect,  which  is  probably  a  corrup- 
r.98 


tion.  "Tliej-e  are  in  Venice  thirteen  ferries  or  passazcs, 
wliich  they  commonly  call  traghetti,  where  passengers  may 
be  transported  in  a  gondola  to  what  place  of  tlie  city  tliey 
will,"  Coryat's  Crudities,  IGll,  p.  163.  It  must,  however 
be  admitted  that  the  original  reading  may  be  hupporttc' 
by  the  Italian  trandre. 

'8  I  could  not  do  witha.ll. 

A  phr,ise  equivalent  to,  I  could  not  help  it.  "If  li' 
beare  displeasure  agaynst  me,  I  can  nat  do  withall,  Sii 
indigne  contre  nioyje  nenpnls  mays,^''  Palsgrave,  1530. 


'"  I  fear  you. 

That  is,  I  fear  for  you.  The  particle  for  was  ofte 
omitted  after  the  verb.  "  What  doth  her  beauty  serve. 
Romeo  and  Juliet. 


80  Wlien  I  shun  ScylUu 

In  the  fifth  book  of  the  heroic  poem  of  Ale.xandreis,  by 
Philip  Gaultier,  Darius  (who  escaping  from  Alexander,  fell 
into  the  hands  of  Bessus,)  is  thus  apostrophized  : 

Nactus  equum  Darius,  rorantia  cjedc  suorum 
Eetrogrado  fugit  arva  gradu.     Quo  tendis  inertem 
Hex  periture  fugam  ?  nescis,  heu  !  perdite,  nescis 
Quem  fiigias,  hostes  incurris  dum  iugis  hostem  : 
Jncidis  in  Scyllani,  cupiens  vitare  Churibdim. 
Bessus,  Narzabaues,  rerum  pars  magna  tuarum, 
Quos  inter  proceres  humili  de  plebe  locasti, 
Is'on  vcriti  temerare  fidem,  capitisque  verendi 
Perdcre  caniciem,  spreto  moderamme  juris, 
Proh  dolor!  in  domini  conjurant  fata  clicntes. 


81  Jlow  his  words  are  suited  ! 

Suited,  fitted,  arranged.  Perhaps  this  is  also  tlie  better 
explanation  of  the  term  in  Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  v.  1. 
though  more  is  implied.     See  Notes  to  that  play,  No.  ftj. 


"  Enter  the  Duke ,  the  Magnifcoes. 

Magnificoes  was  a  term  applied  to  the  grandees  ol 
Venice.  "  Magnifco,  nobly-minded  ;  magnificent ;  also, 
a  magniaeo  of  Venice,"  Florio's  New  'World  of  Words, 
IGU,  p.  2'J5. 

83  Out  of  his  envy^s  reach. 

Envy,  malice ;  ill  will.  So,  in  an  early  MS.  in  the  Cair.- 
bridge  Public  Library, — 

There  he  had  grete  chyvalry ; 

He  slewc  his  enemys  with  grete  envy. 

Eemarse,  pity.     Where,  whereas. 


8<  Some  men  there  are,  love  not  a  gaping  pig, 

A  great  deal  has  been  written  on  this  enumeration  ol 
antipathies,  and  many  parallel  passages  may  be  adduce^i 
from  old  writers.  The  following  occurs  in  a  curious  iiiiMii: 
script,  the  Ncwe  Metamorphosis,  1600. 

I  knewe  the  like  by  one  that  nould  endure 
To  sec  a  goose  come  to  the  table  sure ; 
Some  cannot  hrooke  to  se  a  custarde  there. 
Some  of  a  cheese  doe  ever  stand  in  fcarc  ; 
And  I  knowe  one  if  she  tobacco  sec, 
Or  smels  the  same,  she  swoones  imediatftljl  : 


NOTES  TO  THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


The  like  of  roses  I  li»ve  heard  somo  tell, 
Toucli  but  tlio  skyn  iiud  nresciitly  't  will  swell, 
And  t^rovvo  to  blisters;  tfie  rcaaon  it  is  this, 
Twixt  llioin  and  tliese  there  's  BUeh  autithesis. 

Soaligor  mentions  an  antipathy  lilce  that  noticed  of  the 
bagpipe,  and  a  similar  one  is  alluded  to  in  liraithwnit's 
Rtnippado  lor  tlio  Divell,  1615,  p.  94.  I  find  it  also  at  a 
much  earlier  period,  1530,  iu  l'al»{,'r!ive.  Table  of  Vcrbes, 
f.  270.  Compare  Ben  Jonson's  Eiiery  Man  in  his  Humour, 
Works,  i.  102.  I  follow  Mr.  Knight's  excellent  punctua- 
tio'.:  •  f  this  speech,  which  had,  however,  been  long  ago 
suggested  by  Malone.  Supplement,  1780,  i.  124.  Mr. 
Collier  places  a  colon  at  affection,  and  reads, — 

Masters  of  passion  sway  it  to  the  mood, 

where  tlio  meaning  of  the  passage  would  be,  not  as  Mr. 
Collier  intorfirets  it,  but  that  even  those  who  are  masters 
of  their  inclination  find  it  expedient  to  '*sway"  it  in  some 
degree  to  its  natural  bent. 


»'  Why  Tie,  a  woollen  bagpipe. 

According  to  Dr.  Leyden,  the  Lowland  bagpipe  com- 
monly had  the  bag  or  sack  covered  with  woollen  cloth  of  a 
green  colour,  a  practice  which  also  prevailed  in  the  North 
of  England. 

fifl  Tou  stand  within  his  danger. 

Th.at  is,  in  his  debt ;  and  hence  the  proverb,  "  Out  of 
debt,  out  of  danger."  The  expression  occurs  in  Massin- 
got's  Fatall  Dowry,  4to.  1632,^ 

That  to  be  in  your  danger,  with  more  care 
Should  be  avoyded  then  infectious  ayre. 

And  in  an  old  ballad, — 

Gentle  wife,  I  tell  thee 

My  very  heart  is  done  ; 
The  worlti's  great  ealamitie 

No  way  can  I  shunne. 
For  still  in  debt  and  danger 

More  and  more  I  runne. 


6'  Malice  bears  down  truth. 

Truth,  honesty.  As  Dr.  Johnson  observes,  a  true  man, 
in  old  language,  is  an  honest  man.  The  jury  are  still  called 
good  men  and  true. 


86  Are  there  balance  here. 

We  should  now  say  balances,  but  the  text  is  right. 
*''When  al  trades  perisli,  he  may  turne  shop-keeper,  and 
deal  with  ballnnce,  for  in  weights  and  measures  none  is 
more  deceitful'  "  Slephens'  Essayes  and  Characters,  1615. 


s'  The  stoch  of  Barrabai. 

The  Barabbas  of  the  Scriptures  is  altered  to  Earrabas  by 
Marlowe  and  Shakespeare,  and  the  error  cannot  be  cor- 
rected without  injury  to  the  metre. 

•1  If  thou  dost  shed  one  drop. 

This  incident  continued  popular  to  a  very  recent  period, 
and  is  introduced  in  the  street  ballad  of  the  Northern  Lord, 
which  is  evidently  of  considerable  antiquity.  I  believe 
this  ballad  is  still  circulated  in  the  broadsides  and  chap- 


books  of  the  North,  and  in  my  own  collection  of  such 
"  unconsidered  trifles,"  are  preserved  one  printed  w'thin 
the  last  twenty  years,  and  another  about  a  century  oiJ- 
the  latter  being  the  earliest  copy  that  lias  been  yet  rii:. 
covered.  The  story  of  the  Northern  Lord  consists  of  tli( 
boncl  incident  of  this  play,  an<l  the  wagor  incident  of  Cyni 
heline,  amalgamated  into  one  tale  ;  and,  as  the  reader  may 
be  amused  at  the  form  tlie  Merchant  of  Venice  h.as  tak(!;i  ir 
the  hands  of  the  balladist,  an  extract  from  that  jiorlion  f  i 
it  which  relates  to  the  Jew  may  not  be  unacceptable  :- 

A  noble  lord  of  high  renown. 
Two  daughters  had, — the  eldest  brown, 
The  youngest,  beautiful  and  fair, 
By  chance  a  noble  knight  came  tlicro. 

Her  father  said,  kind  sir,  I  have 
Two  daughters  ;  which  do  you  crave  ? 
One  that  is  beautiful,  he  cry'd. 
The  noblo  knight  he  then  rcply'd. 

She 's  young,  she  's  beautiful  and  gay, 
And  is  not  to  be  given  away. 
But  as  jewels  are  nought  and  sold. 
She  shall  bring  me  her  weight  in  gold. 

The  price  I  think  I  need  not  grudge. 
Since  1  will  freely  give  as  much 
With  her  one  sister,  if  I  can 
Find  out  some  other  nobleman. 

With  that  bespoke  the  noble  knight, 
I  'd  sooner  have  the  beauty  bright, 
At  that  vast  rate,  renowned  lord. 
Than  the  other  with  a  vast  reward. 

So  then  the  bargain  it  was  made. 
But  ere  the  money  could  be  paid, 
He  had  it  off  a  wealthy  Jew, 
The  sum  so  large,  they  writings  drew 

That  if  he  fail'd,  or  miss'd  the  day, 
So  many  ounces  he  must  pay. 
Of  his  own  flesh,  instead  of  gold  ; 
All  was  agreed,  the  sum  was  told. 

So  he  return'd  immediately. 
Unto  the  lord,  where  he  did  buy 
His  daughter  line,  1  do  declare. 
And  paid  him  down  the  money  there. 

He  bought  her  too,  it  was  well  known. 
Unto  mankind  she  was  his  own ; 
By  her  a  son  lie  did  enjoy, 
A  sweet  and  comely  handsome  boy. 

At  length  the  time  of  pay  drew  near, 
W'hen  the  knight  did  begin  to  fear, 
He  dreaded  much  the  cruel  Jew, 
Because  the  money  it  was  due. 

His  lady  ask'd  him  why  he  gricv'd. 
He  said,  my  jewel,  I  receiv'd 
Such  a  sum  of  money  of  a  Jew, 
And  now  the  money  it  is  due. 

And  now  the  day  of  payment 's  como, 
I  'm  sure  I  cannot  raise  the  sum, 
He  '11  have  my  flesh,  weight  for  weight, 
Which  makes  my  grief  and  sorrow  great. 

Hush  !  never  fear  him,  she  reply'd, 
We  'U  cross  the  raging  ocean  wide^ 
And  so  secure  you  from  the  fate  : 
To  her  request  he  yielded  straight. 


The  Dutch  lord  to  revenge  his  B{ite, 
Upon  our  noble  Engli.^h  knight. 
Did  send  a  letter  out  of  hand. 
And  so  the  Jew  did  understand 


399 


■  NOTES  TO  THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE 


How  lie  was  in  tlie  German  court, 
So  liere  upon  this  good  report ; 
The  Jew  lie  cross'd  the  ocean  wide, 
Resolving  to  be  satisfy'd. 

Soon  as  e'er  he  fix'd  his  eyes 
Upon  tlie  kniglit,  in  wrath  he  cries, 
Your  ha!id  and  seal  I  pray  behold, 
Vour  flesh  1  '11  have  instead  of  gold. 

Then  said  the  noble  knight  in  green, 
Sir,  may  your  articles  be  seen  ? 
Yes,  dat  tliey  may,  reply'd  the  Jew, 
And  I  resolve  to  have  my  due. 

Lo !  then  the  knight  began  to  read, 
At  length  she  said,  1  find  indeed. 
Nothing  but  flesh  you  are  to  have  ; 
Answers  the  Jew,  tliat  's  all  I  crave. 

The  poor  distressed  knight  was  brought, 
Tlie  bloody-minded  Jew  he  thought. 
That  day  to  be  revenged  on  him. 
And  part  his  flesh  from  ev'ry  limb. 

The  knight  in  green,  said,  Mr.  Jew, 
There  's  nothing  else  but  flesh  your  due. 
But  see  no  drop  of  blood  you  shed, 
For  if  you  do,  off  goes  your  head! 

Pray  take  your  due,  with  all  my  heart. 
But  with  his  blood  we  will  not  part ; 
With  that  the  Jew  he  sneak'd  away, 
And  had  not  one  more  word  to  say. 


**  Jam  content. 

Antonio  means  to  say  that  if  the  duke  will  remit  the  fine 
of  half  Shylock's  goods  coming  to  the  state,  ho  will  only 
tOtain  a  life  interest  in  the  other  half. 

<«  Thou  shovlcCst  have  had  ten  mere. 

This  was  an  old  joke,  alluding  to  a  jury.  A  character 
in  BuUeyn's  Dialogue,  1564,  says,  "  Maistres,  it  is  nierio 
when  knaves  are  mette ;  I  did  see  hym  ones  aske  a  blcss- 
yng  to  .\ij.  godfathers  at  once."  Compare,  also,  Randolph's 
Muses  Looking-glasse,  163S, — "I  had  rather  zee  him  re- 
mitted to  the  jail,  and  have  his  twelve  godvathers,  good 
men  and  true,  contemn  him  to  the  gallows,  and  there  see 
him  fairly  prosecuted." 

*3  J/y  lord  Baseanw^  vporu  jnore  advke. 

Advice,  consideration,  reflection.  See  notes  to  the  Two 
Gentlemen  of  Verona,  no.  57. 

"  ir«  shall  have  oVl  swearing. 

Old,  as  a  common  augmentative,  has  been  already  no- 
ticed in  the  Merry  Wites  of  Windsor,  notes  no.  55. 

•JO  iSlo^d  Dido  with  a  willow  in  her  hand. 

This  pafisi,je  has  oecn  produced  to  exhibit  the  poet's 
want  of  classical  knowledge ;  but  tlic  imago  nuiy  bo  merely 
fanciful,  or,  if  not,  taken  from  some  old  play  or  ballad  on 
the  subject  of  Dido. 

•'  In  such  a  ni'jht  Medea,  (tc. 

Thus  it  befell  upon  a  night 
Whiinn  there  was  nougiit  but  stcrrc  light, 
4011 


She  was  vanished  right  as  hir  list, 
That  no  wight  but  herself  wist: 
And  that  was  at  midnight  tide, 
The  world  was  still  on  every  side,  ite. 

Co7)fessio  Amantis,  1554.     (Steeyems.) 


"  With  his  horn  full  of  good  netcs. 

An  early  allusion  to  the  letter-carrier's  horn,  a  represen- 
tation of  which  may  be  occasionally  seen  in  paper-niarka 
of  the  seventeenth  century. 

»8  With  patens  of  bright  gold. 

The  paten  was,  properly,  a  small  plate  used  in  the  cele- 
bration of  the  Sacrament.  The  term  is  hero  used  in  a 
more  general  sense  for  a  plate.  Cheruhins  is  of  course  in- 
correct, but  is  so  written  in  the  original,  and  occurs  in  that 
form  in  the  works  of  other  poets. 

"  Nothing  U  good,  I  see,  without  rcpect. 

Not  .ibsolutely  good,  but  relatively  good,  ba  it  is  modified 
by  circumstances.    Johnson. 

loo  Sow  the  -moon  sleeps  with  Endyrnion, 

JIow,  as  Dr.  Johnson  observes.  Is  here  used  as  a  mere 
affirmation. 

101  A  tuchet  sounds. 

A  tuc'Lrct  is  a  slight  flourish  on  the  trumpet.  Conipare 
the  Spanish  Tr.igedy,  ap.  Hawkins,  ii.  11. 


!03  You  should  have  been  respective. 

Beepective,  respectful,  regardful.  "  If  any  true  courtly 
dame  had  had  but  this  new  fashioned  sute,  why  you  should 
have  had  her  more  respective  by  far,"  Sir  Gyles  Goose- 
cappe,  1606. 

'0=  A  little  scrubbed  boy. 

Scrubbed,  stunted.  Coles  translates  it  by  squalidus,  but 
I  scarcely  think  that  is  the  meaning  here. 

104  If  you  did  know  to  whom  I  gave  tlie  ring. 

Jingling  lines  similar  to  those  in  this  and  the  ne.xt  speech, 
no  fewer  than  nine  lines  ending  with  the  same  word,  »re 
met  with  in  other  dramatists.  Compare  the  following  in 
the  Fayre  Mayde  of  the  Exchange,  1607,— 

Ferd.  I  have  a  brother,  rival  in  my  lovo ; 
I  have  a  brother  hates  mo  for  my  love  ; 
1  have  a  brother  vows  to  win  my  love ; 
Tliat  brother,  too,  he  hath  inceiist  my  love. 
To  gain  tlie  beauty  of  my  dearest  love  ; 
AVliat  liope  remains,  tlicn,  to  enjoy  my  love? 

Anth.  1  am  tliat  brotlier  rival  in  his  love ; 
I  am  lliat  brotlier  hates  liiin  Wyr  his  love; 
Not  his,  but  iniiic;  and  I  will  liave  that  lOve, 
Or  never  live  to  see  liiin  kiss  my  love. 


'05  Contain,  to  keep  in,  to  retain.  See  Coles.  ITelo.  i."  a 
ceremony,  says  Dr.  Johnson,  "  kept  on  an  account  in  some 
Bort  religious." 

100  Swear  by  your  double  Wt/". 
Double,  deceitf-u,  full  of  duplicity. 


NOTES  TO  THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


"'  7  HI  fear  no  otlier  Ihing  so  sore. 

Sore,  irucli,  preatly.     Oliaolcte  in  this  sense,  but  occur- 
ring frcnucntly  in  tho  Scriptures.     See  Miirlj,  -xiv.  33,  itc. 


The  Ballad  of  GEitNirrns. 

Uur  annotations  on  tlie  Merchant  of  Venice  will  scarcely 
bo  complete  without  a  copy  of  tliis  ballad,  which  is  founded 
on  the  story  of  the  Bond,  and  is  generally  supposed  to 
have  been  written  previously  to  the  appearance  of  Shakes- 
peare's drama.  Our  great  poet  was  so  familiar  with  the 
oallad  literature  of  the  time,  that,  if  this  is  the  case,  it  is 
bv  no  means  improbable  that  one  or  two  circumstances  in 
the  play  were  suggested  by  the  ballad.  Percy  mentions 
tne  nicident  of  the  Jew's  wliettinij  Ida  knife,  as  one  of  these. 

A  new  Song,  aheicmy  the  Orueltie  of  Gemutus  a  Jcitv, 
who,  Undinff  to  a  merchant  an  hundred  croivnes,  woutd  have 
u  pound  of  hisjleslie,  because  he  could  not  pat/  him  at  the  time 
ajipoint<:d.     To  the  tune  of  '  Black  a-nd  YeliC-w.^ 

T)if  first  Part. 

In  Vnni™  towne  not  long  ivgoe 

A  cruel  Jew  did  dwell. 
Which  lived  all  on  usurie, 

As  Italian  writers  tell. 

Gernutus  called  w.is  the  Jew, 

Which  never  thought  to  dye, 
Nor  ever  yet  did  any  good 

To  them  in  streets  that  lie. 

His  life  was  like  a  barrow-hoggo, 

That  livctli  many  a  day. 
Yet  novur  once  doth  .iny  good. 

Until  men  will  him  biay : 

Or  like  a  filthy  heap  of  dung. 

That  lyeth  in  a  whaard, 
Wliieh  never  can  do  any  good. 

Till  it  be  spread  abroad. 

So  fares  it  with  the  usurer. 

He  cannot  sleep  in  rest, 
For  feare  the  thiefe  will  Inm  pursue 

To  plueke  him  from  his  nest. 

His  heart  doth  thinke  on  many  a  wile 

How  to  deceive  the  poore ; 
nis  mouth  is  almost  ful  of  mucke, 

Yet  still  he  gnpes  for  more 

His  wife  must  lend  a  shilling, 

For  every  weeke  a  penny, 
Tet  bring  a  pledge  that  is  clouble  worth. 

If  that  you  will  have  any.    - 

And  see,  likewise,  you  keepe  your  day, 

Or  else  you  loose  it  all ; 
This  was  the  living  of  the  wife, 

Her  cow  she  did  it  eali. 

Withm  that  citie  dwelt  that  time 

A  marchant  of  great  fame. 
Which  being  distressed  in  his  need. 

Unto  Gernutus  came : 

Desiring  him  to  stand  his  friend 

For  twelvemonth  and  a  day, 
To  lend  to  him  an  hundred  crownes. 

And  he  for  it  would  pay 

Whatsoever  he  would  demand  of  him, 

And  pledges  he  should  have: 
No,  (quoth  the  Jew  with  Hearing  lookes), 

Sir,  aiik  what  you  will  have. 

61 


No  penny  for  tho  loune  of  it 

For  one  year  you  shall  pay : 
You  may  doe  mo  as  good  u  tunic 

Before  my  dying  day. 

But  we  will  have  .i  merry  jcast. 

For  to  bo  talked  long; 
You  shall  make  me  a  bond,  quoth  lio, 

That  sliall  be  large  and  stron™ : 

And  tills  shall  bo  the  forfeytnre, — 

Of  your  owne  fleshe  a  pound : 
If  you  agree,  make  you  tlie  bond, 

And  here  is  a  hundred  crownes. 

With  right  goodwill !  the  marchant  says, 

And  so  the  bond  was  niatlc : 
When  twelvemonth  and  a  day  drew  on, 

That  b.icke  it  should  be  jwy'd. 

The  marchants  ships  were  all  at  sea. 

And  money  cnrac  not  in  ; 
Which  way  to  take,  or  what  to  doo. 

To  thinke  ho  doth  begin  : 

And  to  Gernutus  strait  he  eometi. 

With  cap  and  bended  kue-s, 
And  eaj'de  to  him,  of  curtesie, 

1  pray  you  beare  with  meo. 

My  day  is  come  and  I  have  not 

The  money  for  to  pay  : 
And  little  good  the  lor'fcytnre 

Will  doo  you  1  dare  say. 

With  nil  my  heart,  Gernutus  sayd, 

(Jonimaund  it  to  your  niinde  : 
In  thinges  of  bigger  waight  than  tl:  is 

You  shall  mo  reatly  linde. 

He  goes  hia  way ;  the  day  once  prist, 

Gernutus  doth  not  slackc 
To  get  a  serjant  prescnlly. 

And  clapt  him  on  the  backe  : 

And  luyd  him  into  prison  strong, 

And  sued  his  bond  witliall , 
Auii  when  the  judgement  day  \va:i  ''naio. 

For  judgement  he  did  call. 

The  marchant's  friends  enine  t\uO  'f  Jaal 

With  many  a  weeping  eye, 
For  other  means  they  could  not  Q»'d, 

But  he  that  daye  must  dyo. 

The  secojui  Vart 

Of  the  Jews  cnieltie :  setting  foortk  the  merci'  ^ilnesse  of  Uia 
Judge  towards  the  Marcliant.  To  tlie  tune  of  ^  Jilack  and 
Yellotc: 

Some  offered  for  his  hundred  crowaefi 

Five  hundred  for  to  pay ; 
And  some  a  thousand,  two  or  three. 
Yet  still  ho  did  denay. 

And  at  the  last  ten  thousand  crownes 

They  ottered,  him  to  save. 
Gernutus  sayd,  I  will  no  gold  : 

lly  forfeyte  1  will  have. 

A  pounde  of  fleshe  is  my  demand. 

And  that  shall  be  my  hire ; 
Then  sayd  the  judge,  yet,  good  my  friend. 

Let  me  of  you  desire 

To  take  the  flesh  from  such  a  plai-c. 

As  yet  you  let  him  live  ; 
Do  so,  and  lo  .  an  hundred  crownes 

To  thee  here  will  I  give. 

No :  no :  quctli  he ;  no :  judgement  here 

For  this  it  shall  be  tride. 
Fur  I  will  have  my  pound  of  ileshe 

From  under  his  right  side. 

401 


NOTES  TO  THE  JIERCHANT  OF  VEISICE. 


Jt  gneved  all  tlie  companie 

His  crucltie  to  Bee, 
For  neither  friend  nor  foe  could  helpe 

Bnt  lie  must  Bpoyled  bee. 

Tlie  bloudie  Jew  now  ready  is 
Witli  whetted  blade  in  hand, 

To  spoyle  the  bloud  of  innocent 
By  forfeit  of  bis  bond. 

And  as  he  was  about  to  strike 

In  him  the  deadly  blow  ; 
Stay  (quoth  the  judge)  thy  crueltie; 

Icharge  thee  to  do  so. 

Situ  needs  tbou  wilt  thy  forfeit  liave, 

Which  is  of  flesh  a  pound  : 
See  that  thou  slied  no  drop  of  bloud, 

Nor  yet  tho  man  confound. 

For  if  thou  do,  like  murderer 

Thou  here  shalt  hanged  be ; 
Likewise  of  flesh  see  that  thou  cut 

Is  0  more  than  iouges  to  thee ; 

For  if  thou  take  either  more  or  lesse 

To  the  value  of  a  mite, 
'J'hon  shalt  bo  hanged  presently, 

As  is  both  law  and  right. 

uernutas  now  waxt  franticke  mad, 
And  wotes  not  wliat  to  say ; 

Quoth  he  at  last.  Ten  tbousani.'  orownes 
I  will  that  he  shaU  pay ; 


And  so  I  graunt  to  set  him  froe. 

The  judge  doth  answer  make, 
You  shall  not  have  a  penny  given ; 

Your  forfeyture  now  take. 

At  the  last  he  doth  deniaund 

But  for  to  have  his  owne. 
Ko,  quoth  the  judge,  doe  as  you  list, 

Thy  judgement  shall  bo  showno. 

Either  take  your  pound  of  flesh,  quoth  ho, 

Or  cancell  me  your  bond. 
O  cruell  judge,  then  quoth  the  Jew, 

That  doth  against  me  stand. 

And  so  with  griping,  grieved  mind, 

He  biddeth  them  farewell. 
Then  all  the  people  praysM  the  Lord, 

That  ever  this  heard  tell. 

Good  people  that  doe  beare  this  song, 

For  trueth  I  dare  well  saT 
That  many  a  wretch  as  ill  as  bee 

Doth  live  now  at  this  day ; 

That  seeketh  nothing  but  the  spoyls 

Of  many  a  wealthy  man. 
And  for  to  trap  the  muocent 

Devisetk  what  they  can. 

From  whome  the  Lord  deliver  me, 

And  every  Christiau  too. 
And  send  to  them  like  sentonoo  eke 

That  moaneth  80  t«  do. 


I: 


l0  ^^011  ITilic  3t. 


A  FANOIE'UL  novel  by  Thomas  Lodge,  disfigured  by  the  universal  faults  of  old  English  no\elisls 
piinted  in  the  year  1590,  nnder  tlie  title  of,  "Rosalynde;  Euphues  Golden  Legacie,  found  after 
his  death  in  his  cell  at  Silexedra,"  has  the  honour  of  being  the  original  of  Shakespeare's  deliglifftil 
and  popular  corned}',  "As  You  Like  It."  In  applying  the  terra  "fanciful"  to  this  early  romance,  the 
reader  must  understand  I  allude  only  to  the  incidents  of  the  tale.  The  manner  in  which  the  story  is 
related  is  tedious  and  pedantic ;  and  the  style  is  insufferably  affected.  Ladies  quote  Latin,  and  all  the 
speeches  are  erected  on  stilts. 

The  faults,  however,  of  Lodge's  novel  tend  but  to  exhibit  in  brighter  colours  the  genius  of  the 
great  author,  who  has  adopted,  in  such  a  marvellous  manner,  every  romantic  touch  that  was  worth 
preservation,  destroying  all  recollection  of  the  prosy  original  by  the  brilliant  e.xuberance  of  his  own 
imagination.  The  only  redeeming  features  I  can  trace  in  Lodge  are  contained  in  some  of  the  verses, 
and  a  poem  entitled  "  Rosalynd's  Madrigall"  is  distinguished  by  gi-eat  poetic  sweetness.  It  commences 
with  the  following  lines  : — 

^  Love  in  my  bosom  like  a  bee 

Doth  suck  his  sweet ; 
Now  with  his  wings  he  plays  with  me, 

Now  with  his  feet : 
"Witiiin  mine  eyes  he  makes  his  nest, 
His  bed  amidst  my  tender  breast. 
,   lly  kisses  are  his  daily  feast. 
And  yet  he  robs  me  of  my  rest. 
Ah,  wanton,  will  ye? 

The  reader  will  find  some  extracts  from  the  prose  of  Lodge  in  the  notes  to  this  play,  and  it  will 
not  be  necessary  to  quote  more  from  the  novel  in  this  place.  SufHco  it  to  say  that  Gerismond  and 
Torismond,  the  kings  of  France,  answer  to  -Shakespeare's  exiled  duke,  and  the  duke  Frederick 
Rosalind  is  transferred  by  name  from  the  novel,  but  Celia  was  originally  Alinda.  They  adopt, 
hov.-ever,  the  same  names  when  they  are  in  the  forest.  Oliver,  Jaques,  and  Orlando,  are  named 
Salatlyne,  Fernandyne,  and  Rosader,  in  the  novel.  The  distribution  of  the  property  is  different.  In 
the  novel,  the  father  bequeaths  to  his  eldest  son,  fourteen  ploughlands,  with  all  his  manors,  houses, 
auil  richest  plate;  to  his  second  son,  twelve  ploughlands;  and  to  his  youngest  born,  Rosader,  he  gives 
his  horse,  his  armour,  and  his  lance,  with  sixteen  ploughlands,  "  for,"  as  ]ie  says  in  his  will,  "  if  the 
in'.vard  thoughts  be  discovered  by  outward  shadows,  Rosader  will  exceed  yon  all  in  bounty  and  honour." 
The  elder  brother  resolves  to  defraud  the  younger,  and  afterwards  seeki'>g  bis  life,  the  latter  takw 

403 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


refuge  iu  Arden.  Shakespeare  has  deviated  from  the  novel  in  many  minor  particulars,  but  the  bioad 
incidents  of  the  tale  are  the  same  in  both  the  romance  and  the  drama. 

Lodge  found  the  leading  circumstances  of  his  novel  in  the  "  Cokes  Tale  of  Gamelyn,"  a  poem 
composed  in  the  fifteenth  century,  erroneously  attributed  to  Chaucer.  Although  this  production  had 
not  appeared  in  print  in  Shakespeare's  time,  there  seems  no  improbability  in  the  supposition  that  lie 
was  acquainted  with  it,  and  Mr.  Knight  thinks  he  can  trace  some  slight  resemblances  between  thai 
poem  and  "As  You  Like  It,"  not  to  be  found  in  Lodge's  novel.  The  best  edition  of  the  tale  of 
Gamelya  is  contained  in  Mr.  Wright's  excellent  edition  of  Chaucer,  recently  printed  by  -he  I'ercy 
Society. 

The  date  of  "As  You  Like  It,"  may  be  assigned  to  1600,  or  the  following  year.  It  is  not 
mentioned  by  Meres  iu  1598,  and  Marlowe's  Hero  and  Leandcr,  which  is  quoted  in  the  third  act,  was 
not  published  tih  that  year,  although  written,  of  coui'se,  long  before.  An  entry  of  the  play  occurs  on 
the  Registers  of  the  Stationers'  Company  among  some  books  "to  be  staled."  No  date  is  given,  but  it 
was  between  the  years  1600  and  1603,  and  probably  iu  1600  or  1001,  all  the  plays  mentioned  with  it 
having  been  printed  in  those  years.  There  is  an  allusion  in  the  play  itself,  which  would  seem  to  prove 
that  it  was  written  before  1603.  "When  Rosalind  says,  "I  will  weep  for  nothing,  like  Diana  in  the 
fountain,"  she  is  supposed  to  allude  to  an  image  of  that  goddess  which  was  set  un  at  a  conduit  in 
Cheap  in  1596,  and  "water  convayd  from  the  Thames  prilling  from  her  naked  brea^o  for  a  time,  but 
now  decaied.^'  This  extract  is  taken  from  the  edition  of  Stowe's  Survey  of  London,  which  appeared  at 
London  in  1G03,  p.  269,  4to. 

There  was  a  tradition  current  at  the  commencement  of  the  last  century,  that  Shakespeare  per- 
formed the  character  of  Adam  in  the  following  comedy.  "One  of  Shakespeare's  younger  brothers," 
Bays  Oldys,  "  wlio  lived  to  a  good  old  age,  even  some  years,  as  I  compute,  after  the  restoration  of  King 
Charles  II.,  would  in  his  younger  days  come  to  London  to  visit  his  brother  Will,  as  he  called  liiiii, 
and  be  a  spectator  of  him  as  an  actor  in  some  of  his  own  plays.  This  custom,  as  his  brother's  fame 
enlarged,  and  his  dramatick  entertainments  grew  the  greatest  support  of  our  principal,  if  not  of  all  oiu' 
tlieatres,  he  continued,  it  seems,  so  long  after  his  brother's  death,  as  even  to  the  latter  end  of  his  own 
life.  The  curiosity  at  this  time  of  the  most  noted  actors  to  learn  something  from  liiin  of  his  brother, 
(fee,  they  justly  held  him  in  the  highest  veneration.  And  it  may  be  well  believed,  as  there  was  besi.les 
a  kinsman  and  descendant  of  the  family,  v/ho  was  then  a  celebrated  actor  among  them,  this  opportu- 
nity made  them  greedily  inquisitive  into  every  little  circumstance,  more  especially  in  his  dramatick 
character,  which  his  brother  could  relate  of  him.  But  he.  it  seems,  was  so  stricken  in  yeare,  and 
possibly  his  memory  so  weakened  with  infirmities  (which  might  make  him  the  easier  pass  for  a  man 
of  weak  intellects),  that  he  could  give  them  but  little  light  into  their  enquiries ;  and  all  that  could  be 
recollected  fi'om  him  of  his  brother  Will  in  that  station  was,  the  faint,  general,  and  almost  lost  ideab 
he  had  of  having  once  seen  him  act  a  part  in  one  of  his  own  comedies,  wherein  being  to  personate  a 
decrepit  old  man,  he  wore  a  long  beard,  and  appeared  so  weak  and  drooping  and  unable  to  walk,  that 
he  was  forced  to  be  supported  and  carried  by  another  person  to  a  table,  at  which  he  was  seated  among 
some  company  who  were  eating,  aiKl  one  of  thera  sung  a  song."  This  account  contains  several  dis- 
crepancies, but  there  may  be  a  glimmering  of  truth  in  it,  and,  at  all  events,  it  must  be  recollected  that 
Oldys  wrote  before  the  era  of  Shakespearian  forgeries  had  commenced. 

Rosalind,  in  the  Epilogue,  charges  the  women,  "  for  the  love  you  bear  to  men,  to  like  as  inurh  of 
this  play  as  please  you."  This  appears  to  be  the  only  clue  to  the  title  adopted  by  Shakespeare.  '  Ai 
You  Like  It"  was  formerly  a  sort  of  proverb,  and  is  mentioned  as  a  motto  by  Braithwaite, — 

A  shop  neighbouring  near  lacco, 
^Vllcre  Young  vends  liis  olil  tobacco; 
yls  you  like  it  sometimea  sealed. 
Which  impression  e  since  repealed. 

The  proverbial  title  of  the  play  implies  in  it-solf  that  freedom  of  thought  and  indifTercnco  to  cen- 
sure which  characterizes  the  sayings  and  doings  of  most  of  the  actors  in  'Jiis  coined}-  of  human  nature 
404 


AH  YOU  LIKE  n 


ID  a  forest,.  Though  said  to  be  oftcner  read  than  any  other  of  Sliakespeare's  plays,  "As  You  Like  It" 
is  certainly  less  fascinating  than  several  of  his  other  comedies.  The  dramatist  has  presented  us  with  a 
pastoral  comedy,  the  characters  of  which,  instead  of  belonging  to  an  i<.lcal  pastoral  age,  are  true  copies 
of  what  natm-o  would  produce  under  similar  conditions.  The  character  of  Jaques  has  been  erroneously 
considered  by  all  the  critics.  I  regard  him  as  a  severe  typo  of  a  dissipated  man,  naturally  amiable, 
removed  from  the  .sphere  of  vicious  attractions,  and,  left  to  his  own  reflections,  of  course  dissatisfied 
vnth  the  woi'ld  and  with  himself.  It  must,  however,  be  admitted  there  is  an  ascetic  impression 
induced,  and  notwithstanding  the  nice  varieties  of  character,  most  readoi's  will  probably  admit  that  tlie 
vanity  of  active  life  has  been  the  chief  object  of  illustration.  The  poet  has  relieved  the  development 
of  a  melancholy  subject  and  an  insignificant  story,  by  the  introduction  of  a  more  than  usual  number  of 
really  individual  subordinate  characters.  Even  Rosalind,  that  beautifid  but  wilful  representation  of 
woman's  passion,  is  not  an  important  accessary  to  the  moral  purpose  of  the  comedy ;  and  t!ie  otliei 
eharacters,  however  gi'acefiilly  delineated,  are  not  amalgamated  into  an  artistic  action  with  '.hat  full 
pownr.  whicii  overwhelms  u-s  with  astonishment  in  the  grander  eflbrts  of  Shakespeare's  genius. 

405 


r"- 


PEESONS    EEPEESENTED. 


Duke,  living  in  exile. 
Appears,  Act  II.  bc.  1 ;  bc.  7.    Act  V.  sc.  4. 

Frederick,  brother  to  the  Duke,  and  usurper  of 

his  dominions. 
Appears,  Act  I.  bo.  2;  so.  3.    Act  II.  sc.  2.    Act  III.  so.  1. 

Ajjiens,  a  lord  attending  upon  the  Diik(?  in  his 

lanishment. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  5 ;  ao.  7.    Act  V.  BC.  4. 

Jaques,  o  lord  attending  upon  the  Duke  in  his 

banishment. 

Appears,  Act  II.  so.  5;  so.  7.    Act  III.  sc.  2;  so.  8.    Act 

IV.  BC  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  V.  sc.  4. 

Le  Beau,  a  courtier  attending  upon  Frederick. 
Appears,  Act  I  sc.  2. 

Charles,  wrestler  lo  Frederick. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2. 

Olfv-eb,  son  of  Sir  Rowland  de  Bois. 

Appears,  Act  I.  so.  1.     Act  III.  sc.  1.     Act  IV.  eo.  8. 
Act  V.  sc.  2 ;  so.  4. 

Jacjuej,  son  of  Sir  Rowland  de  Bois. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  4. 

Orlando,  son  of  Sir  Rowland  de  Bois. 

Appears,  Act  I   80.  1 ;  so.  2.    Act  II.  so.  8;  sc.  6;  sc.  7. 

Act  III.  BC.  2.    Act  IV.  so.  1.    Act  V.  so.  2 ;  sc.  4. 

Adam,  servant  to  Oliver. 
Appears,  Act  I.  so.  1.    Act  II.  so.  3 ;  bc  6  j  bc.  7. 

Dennis,  servant  to  Oliver. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1. 

Touchstone,  a  clown. 

Appears,  Act  I.  so.  2.    Act  II.  so.  4.    Act  III.  sc  2 ;  so.  3. 
Act  V.  so.  1 ;  so.  3;  so.  4. 
406 


Sm  Olfver  Martext,  o  vicar. 
Appears,  Act  III.  so.  8. 

CoRiN,  a  shepherd. 

n,  Act  II.   sc.   4.     Act  III.  sc.  2 ;  sc.   4  ;   -c.  •'. 
Act  V.  sc.  1. 

SiLvius,  a  shepherd. 

Appears,  Act  II.  so.  4.     Act  III.  so.  5.    AA  IV.  so    i 
Act  V.  sc.  2 ;  BC.  4. 

William,  a  country  fellow,  in  love  with  Audri--\ 
Appears,  Act  V.  so.  1. 

Tieo  Pages  attendant  on  the  exiled  Duke. 
Appear,  Act  V.  sc.  3. 

A  person  representing  H}'inen. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  4. 

Rosalind,  daughter  to  the  banished  Duke. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2;  so.  8.    Act  11.  sc.  4.    Act  III.  so  2 
so.  4 ;  sc.  6.    Act  IV.  bc  1 ;  sc.  8.    Act  V.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  4. 

Celia,  daughter  to  Frederick. 

Appears,  Act  I.  so.  2;  bc.  8.    Act  II.  sc.  4.    Act  III.  sc.  2 
BC  4;  BC  5.    Act  IV.  bc.  1 ;  sc.  8.    Act  V.  sc  4. 

Phebe,  a  shepherdess. 
Appears,  Act  III.  bo.  6.    Act  V.  sc  2 ;  sc.  4. 

AuDREr,  a  country  wench. 
Appeare,  Act  III.  so.  3.    Act  V.  so.  1 ;  sc.  3 ;  sc.  4. 


SCENE, — First,  near  Oliver's  House  ;  afteh' 

IVAIVDS,  PARTLY  IN  THE  UsURPEu's  CoURT,  AND 
PARTLY  IN  TUB  FoRF.ST  OF  ArDEN. 


Is 


ACT   1. 


SCENE  I. — An  orchard  near  Oliver's  house. 

Enter  Orlando  and  Adam. 

Orl.  As  I  remember,  Adam,  it  was  upon  this 
fashion  bequeathed  mc  by  will,  but  a  poor  thou- 
sand crowTis ;'  and,  as  thou  say'st,  charged  my 
brother,  on  his  blessing,  to  breed  me  well :  and 
thera  begins  my  sadness.  My  brother  Jaques  he 
keeps  at  school,  and  report  speaks  goldenly  of  his 
profit :  for  my  part,  he  keeps  me  rustically  at 
home,  or,  to  speak  more  properly,  stays  me  here  at 
home  unkept.  For  call  you  that  keeping  for  a 
gentleman  of  my  birth,  that  differs  not  from  the 
stalling  of  an  ox  ?  Dis  horses  are  bred  better ; 
for,  besides  that  they  are  fair  with  their  feeding, 
they  are  taught  their  manage,  and  to  that  end 
ridere  dearly  hir'd :  but  I,  his  brother,  gain  nothing 
under  him  but  growth  ;  for  the  which  his  animals 
on  his  dunghills  are  as  much  bound  to  him  as  I. 
Besides  this  nothing  that  he  so  plentifully  gives 
me,  the  something  that  nature  gave  me  his  coun- 
tenance seems  to  take  from  me :'  he  lets  me  feed 
with  his  hinds,  bars  me  the  place  of  a  brother,  and, 
as  much  as  in  him  lies,  mines  my  gentility  with 
iny  education.  This  is  it,  Adam,  that  grieves 
me  ;  and  the  spirit  of  my  father,  which  I  think  is 
within  me,  begins  to  mutiny  against  this  servitude. 
I  will  no  longer  endure  it,  though  yet  I  know  no 
wisQ  remedy  how  to  avoid  it. 


Adam.  Yonder  comes  my  master,  your  brother. 
Orl.  Go  apart,  Adam,  and  tho'd  snait  hear  how 
he  will  shake  me  up. 

Enter  Oliver. 

on.  Now,  sir !  what  make  you  here  ? 

Orl.  Nothing :  I  am  not  taught  to  make  anything. 

Oil.  What  mar  you  then,  sir  ? 

Orl.  Marry,  sir,  I  am  helping  you  to  mar  that 
which  God  made,  a  poor  unworthy  brother  of 
yours,  with  idleness. 

OIL  Many,  sir,  be  better  employed,  and  be 
naught  awhile !' 

Orl.  Shall  I  keep  your  hogs,  and  eat  husks  with 
them  ?  What  prodigal  portion  have  I  spent,  that 
I  should  come  to  such  penury  ? 

Oli.  Know  you  where  you  are,  sir  ? 

Orl.  O,  sir,  very  well :  here,  in  your  orchard. 

OIL  Know  you  before  whom,  sir  ? 

Orl.  Ay,  better  than  him  I  am  before  knows 
me.  I  know  you  are  my  eldest  brother ;  and,  in 
the  gentle  condition  of  blood,  you  should  so  know 
me.  The  courtesy  of  nations  allows  you  my  better, 
in  that  you  are  the  first-born  ;  but  the  same  tradi- 
tion takes  not  away  my  blood,  were  there  twenty 
brothers  betwixt  us.  I  have  .as  much  of  my  father 
in  me,  as  you ;  albeit,  I  confess,  yom-  coming  before 
me  is  nearer  to  his  reverence. 

OIL  What,  boy ! 

Orl.  Come,  come,  elder  brother,  you  are  loo 
young  in  this. 

•J07 


Ai.n  I. 


AS  YOU  LUvE  IT. 


SCENE    I. 


OIL  Wilt  thou  lay  bands  on  me,  villain  ? 

Orl.  I  am  no  \'illain :''  I  am  the  youngest  son 
of  sir  Kowiand  de  Bois ;  he  was  my  father,  and  he 
is  thrice  a  villain  that  says  such  a  father  begot 
villains!  Wert  thou  not  my  brother,  I  would  not 
take  this  hand  from  thy  throat,  till  this  other  had 
pulled  out  thy  tongue  for  saying  so ;  thou  hast 
rail  d  on  thyself. 

Adam.  Sweet  masters,  be  patient ;  for  your 
father's  remembrance,  be  at  accord. 

on.  Let  me  go,  I  say. 

Orl.  I  will  not,  till  I  please ;  you  shall  hear  me. 
My  father  chargVl  you  in  his  will  to  give  me  good 
education  :  you  have  traiu'd  me  like  a  peasant, 
obscuring  and  hiding  from  me  all  gentleman-like 
qualities  :  the  spirit  of  my  father  grows  strong  in 
me,  and  I  will  no  longer  endure  it :  therefore,  allow 
mo  such  exercises  as  may  become  a  gentleman,  or 
give  me  the  poor  allottery  my  father  left  me  by 
testament ;  with  that  I  will  go  buy  my  fortunes. 

OH.  And  what  wilt  thou  do  ?  beg,  when  that  is 
spent  ?  Well,  sir,  get  you  in  :  I  will  not  long  be 
'loubled  with  you  :  you  shall  have  some  part  of 
vour  will ;  I  pray  you,  leave  me. 

Orl.  I  will  no  further  ofl'end  you  than  becomes 
'jie  for  my  good. 

on.  Get  you  with  him,  you  old  dog. 

Adam.  Is  old  dog  my  reward  ?   Most  true,  I  have 

'.ost  my  teeth  in  your  serrice. — God  be  with  my 

old  master !  he  would  not  have  spoke  such  a  word. 

[I^xeunt  Orlando  and  Adam. 

Oil.  Is  it  even  so  ?  begin  you  to  grow  upon 
me  ?  I  will  physic  your  rankness,  and  yet  give 
:.o  thousand  crowns  neither.     Ilclla  iJeijis ' 

Enter  Dennis. 

JJen.  Calls  your  worship  ? 

OU.  Was  not  Charles,  thi  duke',?  wrestler,  here 
to  speak  with  me  ? 

Den.  So  please  you,  he  is  here  at  the  door,  and 
importunes  .access  to  you. 

OH.  Call  him  in.  [Exit  Dennis.] — 'T  will  be 
a  good  wiy  ;  ?nd  to-morrow  the  wi-estling  is. 

Enter  Ciiaisles. 

aha.  (jooJ  morrow  to  your  worshiji. 

Oh,  Good  monsieur  Charles !-  -what 's  the  new 
news  at  the  new  court  ? 

Cha.  There  's  no  news  at  tlie  court,  sir,  but  the 
old  news  :  that  is,  tiie  old  duko  '.&  banished  by  his 
younger  brother,  the  new  duko  ;  and  three  or  four 
'oving  lords  hnvo  put  themselves  into  voluntary 


exile  with  him,  whose  lands  and  revenues  eniich 
the  new  duke ;  therefore  he  gi  ves  them  good  leave 
to  wander. 

OU.  Can  you  tell  if  Kosalind,  the  duke's  daugh- 
ter, be  banished  with  her  father  ? 

Cha.  O,  no ;  for  the  duke's  daughter,  her  cousin, 
so  loves  her,  being  ever  fi'om  their  cradles  bred 
together,  that  she  would  have  followed  her  exile, 
or  have  died  to  stay  behind  her.  She  is  at  the 
court,  and  no  less  beloved  of  her  uncle  than  his  own 
daughter ;  and  never  two  ladies  loved  as  they  do. 

OU.  Where  will  the  old  duke  live  ? 

Cha.  They  say  he  is  already  in  the  forest  of 
Arden,  and  a  many  merry  men  with  him  ;  and 
there  they  live  like  the  old  Robin  Hood  of  England. 
They  say  many  young  gentlemen  flock  to  him 
eveiy  day,  and  fleet'  the  time  carelessly,  as  *.hey 
did  in  the  golden  world. 

OU.  What,  you  wrestle  to-morrow  before  the 
new  duke? 

Cha.  MaiTV,  do  I,  sir ;  and  I  came  to  acquaint 
you  with  a  matter.  I  am  given,  sir,  secretly  to 
understand  that  your  younger  brother,  Orlando, 
hath  a  disposition  to  come  in  disguis'd  against  me 
to  try  a  fall.  To-morrow,  sir,  I  wrestle  for  my 
credit ;  and  he  that  escapes  me  without  some 
broken  limb,  shall  acquit  him  well.  Your  brother 
is  but  young,  and  tender  ;  and,  for  your  love,  I 
would  be  loth  to  foil  him,  as  I  must,  for  my  own 
honour,  if  he  come  in :  therefore,  out  of  my  love 
to  you,  I  came  hither  to  acquaint  you  withal ; 
that  either  you  might  stay  him  from  his  intend- 
ment, or  brook  such  disgrace  well  as  he  shall  run 
into  ;  in  that  it  is  a  thing  of  his  own  search,  and 
altogether  against  my  will. 

OU.  Charles,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  love  to  me, 
which  thou  shalt  find  I  will  most  kindly  requite. 
I  had  myself  notice  of  my  brother's  purpose  herein, 
and  have  by  underhand  means  laboured  to  di.s- 
suade  him  from  it ;  but  he  is  resolute.  I  '11  tell 
thee,  Charles,  it  is  the  stubbornest  young  fellow 
of  France ;  full  of  ambition,  an  envious  emulator 
of  every  man's  good  parts,  a  secret  and  villanous 
contriver  against  me,  his  natural  brother ;  therefore 
use  thy  discretion  ;  I  had  as  lief  thou  dijst  break 
his  neck  as  his  finger ;  and  thou  wert  best  look 
to  't ;  for  if  thou  dost  him  any  slight  disgrace,  or 
if  he  do  not  mightily  grace  himself  on  thee,  ho 
will  practise  against  thee  by  poison,  entrap  thoe  by 
some  treacherous  device,  and  never  leave  thee,  till 
he  hath  ta'en  thy  life  by  some  indirect  means  oi 
other  ;  for,  I  assure  thee,  and  almost  with  teais  I 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


SCENE   n. 


sped.];  it,  there  is  not  one  so  young  and  so  vil- 
liiuous  this  day  living.  I  speak  but  brotherly  of 
liini  ;  but  should  I  anatomize  him  to  thee  as  he 
is,  I  must  blush  and  weep,  and  thou  must  look 
pale  and  wonder. 

Cha.  1  am  heaitily  glad  I  came  liither  to  you. 
If  lie  como  to-moirow,  I  '11  give  him  his  payment. 
If  ever  lie  go  alone  again,  I  '11  never  wrestle  for 
prize  more  :  and  so,  God  keep  your  worship. 

[Exit. 

OH.  Farewell,  good  Charles.— Now  will  I  stir 
this  gamester :'  I  hope  I  shall  see  an  end  of  him  ; 
for  my  soul,  yet  I  know  not  why,  hat«s  nothing 
more  that  he.  Yet  he  's  gentle  ;  never  school'd, 
and  yet  learned  ;  fiill  of  noble  device  ;  of  all  sorts 
enchantingly  beloved ;  and,  indeed,  so  much  in 
the  heart  of  tlie  world,  and  especially  of  my  own 
people  who  best  know  him,  that  I  am  altogether 
mispris'ed.  But  it  shall  not  be  so  long ;  this 
wrestler  shall  clear  all :  nothing  remains  but  that 
I  kindle  the  boy  thither,  which  now  I  '11  go  about. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  II. — A  Lawn  before  the  Duke's-  Palace. 


Enter  Rosalind  and  Celia. 
I  pray  thee,  Rosalind,  sweet  my  coz,  be 


Cel. 
merry. 

Ros.  Dear  Cciia,  I  show  more  mirth  than  I  am 
mistress  of;  and  would  you  yet  I  were  merrier? 
Unless  you  could  teach  me  to  forget  a  banished 
father,  you  must  not  learn  me  how  to  remember 
any  extraordinary  iileasurc. 

Cel.  Herein  I  see  thou  lov'st  me  not  with  the 
full  weight  that  I  love  thee  :  if  my  uncle,  thy 
banished  father,  had  banished  thy  uncle,  the  duke, 
my  father,  so  thou  hadst  been  still  with  me,  I  could 
have  taught  my  love  to  take  thy  father  for  mine ; 
BO  wouldst  thou,  if  the  truth  of  thy  lovo  to  me  were 
so  righteously  temper'd  as  mine  is  to  thee. 

Ros.  Well,  I  will  tbrget  the  condition  of  my 
estate,  to  rejoice  in  yours. 

Cel.  You  know  my  father  hath  no  child  but  I, 
nor  none  is  like  to  have ;  and,  truly,  when  he  dies, 
thou  shalt  be  his  heir  :  for  what  he  hath  taken 
away  from  thy  father  perforce,  I  will  render  thee 
again  in  aflection  ;  by  mine  honour,  I  will ;  and 
^hen  I  break  that  oath,  let  me  turn  monster ! 
Therefore,  my  sweet  Rose,  my  dear  Rose,  be'merry. 

Ros.  Fioni  henceforth  I  will,  coz,  and  devise 
sports  :  let  me  see ; — what  think  you  of  falling  in 
love  ? 


Cel.  Marry,  I  piithee  do,  to  make  sport  witlial 
but  love  DO  man  in  good  earnest ;  nor  no  further 
in  sport  neither,  than  with  safety  of  a  pure  bla'^h 
thou  mayst  in  honour  come  oil  again. 

Ros.  What  shall  be  our  sport  then  ? 

Cel.  Let  us  sit  and  mock  the  good  housewife, 
Fortune,  from  her  wiieel,  that  her  gifts  may  hence- 
forth be  bestowed  eqnall}'. 

Ros.  I  would  wo  could  do  so ;  for  her  benefits 
are  mightily  misplaced :  and  the  bountiful  blind 
woman  doth  most  mistake  in  her  gifts  to  women. 

Cel.  'T  is  true  :  for  those  that  she  makes  fair 
she  scarce  makes  honest ;  and  those  that  she  makes 
honest,  she  makes  very  ill-favouredly. 

Ros.  Nay,  now  thou  goest  from  Fortune's  ofEce 
to  Nature's  :  Fortune  reigns  in  gifts  of  the  world, 
not  in  the  lineaments  of  Nature. 

Enter  Touchstone. 

Cel.  No  ?  When  Nature  hath  made  a  fair  crea- 
ture, may  she  not  by  Fortune  fall  into  the  fire  1 
Though  Nature  hath  given  us  wit  to  flout  at  For- 
tune, hath  not  Fortune  sent  in  this  fool  to  cut  off 
the  argument  ? 

Ros.  Indeed,  there  is  a  Fortune  too  hard  for 
Nature,  when  Fortune  makes  Nature's  natural  the 
cutter  oft"  of  Nature's  wit. 

Cel.  Peradventure,  this  is  not  Fortune's  wort 
neither,  but  I^ature's ;  who,  perceiving  our  natural 
wits  too  dull  to  reason  of  such  goddesses,  hath  sent 
this  natural  for  our  whetstone  :  for  always  the 
dulness  of  the  fool  is  the  whetstone  of  the  wits. — 
How  now,  wit,  whither  wander  you  ? 

Touch.  Mistress,  you  must  come  away  to  your 
father. 

Cel.  Were  you  made  the  messenger  ? 

Touch.  No,  by  mine  honour;  but  I  was  bid  tc 
come  for  you. 

Ros.  Where  learned  j'ou  that  oath,  fool  ? 

Touch.  Of  a  certain  knight,  that  swore  by  his 
honour  they  were  good  pancakes,  and  swore  by  his 
honour  the  mustard  was  naught :  now,  I  '11  stand 
to  it,  the  pancakes  were  naught,  ai  d  the  mustard 
was  good  ;  and  yet  was  not  the  kn  ght  forsworn. 

Cel.  How  prove  you  that,  in  th.  great  heap  of 
your  knowledge  ? 

Ros.  Ay,  marrj' ;  now  unmuzzle  your  wisdom. 

Touch.  Stand  you  both  forth  now  :  stroke  your 
chins,  and  swear  by  your  beards  that  1  am  a  knave. 

Cel.  By  our  beards,  if  we  had  them,  thou  art. 

Touch.  By  my  knavery,  if  I  had  it,  then  I  were : 
but  if  you  swear  by  that  that  is  not,  you  are  nol 

409 


«CT    I. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


forsworn  :  no  more  was  this  knight,  swearing  by 
his  honour,  for  he  never  had  any ;'  or,  if  he  had, 
he  had  sworn  it  away  before  ever  he  saw  those 
pancakes  or  that  mustard. 

Cel.  Prithee,  who  is  't  tliat  thou  mean'st  ? 

Touch.  One  that  old  Frederick,  your  father,  loves. 

Cel.  My  father's  love  is  enough  to  honour  him 
enough :  speak  no  more  of  him ;  you  '11  be  whip- 
ped for  taxation,'  one  of  these  days. 

Touch.  The  more  pity,  that  fools  may  not  speak 
wiselv.  what  wise  men  do  foolishly. 

Cd.  ]ij  my  troth,  thou  say'st  true ;  for  since 
the  little  wit  that  fools  have  was  silenced,  the  httle 
fooleiy  that  wise  men  have  makes  a  great  show. 
Here  comes  monsieur  le  Beau. 

Enter  Le  Beatj. 

Ros.  With  his  mouth  full  of  news. 

Cel.  Which  he  will  put  on  us,  as  pigeons  feed 
their  young. 

Ros.  Then  shall  we  be  news-cramm'd. 

Cd.  All  the  better ;  we  shall  be  the  more 
marketable.  Bon  jour,  monsieur  le  Beau  :  What 's 
ihe  news  ? 

Le  Beau.  Fair  princess,  you  have  lost  much 
good  sport. 

Cd.  Sport  ?     Of  what  colour  ? 

Le  Beau.  What  colour,  madam  ?  IIow  shall  I- 
answer  you  ? 

Ros.  As  wit  and  fortune  will. 

Touch.  Or  as  the  destinies  decree. 

Cel.  Well  said  ;  that  was  laid  on  with  a  trowel.' 

Touch.  Nay,  if  I  keep  not  my  rank, — 

Ros.  Thou  losest  thy  old  smell. 

Le  Beau.  You  amaze  me,  ladies :  I  would  have 
told  you  of  good  wrestling,  which  you  have  lost 
the  sight  of. 

Ros.  Yet  tell  us  tlie  manner  of  the  wrestling. 

Le  Beau.  I  will  tell  you  the  beginning,  and,  if 
it  please  your  ladyships,  you  may  see  the  end ;  for 
the  best  is  yet  to  do ;  and  here,  where  you  are, 
they  are  coming  to  perform  it. 

Cel.  Well, — the  beginning,  that  is  dead  and 
buried. 

Le  Beau.  Thero  comes  an  old  man,  and  his 
ihrce  sons, — 

Cel.  I  could  match  this  beginning  with  an  old 
lale. 

Le  Beau.  Three  proper  young  men,  of  excellent 
gi'owth  and  presence; — 

Ros.  With  bills  on  their  necks,'" — "  Bo  it  known 

nnto  all  men  by  these  presents," 

410 


Le  Beau.  The  eldest  of  the  three  wrestled  with 
Charles,  the  duke's  wrestler ;  which  Charles  in  a 
moment  threw  him,  and  broke  three  of  his  ribs, 
that  there  is  little  hope  of  life  in  him  :  so  )ic 
serv'd  the  second,  and  so  the  third.  Yonder  they 
lie ;  the  poor  old  man,  their  father,  making  such 
pitiful  dole  over  them,  that  all  the  beholders  take 
his  part  with  weeping. 

Ros.  Alas! 

Touch.  But  what  is  the  sport,  monsieur,  that 
the  ladies  have  lost  ? 

Le  Beau.  Why,  this  that  I  speak  of. 

Touch.  Thus  men  may  grow  wiser  every  day 
it  is  the  first  time  that  ever  I  heard  breaking  of 
ribs  was  sport  for  ladies. 

Cel.  Or  I,  I  promise  thee. 

Ros.  But  is  there  any  else  longs  to  see  this 
broken  music  in  his  sides  ?  is  there  yet  another 
dotes  upon  rib-breaking  ?— Shall  we  see  this  wrest- 
ling, cousin  ? 

Le  Beau.  You  must,  if  you  stay  here  :  for  here 
is  the  place  appointed  for  the  wrestling,  and  they 
are  ready  to  perform  it. 

Cel.  Yonder,  sure,  they  are  coming :  Let  us  now 
stay  and  see  it. 

Flourish.  LJiiler  T>vsE  Frederick, Lords,  Orlando, 
Charles  and  Attendants. 

Duke  F.  Come  on ;  since  the  youth  will  not  be 
entreated,  his  own  peril  on  his  forwardness. 

Ros.  Is  yonder  the  man  3 

Le  Beau.  Even  he,  madam. 

Cel.  Alas,  he  is  too  young :  yet  he  looks  suc- 
cessfully. 

Duke  F.  How  now,  daughter  and  cousin  ?  are 
you  crept  hither  to  see  the  wrestling? 

Ros.  Ay,  my  liege  ;  so  please  you  give  us 
leave. 

Duke  F.  You  will  take  little  delight  in  it,  I  can 
tell  you,  there  is  such  odds  in  the  man.  In  pity 
of  the  challenger's  youth,  I  would  fain  dissuade 
him,  but  he  will  not  be  entreated.  Speak  to  him. 
ladies ;  see  if  you  can  move  him. 

Cd.  Call  him  hither,  good  monsieur  le  Beau. 

Duke  F.  Do  so;  I  '11  not  be  by. 

[1.)UKE  r/oes  apart. 

Le  Beau.  Monsieur  the  challenger,  the  princess 
calls  for  you. 

Orl.  I  attend  them,  with  all  respect  and  duty. 

Ros.  Young  man,  have  you  challeng'd  Charles 
the  wrestler? 

Orl.  No,  fair  princess  ;  he  if  the  general  chal- 


kCt   I. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


SL'EKK    n. 


leiiger :   I  come  but  in,  as  othere   do,  to  try  witli 
Lim  the  strengtli  of  ray  youth. 

Ccl.  Young  gentleman,  your  spirits  are  too  bold 
for  your  years.  You  have  seen  cruel  proof  of  this 
man's  strength  :  if  you  saw  yourself  with  your 
eyes,'  or  knew  yourself  with  your  judgment,  the 
fear  of  your  adventure  would  counsel  you  to  a 
more  equal  enterprise.  We  pray  you,  for  your 
own  sake,  to  embrace  your  own  safety,  and  give 
over  this  attempt. 

Jios.  Do,  young  sir;  your  reputation  shall  not  be 
therefore  misprised :  we  will  make  it  our  suit  to 
the  duke  that  the  wrestling  might  not  go  forward. 

Orl.  I  beseech  you,  punish  me  not  with  your 
hard  thoughts,  wherein  I  confess  me  much  guilty 
to  deny  so  fair  and  excellent  ladies  anything. 
But  let  your  fair  eyes  and  gentle  wishes  go  with 
me  to  my  trial :  wherein  if  I  be  foil'd,  there  is  but 
one  sham'd  that  was  never  gi'acious ;'"  if  kill'd, 
but  one  dead  that  is  willing  to  be  so.  I  shall  do 
my  friends  no  wrong,  for  I  have  none  to  lament 
me  ;  the  world  no  injur}',  for  in  it  I  have  nothing ; 
only  in  the  world  I  fill  up  a  place,  which  may  be 
better  supplied  when  I  have  made  it  empty. 

Hos.  The  little  strength  that  I  have,  I  would  it 
were  with  you. 

CeL  And  mine,  to  eke  out  bers. 

Jios.  Fare  you  well.  Pray  Heaven,  I  be  de- 
ceiv'd  in  you ! 

Cel.  Your  heart's  desires  be  with  you. 

Cka.  Come,  where  is  this  young  gallant,  that  is 
so  desirous  to  lie  with  his  mother  earth  ? 

Orl.  Ready,  sir  ;  but  his  will  hath  in  it  a  more 
modest  working. 

Duke  F.  You  shall  try  but  one  fall. 

Cha.  No,  I  waiTant  3'our  gi'ace ;  you  shall  not 
entreat  him  to  a  second,  that  have  so  mightily  per- 
suaded him  fiom  a  first. 

Orl.  You  mean  to  mock  me  after ;  you  should 
not  have  mocked  me  before :  but  come,  your 
ways. 

Ros.  Now,  Hercules  be  thy  speed,  young  man  ! 

Cel.  I  would  I  were  invisible,  to  catch  the 
strong  fellow  by  tbe  leg. 

[Charles  and  Orlando  wrestle. 

Jios.  O  excellent  young  man  ! 

Ccl.  If  I  had  a  thunderbolt  in  mine  eye,  I  can 
Uii\  who  should  down. 

[Charles  is  thrown.     Shout. 

Duke  F.  No  more,  no  more. 

Orl.  Yes,  I  beseech  your  grace ;  I  am  not  yet 
?rell  brcath'd. 


Duke  F.  IIow  dost  thou,  Charles  ? 
Zc  Beau.  He  cannot  speak,  my  lord. 
Duke  F.  Bear  him  away. 

[Charles  is  borne  out 
What  is  thy  name,  young  man  ? 

Orl.  Orlando,  my  liegi; ;  the  youngest  son  of  sn 
Rowland  de  Bois. 

Duke  F.  I  would  thou  hadst  been  son  to  some 
man  else. 
The  world  esteera'd  thy  father  honourable. 
But  I  did  find  him  still  mine  enemy : 
Thou  shouldst  have  better  pleas'd  me  with  thia 

deed, 
Hadst  thou  descended  from  another  house. 
But  fare  tbee  well ;  thou  art  a  gallant  youth  ; 
I  would  thou  hadst  told  me  of  another  father. 

[Fxeunt  Duke  Fred.,  Train,  and  Le  Beau. 
Cel.  Were  I  my  father,  coz,  would  I  do  this? 
Orl.  I  am  more  proud  to  be  sir  Rowland's  son. 
His  youngest  son ; — and  would  not  change  ilia 

calling," 
To  be  adopted  heir  to  Fred'rick. 

Jios.  !My  father  lov'd  sir  Rowland  as  liis  soul 
And  all  the  world  was  of  my  father's  mind  : 
Had  I  before  known  this  young  man  liis  son, 
I  should  have  given  him  tears  unto  entreaties, 
Ere  be  should  thus  have  ventur'd. 

Ccl.  Gentle  cousin. 

Let  us  go  thank  him,  and  encourage  him : 
My  father's  rough  and  envious  disposition 
Sticks  me  at  heart. — Sir,  you  have  well  deserv'd ; 
If  you  do  keep  your  promises  in  love 
But  justly  as  you  have  exceeded  all  in  promise,  ' 
Your  mistress  shall  be  happy. 
Jios.  Gentleman, 

\Giving  him  a  cliain  from  her  nccJc, 
Wear  this  for  me, — one  out  of  suits  with  fortune. 
That  could  give  more   but  that  her  hand  lack) 

means. 
Shall  we  go,  coz  ? 

Ccl.  Ay  : — Fare  you  well,  fair  gentle 

man. 
Orl.  Cau  I  not  say  I  thank  you  ?     My  bettei 
parts 
Are    all    thrown    down  ;    and    that   which    here 

stands  up 
Is  but  a  quintain,"  a  mere  hfeless  block. 

Ros.  He  calls  us  back :  My  pride  fell  with  my 
fortunes : 
I  '11  ask  him  what  he  would  : — Did  you  call,  sir  ? — 
Sir,  you  have  wrestled  well,  and  overthrown 
More  than  your  enemies. 

411 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


SCESE  in. 


Cel.  Will  you  go,  coz' 

Ros.  Have  with  you: — Pare  you  well. 

[Exeunt  Rosalind  and  Celia. 
Oil.  "What  passiou  haugs  these  weights  upon 
my  tongue  \ 
cannct  speak  to  her,  yet  she  urg'd  conference. 

He-enter  Le  Beau. 

0  poor  Orlando  '  tiiou  art  overthrown  ; 

Or  Charles,  or  something  weaker,  masters  thee. 

Le  Beau.  Good  sir,  I  do  in  friendship  counsel 
you 
To  leave  this  place.     Albeit  you  have  deservVl 
High  commendation,  true  applause,  and  love ; 
Yet  such  is  now  the  duke's  condition. 
That  he  misconstcrs  all'*  that  you  have  done. 
The  duke  is  humorous ;  what  he  is,  indeed, 
More  suits  you  to  conceive,  than  I  to  speak  of. 

Orl.  I  thank  you,  sir ;  and,  pray  you  tell  me  this : 
Which  of  the  two  was  daughter  of  the  duke. 
That  here  was  at  the  wrestling  ? 

Le  Beau.  Neither  his  daughter,  if  we  judge  by 
manners ; 
But  yet,  indeed,  the  smaller  is  his  daughter : 
The  other  is  daughter  to  the  banish 'd  duke. 
And  here  detainVl  by  her  usurping  uncle. 
To  keep  his  daughter  company ;  whose  loves 
Are  dearer  than  the  natural  bond  of  sisters. 
But  I  can  tell  you,  that  of  late  this  duke 
Oath  ta'eu  displeasure  'gainst  his  gentle  niece ; 
Grounded  upon  no  other  argument 
But  that  the  people  praise  her  for  her  virtues, 
And  pity  her  for  her  good  father's  sake ; 
And,  on  my  life,  his  malice  'gainst  the  lady 
Will  suddenly  break  forth. — Sir,  fare  you  well  ; 
Hereafter,  in  a  better  world  thau  this, 

1  shall  desire  more  love  and  knowledge  of  you. 

Orl.  I  rest  much  bounden  to  you :  fare  you  well. 

[JSxit  Le  Beau. 
Thus  must  I  from  the  smoke  into  the  smother ; 
From  tyrant  duke  unto  a  tyrant  brother : — 
But  heavenly  Rosalind !  [Exit. 

SCENE  HI.— yl  Boom  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Celia  and  Rosalind. 

Cel.  Why,  cousin ;  wliy,  Rosalin  1 ; — Cujiid  have 
mercy  ! — not  a  word  ? 

B/is.  Not  one  to  throw  at  a  dog. 

Cel.  No,  thy  words  aro  too  precious  to  be  cast 
Away  upon  curs ;  throw  some  of  them  at  mo :  come, 
lame  me  with  reasons. 
412 


Bos.  Then  there  were  two   cousins   laid  up 
when  the  one  should  be  lam'd  with  reasons,  aud 
the  other  mad  without  any. 

Cel.  But  is  all  this  for  your  father  ? 

Bos.  No,  some  of  it  is  for  my  child's  father :" 
0,  how  full  of  briars  is  this  working-day  world  ! 

Cel.  They  are  but  burs,  cousin,  thrown  upon 
thee  in  holiday  foolery  ;  if  we  walk  not  in  the 
trodden  paths,  our  very  petticoats  will  catch  them. 

Bos.  I  could  shake  them  off  my  coat;  these 
burs  are  in  my  heart. 

Cel.  Hem  tiiem  away. 

Bos.  I  would  try ;  if  I  could  cry  "  hem,"  aud 
have  him." 

Cel.  Come,  come,  wTestle  with  thy  affections. 

Bos.  O,  they  take  the  part  of  a  better  wrestler 
than  myself! 

Cel.  0,  a  good  wish  upon  you  !  you  will  try  in 
time,  in  despite  of  a  fall. — But,  turning  these  jests 
out  of  service,  let  us  talk  in  good  earnest.  Is  it 
possible,  on  such  a  sudden,  you  should  fall  into  so 
strong  a  liking  with  old  sir  Rowland's  youngest 
son  ? 

Bos.  The  duke  my  father  lov'd  his  father  dearly. 

Cel.  Doth  it  therefore   ensue  that  you  should 
love  his  son  dearly  ?     By  this  kind  of  chase,''  I      / 
should  hate  him,  for  my  father  hated  his  father 
dearly ;  yet  I  hate  not  Orlando. 

Bos.  No,  'laith,  hate  him  not,  for  my  sake. 

Cel.  Why  should  I  not  ?  doth  he  not  deserve 
wein^" 

Bos.  Let  me  love  him  for  that ;  and  do  you  love 
him,  because  I  do : — Look,  here  comes  the  duke. 

Cel.  With  his  eyes  full  of  anger 

Enter  Duke  Frederick,  with  Lords. 

Duke  F.  Mistress,  despatch  you  with  your  safest 
haste. 
And  get  you  from  our  court. 

Bos.  Mo,  uncle  ? 

Duke  F.  You,  cousin  ; 

Within  these  ten  days  if  that  thou  be'st  found 
So  near  our  jtublic  court  .as  twenty  miles. 
Thou  diest  for  it. 

Ros.  I  do  beseech  your  grace. 

Let  me  the  knowledge  of  my  fault  bear  with  me  : 
If  with  myself  I  hold  intelligence. 
Or  have  acquaintance  witli  mine  own  desires, 
If  that  I  do  not  dream,  or  be  not  frantic, 
(As  I  do  trust  I  am  not),  then,  dear  uncle, 
Never,  so  much  as  in  a  thought  unborn, 
Did  I  ntl'ond  your  highness. 


ACT   I. 


AS  YOU  LIIvE  IT. 


6CENE    m. 


I)uke  F.  Thus  do  all  traitors  • 

if  their  purgation  did  consist  in  words, 
Tliey  arc  as  iiinoceut  as  grace  itself: 
Let  it  siifilce  thoc,  that  I  trust  thee  not. 

Ros.  Yet  your   mistrust   cannot   make   me   a 
traitor : 
Tell  me,  whereon  tlie  likelihood  depends. 

Duke  F.  Thou  art  thy  father's  daughter ;  there's 
enough. 

Ros.  So  was  I  when  your  highness  took  his 
dukedom ; 
So  was  I  when  your  highness  banish'd  him : 
Treason  is  not  inherited,  my  lord  ; 
Or,  if  we  did  derive  it  from  our  friends. 
What 's  that  to  me  ?  my  father  was  no  traitor : 
Then,  good  my  liege,  mistake  me  not  so  much 
To  think  my  poverty  is  treacherous. 

Cd.  Dear  sovereign,  hear  me  speak. 

Duke  F.  Ay,  Celia ;  we  stay'd  her  for  your  sake, 
Else  had  she  with  her  father  rang'd  along. 

Cel.  I  did  not  then  entreat  to  have  her  stay ; 
It  was  your  pleasure,  and  your  own  remorse  ;^' 
I  was  too  young  that  time  to  value  her, 
But  now  I  know  her ;  if  she  be  a  traitor, 
Why,  so  am  I ;  we  still  have  slept  together. 
Rose  at  an  instant,  learn'd,  play'd,  eat  together ; 
And  wheresoe'er  we  went,  like  Juno's  swans. 
Still  we  went  coupled,  and  inseparable. 

Duke  F.  She  is  too  subtle  for  thee ;  and  her 
smoothness. 
Her  veiy  silence,  and  her  patience. 
Speak  to  the  people,  and  they  pity  her. 
Thou  art  a  fool :  she  robs  thee  of  thy  name ; 
And  thou  wilt  show  more  bright,  and  seem  more 

\nrtuous. 
When  she  is  gone.     Then  open  not  thy  lips  ; 
Firm  and  irrevocable  is  my  doom 
Which  I  have  pass'd  upon  her :  she  is  banish'd. 

Cel.  Pronounce  that  sentence  then  on  me,  my 
liege ; 
I  cannot  live  out  of  her  company. 

Duke  F.  You  are  a  fool : — You,  niece,  provide 
yourself ; 
If  you  outstay  the  time,  upon  mine  honour. 
And  in  the  greatness  of  my  word,  you  die. 

\Exeunt  Doke  Fred,  and  Lords. 

Cel.  O,  my  poor  Rosalind !  whither  wilt  thou  go? 
Wilt   thou    change   fathers  ?      I    will    give    thee 

mine. 
[  charge  thee,  be  not  thou  more  giiev'd  than  I  am. 

Ros.  I  have  more  cause. 

CcL  Thou  hast  not,  cousin  ; 


Pi-ithee,  be  cheerful ;  know'st  thou  not  the  duke 
Ilatli  banish'd  me,  his  daughter? 

Ros.  That  he  hath  not. 

Cd.  'Nol  hath  not?     Rosalind  lacks  then   the 
love, 
Which  teacheth  thee  that  thou  and  I  am  one ; 
Shall  we  bo  sunder'd  ?  shall  we  jiart,  sweet  girl  ? 
No ;  let  my  father  seek  another  heir. 
Therefore  devise  with  me  how  we  may  fly, 
Whither  to  go,  and  what  to  bear  with  us : 
And  do  not  seek  to  take  your  charge  upon  you. 
To  bear  your  griefs  yourself,  and  leave  me  out ; 
For,  by  this  heaven,  now  at  our  sorrows  pale, 
Say  what  thou  canst,  I  '11  go  along  with  thee. 

Ros.  Why,  whither  shall  we  go  ? 

Cel.  To  seek  my  uncle  in  the  forest  of  Arden 

Ros.  Alas,  what  danger  will  it  be  to  us, 
!Maids  as  we  are,  to  travel  forth  so  far ! 
Beauty  provoketh  thieves  sooner  than  gold. 

Cel.  I  '11  put  myself  in  poor  and  mean  attire, 
And  with  a  kind  of  umbei-^"  smirch  my  face  : 
The  like  do  you ;  so  shall  we  pass  along. 
And  never  stir  assailants. 

Ros.  Were  it  not  better. 

Because  that  I  am  more  than  common  tall, 
That  I  did  suit  me  all  points  like  a  man  ? 
A  gallant  curtle-axe  upon  my  thigh, 
A  boar-spear  in  my  hand ;  and,  in  my  heart. 
Lie  there  what  hidden  woman's  fear  there  will, 
We  '11  have  a  swashing  and  a  martial  outside," 
As  many  other  mannish  cowards  have. 
That  do  outface  it  with  their  semblances. 

Cel.  What  shall  I  call  thee,  when  thou  art  a 
man? 

Ros.  I  '11  have  no  worse  a  name  than  Jove's  own 

page, 
And  therefore  look  vou  call  me  Ganvmede. 
But  what  will  3'ou  be  called  ? 

Cel.  Something  that  hath   a  reference   to  my 
state ; 
No  longer  Celia,  but  Aliena. 

Ros.  But,  cousin,  what  if  we  assay'd  to  steal 
The  clownish  fool  oui  of  your  father's  court  ? 
Would  he  not  be  a  comfort  to  our  travel  ? 

Cel.  He  '11  go  along  o'er  the  wide  world  with 
me ; 
Leave  me  alone  to  woo  him.     Let 's  away. 
And  get  our  jewels  and  our  wealth  together  • 
Devise  the  fittest  time,  and  safest  way 
To  hide  us  from  pursuit  that  will  be  made 
After  my  flight.     Now  go  we  in  content. 
To  liberty,  and  not  to  banishment.  [^Exeunt 

413 


ACT    IL 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


BCENB    L 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  L—T?.e  Forest  o/Arden. 

Kntej-  Duke  senior,  Amiens,  and  other  Lords,  in  the 
dress  of  Foresters. 

Duke  S.  Now,  my  co-mates,  and  brothers  in 

exile. 
Hath  not  old  custom  made  this  life  more  sweet 
Than   that  of  painted   pomp  ?      Are   not  these 

woods 
More  free  from  peril  than  the  envious  court  ? 
Here  feel  we  but  the  penalty  of  Adam  : 
The  seasons'  difference, — as,  the  icy  fang, 
And  churlish  chiding  of  the  winter's  wind, 
(Which  when  it  bites  and  blows  upon  my  body, 
Even  till  I  shrink  with  cold,  I  smile,  and  say 
This  is  no  flattery,) — these  are  counsellors 
That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I  am. 
Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity, 
Which,  like  the  toad,  ugly  and  venomous, 
Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head  ;" 
And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 
Finds   tongues  in   trees,   books  in   the  running 

brooks. 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  eveiything. 

Ami.  I  would  not  change  it.     Happy  is  your 

grace. 
That  can  translate  the  stubbornness  of  fortune 
Into  so  quiet  and  so  sweet  a  style. 

Duke  S.  Come,  shall  we  go  and  kill  us  venison  ? 
And  yet  it  irks  me  the  poor  dappled  fools, — 
Being  native  burghers  of  this  desert  city, — 
Should,  in  their  own  confines,  with  forked  heads 
Have  their  round  haunches  gor'd. 

1  Lord.  Indeed,  my  lord, 

ITie  melanclioly  Jaques  grieves  at  that ; 
And,  in  that  kind,  swears  you  do  more  usurp 
Than  doth  your  brother  that  hath  bauisli'd  you. 
To-day,  my  lord  of  Amiens  and  myself 
Did  steal  beliind  him,  as  he  lay  along 
Under  an  oak,  whose  antique  root  peeps  out 
Upon  the  brook  that  brawls  along  this  wood : 
To  the  which  jilaee  a  poor  sequester'd  stag. 
That  flora  the  hunter's  aim  had  ta'en  a  huit, 

414 


Did  come  to  languish ;  and,  indeed,  my  lord. 
The  wretched  animal  heav'd  forth  such  groans. 
That  their  discharge  did  stretch  his  leathern  co.it 
Almost  to  bursting ;  and  the  big  round  tears 
Cours'd  one  another  down  his  innocent  nose 
In  piteous  chase :  and  thus  the  hairy  fool," 
Much  marked  of  the  melancholy  Jaques, 
Stood  on  th'  extremest  verge  of  the  swift  brook. 
Augmenting  it  with  tears. 

Duke  S.  But  what  said  Jaques  ? 

Did  he  not  moralize  this  spectacle  ? 

1  Lord.  O  yes,  into  a  thousand  similes. 
First,  for  his  weeping  in  the  needless  stream  ; 

"  Poor    deer,"   quoth  he,   "  thou   mak'st   a  testa- 
ment 
As  worldlings  do,  giving  thy  sum  of  more 
To  that  which  had  too  much."     Then  being  theie 

alone. 
Left  and  abandon'd  of  his  velvet  friends ; 
"  'T  is  right,"  quoth  he ;  "  thus  misery  doth  part 
The  flux  of  company."     Anon,  a  careless  herd. 
Full  of  the  pasture,  jumps  along  by  him, 
And    never   stays    to   greet  him.      "Ay,"   quoth 

Jaques, 
"  Sweep  on,  you  fat  and  greasy  citizens  ; 
'T  is  just  the  fashion :  Wherefore  do  you  look 
Upon  that  poor  and  broken  bankrupt  there  3" 
Thus  most  invectively  he  pierceth  through 
The  body  of  the  county,  city,  court. 
Yea,  and  of  this  our  hfe :  swearing,  that  we 
Are  mere  usurpers,  tyrants,  and  what 's  worse. 
To  fright  the  animals,  and  to  kill  them  up"* 
In  their  assign'd  and  native  dwelling-place. 

Duke  S.  And  did  you  leave  him  in   this  con- 
templation ? 

2  Lord.  We  did,  my  lord,  weeping  and  com- 

menting 
Upon  the  sobbing  deer. 

Duke  S.  Show  me  the  place ; 

I  love  to  cope  him  in  these  sullen  fits. 
For  then  he  's  full  of  matter. 

1  Lord.  I  '11  biing  you  to  him  straight. 

[Exeunt. 


Acr  II. 


AS  YOU  UKE  IT. 


ECKNK    II.— IIL 


SCENE  11— A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Entei  Duke  Frederick,  Lords,  and  Attendants. 

Duke  F.  Can  it  be  possible  that  no  man  saw 
them  ? 
It  cannot  be:  some  villains  of  my  court 
A 10  of  consent  and  sufferance  in  this. 

1  Lord.  I  cannot  hear  of  any  that  did  see  her. 
Tiie  ladies,  her  attendants  of  her  chamber. 

Saw  her  a  bed ;  and,  in  the  morninjr  earl3', 
They  found  the  bed  untreasur'd  of  their  mistress. 

2  Lord.  My  lord,  the  roinish"  clown,  at  whom 

so  oft 
Your  grace  was  wont  to  laugh,  is  also  missing. 
Ilesperia,  the  princess'  gentlewoman. 
Confesses  that  she  secretly  o'erheard 
Your  daughter  and  her  cousin  much  commend 
The  parts  and  graces  of  the  wrestler. 
That  did  but  lately  foil  the  sinewy  Charles; 
And  she  believes,  wherever  they  are  gone. 
That  youth  is  surely  in  their  company. 

Duke  F.  Send  to  his  brother ;  fetch  that  gallant 

hither ; 
[f  he  be  absent,  bring  his  brother  to  me  ; 
[  '11  make  him  find  him  :  do  this  suddenly ; 
And  let  not  search  and  inquisition  quail"' 
To  bring  again  these  foolish  runaways.      \^Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Before  Oliver'*  House. 
Enter  Orlando  and  Adam,  meeting. 

Orl.  Who  's  there  ? 

Adam.  What  I  my  young  master ! — 0,  my  gentle 
master ! 
O,  my  sweet  master,  O  you  memory 
Of  old  sir  Kowland !  why,  what  make  you  here ! 
*Wliy  are  you  virtuous?  Why  do  people  love  you? 
And  wherefore  are  you  gentle,  strong,  and  valiant? 
Whv  would  you  be  so  fond  to  overcome 
The  bonny  priser^'  of  the  humorous  duke  ? 
Your  praise  is  come  too  swiftly  home  before  you. 
Know  you  not,  master,  to  some  kind  of  men 
Their  graces  serve  them  but  as  enemies  ? 
No  more  do  yours ;  your  virtues,  gentle  master, 
.\re  sanctified  and  holy  traitors  to  you. 
0,  what  a  world  is  this,  when  what  is  comely 
F^ivenoms  him  that  bears  it ! 

Orl.  Why,  what  's  the  matter  ? 

Adam.  O  unhappy  youth. 

Come  not  within  these  doors ;  within  this  roof 
The  enemy  of  all  your  gi-aoes  lives : 
Your  brother — (no,  no  brother;  yet  the  son — 


Yet  not  the  son;  I  will  not  call  him  son 

Of  him  I  was  about  to  call  his  father) — 

Ilath  heard  your  praises ;  and  this  night  he  means 

To  burn  the  lodging  where  you  use  to  lie, 

And  you  within  it:  if  ho  fail  of  that. 

He  will  have  other  means  to  cut  you  ofi": 

I  overheard  him  and  his  pi'actices. 

This  is  no  place,""  this  house  is  but  a  butchery 

Abhor  it,  fear  it,  do  not  enter  it. 

Orl.  Why,  whither,  Adam,  wouldst  thou  have 
me  go? 

Adam.  No  matter  whither,  so  you  come  not  here 

Orl.  What,  wouldst  thou  have  me  go  and  beg 
my  food  ? 
Or,  with  a  base  and  boist'rous  sword,  enforce 
A  thievish  living  on  the  common  road  ? 
This  I  must  do,  or  know  not  what  to  do : 
Yet  this  I  will  not  do,  do  how  I  can  ; 
I  rather  will  subject  me  to  the  malice 
Of  a  diverted  blood,  and  bloody  brother. 

Adam.  But  do  not  so :     I  have  five  hundred 
crowns, 
The  thrifty  hire  I  sav'd  under  your  father, 
Which  I  did  store  to  be  my  foster-nurse, 
When  service  should  in  my  old  limbs  lie  lame, 
And  unregarded  age  in  corners  thi-own. 
Take  that :  and  He  that  dotli  the  ravens  feed, 
Yea,  providently  caters  for  the  sparrow. 
Be  comfort  to  my  age  !     Here  is  the  gold ; 
All  this  I  give  you.     Let  me  be  your  servant, 
Though  I  look  old,  yet  I  am  strong  and  lusty : 
For  in  my  youth  I  never  did  apply 
Hot  and  rebellious  liquors  in  my  blood. 
Nor  did  not  with  unbashful  forehead  woo 
The  means  of  weakness  and  debility  ; 
Therefore  my  age  is  as  a  lusty  winter, 
Frosty,  but  kindly.     Let  me  go  with  you  ; 
I  '11  do  the  service  of  a  younger  man 
In  all  your  business  and  necessities. 

Orl.  0  good  old  man  !  how  \Tell  in  thee  appears 
The  constant  service  of  the  antique  world, 
When  service  sweat  for  duty,  not  for  meed  1 
Thou  art  not  for  the  fesuion  of  these  times, 
Yv'here  none  will  sweat,  but  for  promotion ; 
And  having  that,  do  choke  their  service  up 
Even  with  the  having:  it  is  not  so  with  thee. 
But,  poor  old  man,  thou  prun'st  a  rotten  tree, 
That  cannot  so  much  as  a  blossom  yield. 
In  lieu  of  all  thy  pains  and  husbandly  : 
But  come  thy  ways,  we  '11  go  along  together : 
And  ere  we  have  thy  youthful  wages  spent. 
We  'II  light  upon  some  settled  low  content. 

415 


AS  YOU  LIIvE  IT. 


6CENE    IV. 


Adam.  Master,  go  on :  and  I  will  follow  thee, 
To  the  last  gasp,  with  truth  and  lo3-alty. — 
From  seventeen  j'ears  till  now  almost  fourscore 
Here  lived  I,  but  now  live  here  no  more. 
At  seventeen  years  many  their  fortunes  seek, 
But  at  fourscore,  it  is  too  late  a  week  :"' 
Yet  fortune  cannot  recompense  me  better, 
Than  to  die  well,  and  not  my  master's  debtor. 

\_Exninl. 

SCENE  l\.—The  Forest  o/Arden. 

EnterVMSM-isvi  inboy^scloth^s,  Celia  dressed  like  a 
Shepherdess,  and  Touciistoxe. 

Jios.  0  Jupiter  !  how  weary'"  are  my  spirits! 

Touch.  I  care  not  for  my  spirits,  if  my  legs  were 
not  weary. 

Ros.  I  could  finil  in  my  heart  to  disgrace  my 
man's  apparel,  and  to  cry  like  a  woman  :  but  I 
must  comfort  the  weaker  vessel,  as  doublet  and 
hose  ought  to  show  itself  courageous  to  petticoat : 
therefore,  courage,  good  Aliena  ! 

Cel.  I  pray  you,  bear  with  me ;  I  cannot  go  no 
further. 

Touch.  For  my  part,  I  had  rather  bear  with 
yon,  than  bear  you :  yet  I  should  bear  no  cross,'' 
if  I  did  bear  you  ;  for,  I  think,  you  have  no  money 
in  your  purse. 

Jios.  A\'ell,  this  is  the  forest  of  Ardeu. 

Touch.  Ay,  now  am  I  in  Arden  ;  the  more  fool 
1 !  when  I  was  at  home,  I  was  in  a  better  place; 
but  travellers  must  be  content. 

Ros.  Ay,  be  so,  good  Touchstone  : — Look  you, 
who  comes  here  ?  a  young  man,  and  an  old,  in 
solemn  talk. 

Enter  Corin  and  Silvics. 

Cor.  That  is  the  way  to  make  her  scorn  you 
still. 

Sil.  O  Corin,  that  thou  knew'st  how  I  do  love 
her! 

Cor.  I  partly  guess ;  for  I  have  lov'd  ere  now. 

Sil.  No,  Corin,  being  old,  thou  canst  not  guess; 
Though  in  thy  youth  thou  wast  as  true  a  lover 
As  ever  sigh'd  upon  a  midnight  pillow : 
But  if  thy  lovo  were  ever  like  to  mine, 
(As  sure  I  think  did  never  man  love  so,) 
IIow  many  actions  most  ridiculous 
lla.st  thou  been  drawn  to  by  thy  fantasy  ? 

Cor.  Into  a  thousand  that  I  have  forgotten. 

Sil.  0,  thou  didst  then  never  love  so  heartily  : 
If  ihou  rem.Muber'st  not  the  slightest  folly 
41A 


That  ever  love  did  make  thee  run  into. 

Thou  hast  not  lov'd  : 

Or  if  thou  hast  not  sat  as  I  do  now, 

Wearj-ing  thy  hearer  in  thy  mistress'  praisp, 

Thou  hast  not  lov'd : 

Or  if  thou  hast  not  broke  from  company 

Abruptly,  as  my  passion  now  makes  me, 

Thou  hast  not  lov'd  : 

0  Phebe,  Phebe,  Phehe !  [Exit  Silvius 

.  Ros.  Alas,  poor  shepherd !    searching   of  thy 
wound, 

1  have  by  hard  ad.'cnturc  found  mine  own. 

Touch.  And  I  mine  :  I  remember,  Vihen  I  was 
in  love,  1  broke  my  sword  upon  a  stone,  and  bid 
him  take  that  for  coming  anight  to  Jane  Smile  : 
and  I  remember  the  kissing  of  her  taurr,''  and 
the  cow's  dugs  that  her  pretty  chopped  hands  had 
milk'd :  and  I  remember  the  wooing  of  a  [leascod 
instead  of  her  ;  from  whom  I  took  two  cods,  ani 
gi\'ing  her  them  again,  said,  with  weeping  tears," 
"  ^Vear  these  for  my  sake."  We.  that  are  true 
lovers,  nm  into  strange  capers ;  but  as  all  is 
mortal  in  nature,  so  is  all  nature  in  love  mortal  in 
folly.'' 

Ros.  Thou  speak'st  wiser  than  tlK)u  art  'ware  of. 

Touch.  Nay,  I  shall  ne'er  be  'ware  of  mine  o'.vn 
wit,  till  I  break  my  shins  against  it. 

Ros.  Jove !  Jove  !  this  shepherd's  passion 
Is  much  upon  my  fashion. 

Touch.  And  mine ;  but  it  grows  something  stnle 
with  me. 

Cel.  I  pray  you,  one  of  you  question  yond  man 
If  he  for  gold  will  give  us  any  food  ; 
I  faint  almost  to  death. 

Touch.  Holla;  you  clowii ! 

Ros.  Peace,  fool ;  he  's  not  thy  kinsman. 

Cor.  Who  calls?  ' 

Touch.  Your  betters,  sir. 

Cor.  Else  are  they  veiy  wretched. 

Ros.  Peace,  I  say : — Good  even  to  you,  friend. 

Cor.  And  to  you,  gentle  sir,  and  to  you  all. 

Ros.  I  prithee,  shephard,  if  that  love,  or  gold. 
Can  in  this  desert  place  buy  entertainment, 
Bring  us  Avhere  we  may  rest  oui'sc'lves,  and  feed : 
Here  's  a  young  maid  with  travel  nnich  opprrss'd, 
And  faints  for  succour. 

Cor.  Fair  sir,  I  ]iity  her, 

And  wish  for  her  sake,  more  than  for  n)ine  own, 
My  fortunes  wei'e  more  able  to  relieve  her  : 
But  1  am  shepherd  to  another  man. 
And  do  not  shear  the  fleeces  that  I  graze  ; 
My  mjister  is  of  churli.sh  disposition, 


AS  YOU  UKE  IT. 


HC'ENE    V. VT. 


And  little  recks  to  find  tlie  way  to  heaven 
By  doing  deeds  of  hospitality : 
Besides,  his  cote,  his  flocks,  and  bounds  of  feed. 
Are  now  ou  sale ,  and  at  our  sheejieote  now, 
By  reason  of  his  absence,  there  is  nothing 
That  you  will  feed  on  ;  but  what  is,  come  see, 
AniJ  in  my  voice  most  welcome  shall  you  be. 

lios.  What  is  he  that  shall  buy  his  flock  and 
pasture  ? 

Cor.  That  3'oung  swain  that  you  saw  here  but 
erewhile. 
Tint  little  cares  for  buying  anything. 

Jiof.  I  pray  thee,  if  it  stand  with  honesty, 
Buy  thou  the  cottage,  pasture,  and  the  flock, 
And  thou  shalt  have  to  pay  for  it  of  us. 

Cel.  And  we  will  mend  thy  wages:  I  like  this 
I)lace, 
And  willingly  could  waste  my  time. in  it. 

Cor.  Assuredly,  the  thing  is  to  be  sold  : 
Go  with  me  ;  if  you  like,  upon  report. 
The  soil,  the  profit,  and  this  kind  of  life, 
I  will  your  very  faithful  feeder  be,'' 
And  buy  it  with  your  gold  right  suddenly. 

\£!xeunt. 

SCENE  v.— The  same. 

Enter  Amiens,  Jaques,  and  others. 
SONG. 

Ami.  Under  the  greenwood  tree, 

Who  love^  to  lie  with  me, 
And  turn^a  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  tliroat. 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither  1 
Here  shall  he  see 
Ko  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weatlier. 

Jaq.  More,  more  !  I  pirithee,  more. 

Ami.  It  will  make  you  melancholy,  monsieur 
Jaques. 

Jaq.  I  thank  it.  More !  I  prithee,  more.  I  can 
suck  melancholy  out  of  a  song,  as  a  weazel  sucIm 
eggs.     More !  I  prithee,  more  ! 

Ami.  My  voice  is  ragged;''  I  know  I  cannot 
please  you. 

Jaq.  I  do  not  desire  you  to  please  me;  I  do 
desire  you  to  sing.  Come,  more ;  another  stanza ; 
Call  you  'em  stanzas  ? 

Ami.  What  you  will,  monsieur  Jaques. 

Jaq  Nay,  1  care  not  for  their  names  ;  they  owe 
me  nothing     Will  you  sing  ? 

Ami.  More  at  your  request  than  to  please 
myself. 


Jaq.  Well,  then,  if  ever  I  thank  any  man,  I  'II 
thank  you  :  but  that  they  call  compliment  is  like 
the  encounter  of  two  dog-apes;  and  when  a  man 
thanks  me  heartily,  methinks  I  have  given  him  a 
penny,  and  he  renders  me  the  beggarly  thanks. 
Come,  sing ;  and  you  that  will  not,  hold  your 
tongues. 

Ami.  W^ell,  I  '11  end  the  song. — Sirs,  cover  the 
while ;  the  duke  will  drink  under  this  tree : — he 
hath  been  all  this  day  to  look  you. 

Jaq.  And  I  have  been  all  this  day  to  avoid  him. 
lie  is  too  disputable  for  my  company :  I  think  of 
as  many  matters  as  he ;  but  I  give  Ileaven  thanks, 
and  make  no  boast  of  them.    Come,  warble ;  come, 

SONG. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun,  [All  together  hc7e> 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun. 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats. 
And  pleas'd  with  what  he  gets. 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  liither ; 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy. 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Jaq.  I  '11  give  you  a  verse  to  this  note,  thnt  1 
made  yesterday  in  despite  of  my  invention. 
Ami.  And  I  '11  sing  it. 
Jaq.  Thus  it  goes  : — 

If  it  do  come  to  pass, 
That  any  man  turn  ass, 
Leaving  his  wealth  and  ease, 
A  stubborn  will  to  please, 
Ducdame,  ducdame,  ducdame  \*^ 
Here  shall  he  see 
Gross  fools  as  he. 
An  if  he  will  come  to  me. 

Ami.  Wliat 's  that  rfacrfom^ .? 

Jaq.  'T  is  a  Greek  invocation,  to  call  fools  into 
a  circle.  I  '11  go  sleep  if  I  can  ;  if  I  cannot,  I  '11 
rail  against  all  the  first-born  of  Egypt. 

Ami.  And  I  '11  go  seek  the  duke ;  his  banquet 
is  prepar'd.  [Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  VI.— r/ie  same. 

Enter  Orlaxdo  and  Adam. 

Adam.  Dear  master,  I  can  go  no  further.  O,  I 
die  for  food  I  Here  lie  I  down,  and  measure  out 
my  grave.     Farewell,  kind  master ! 

Orl.  Why,  how  now,  Adam !  no  greater  he.TJ  t 
in  thee  ?  Live  a  little  ;  comfort  a  little ;  cheer 
thyself  a  little.  K  this  uncouth"  forest  yield 
anything  savage,  I  will  either  be  food  for  it,  or 
bring  it  Tor  food  to  thee.  Thy  conceit  is  nearer 
death  than  thy  powers.     For  my  sak(,  be  com- 

'417 


r" 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


BUENE    Vn. 


forfable ;  hold  death  awhile  at  the  arm's  end.  I 
will  here  be  with  thee  presently ;  and  if  I  bring 
thee  not  something  to  eat,  I  will  give  thee  leave 
to  die :  But  if  thou  diest  before  I  come,  thou  art  a 
mocker  of  my  labour.  Well  said !  thou  look'st 
cheerly :  and  I  '11  be  with  thee  quickly. — Yet 
thou  liest  in  the  bleak  air :  Come,  I  will  bear  thee 
to  some  shelter;  and  thou  shalt  not  die  for  lack 
of  a  dinner,  if  there  live  anything  in  this  desert. 
Cheerly,  good  Adam !  [£!xeunt. 

SCENE  YU.—The  seme. 

A  table  set  out.    Eider  Duke  senior,  Amiens,  Lords, 
and  others. 

Duke  S.  I  think  he  be  transform'd  into  a  beast ; 
For  I  can  nowhere  find  him  like  a  man. 

1  Lord.  My  lord,  he    is  but  even   now  gone 
hence ; 
Here  was  he  merry,  hearing  of  a  song. 

Duke  S.  If  he,  compact  of  jars,  grows  musical, 
We  shall  have  shortly  discord  in  the  spheres : — 
Go,  seek  him ;  tell  him  I  would  speak  with  him. 

Enter  Jaques. 

1  Lord.  He  saves  my  labour  by  his  own  approach. 
Duke  S.  AVhy,  how  now,  monsieur  1  what  a  life 

is  this. 
That  your  poor  friends  must  woo  vour  company ! 
What  I  you  look  merrily. 

Jag.  A  fool,  a  fool !     I  met  a  fool  i'  the  forest, 
A  motley  fool ;  (a  miserable  world  !) 
As  I  do  live  by  food,  I  met  a  fool, 
Who  laid  him  down  and  bask'd  him  in  the  sun. 
And  rail'd  on  lady  Fortune  in  good  terms. 
In  good  set  terms, — and  yet  a  motley  fool. 
■'  Good    morrow,    fool,"    quoth   I.      "  No,    sir," 

quoth  he, 
"  Call   me   not  fool,  till  Heaven   hath   sent   me 

fortune :" 
And  then  he  drew  a  dial''^  from  his  poke. 
And,  looking  on  it  with  lack-lastre  eye. 
Says,  very  wisely,  "  It  is  ten  o'clock : 
Thus  we   may  see,"  quoth  he,  "  how  the  world 

wags : 
'T  is  but  an  hour  ago,  since  it  was  nine ; 
And  after  one  hour  more,  't  will  be  eleven ; 
And  so,  from  hour  to  hour,  wo  ripe  and  ripo, 
And  then,  from  hour  to  hour,  wo  rot  and  rot ; 
And  thereby  hangs  a  tale."     When  I  djiJ  hear 
The  motley  fool  thus  moral  on  the  time, 
My  lungs  began  to  crow  like  chanticleer, 
41. 


That  fools  should  be  so  deep-contemplativo , 

And  I  did  laugh,  sans  intermission. 

An  hour  by  his  dial. — O  noble  fool ! 

A  worthy  fool !     Motley  's  the  only  wear. 

Duke  S.  What  fool  is  this  ? 

Jaq.  O  worthy  fool ! — One   that  hath  been  ? 
courtier. 
And  says,  if  ladies  be  but  young  and  f;iir, 
They   have    the  gift   to   know  it  :    and   in   his 

brain, — 
Which  is  as  dry  as  the  remainder  biscuit 
After  a  voyage, — he  hath  strange  places  cramra'd 
With  observation,  the  which  he  vents 
In  mangled  forma : — 0,  that  I  were  a  fool ! 
I  am  ambitious  for  a  motley  coat. 

Duke  S.  Thou  shalt  have  one. 

Jaij.  It  is  my  only  suit : 

Provided  that  you  weed  your  bettor  judgment'* 
Of  all  opinion  that  grows  rank  in  them, 
That  I  am  wise.     I  must  have  hberty 
Withal,  as  large  a  charter  as  the  wind. 
To  blow  on  whom  I  please ;  for  so  fools  have : 
And  they  that  are  most  galled  with  my  folly. 
They  most  must  laugh.  And  why,  sir,  must  they  so  'i 
The  why  is  plain  as  way  to  parish  church : 
He  that  a  fool  doth  very  wisely  hit. 
Doth  very  foolishly,'"  although  ho  smart, 
[Not  to]  seem  senseless  of  the  bob :  if  not. 
The  wise  man's  folly  is  anatomiz'd 
Even  by  the  squandering  glances  of  the  fool. 
Invest  me  in  my  motley ;  give  me  leave 
To  speak  my  mind,  and  I  will  through  and  through 
Cleanse  the  foul  body  of  th'  infected  world. 
If  they  will  patiently  receive  my  medicine. 

Duke  S.  Fie  on  thee !     I  can  tell  what  thou 
wouldst  do. 

Jaq.  What,  for  a  counter,  would  I  do  hut  good 

Duke  S.  Most  mischievous  foul  sin,  in  chiding 
sin: 
For  thou  thyself  hast  been  a  libertine. 
As  sensual  as  the  brutish  sting  itself; 
And  all  tli'  embossed  sores,  and  headed  evils, 
That  thou  with  licence  of  free  foot  hast  caught, 
Wouldst  thou  disgorge  into  the  general  world, 

Jaq.  Why,  who  cries  out  on  pride. 
That  can  therein  tax  any  private  party  ? 
Doth  it  not  flow  ;is  hugely  as  the  sea. 
Till  that  the  wearer's  very  means'"  do  ebb ! 
What  woman  in  the  city  do  I  name. 
When  that  I  say,  The  city-woman  bears 
The  cost  of  princes  on  unworthy  shoulders  ? 
Who  can  come  in,  and  say  that  I  mean  Lor 


ACT    II. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


SCENE   m. 


Wlien  sucli  !i  one  as  she,  such  is  her  neighbour? 

Or  what  is  he  of  basest  function, 

That  says,  his  bravery  is  not  on  my  cost, 

(Thinking  that  I  mean  him,)  but  therein  suits 

His  folly  to  tlie  mettle  of  my  speech  ? 

There  theu  ;  How  theu  ?  what  then  ?     Let  me  see 

wherein 
My  tongue  hath  wrong'd  him  :  if  it  do  him  right, 
Then  he  hath  wrong'd  himself;  if  he  be  free, 
Why,  then  uiy  taxing  like  a  wild  goose  flies, 
Unclaim'd  of  any  man. — But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Orlando,  wiih  his  sword  drawn. 

Orl.  Forbear,  and  eat  no  more. 

J^  Why,  I  have  eat  none  yet. 

Orl.  Nor  shalt  not,  till  necessity  be  serv'd. 

Jaq.  Of  what  kind  should  this  cock  come  of  ? 

Duke  S.  Art  thou  thus  bolden'd,  man,  by  thy 
distress ; 
Or  else  a  rude  despiser  of  good  manners. 
That  in  civility  tliou  seem'st  so  empty  ] 

Orl.  You  touch'd  my  vein  at  first ;  the  thorny 
point 
Of  bare  distress  hath  ta'en  from  me  tlie  show 
Of  smooth  civility  :  yet  am  I  inland  bred, 
And  know  some  nurture.     But,  forbear,  I  say : 
He  dies  that  touches  any  of  this  fruit, 
Till  1  and  my  afi'airs  are  answered ! 

Jaq.  An  you  will  not  be  answer'd  with  reason, 
1  must  die. 

Duke  S.  What  would  you  have  ?    Your  gentle- 
ness shall  force. 
More  than  your  force  move  us  to  gentleness. 

Orl.  I  almost  die  for  food,  and  let  me  have  it. 

Duke  S.  Sit  down  and  feed,  and  welcome  to 
our  table. 

Orl.  Speak  you  so  gently  ?     Pardon  me,  I  pray 
you: 
[  thought  that  all  things  had  been  savage  here, 
And  therefore  put  I  on  the  countenance 
Of  stern  commandment.     But  whate'cr  you  are, 
That  in  this  desert  inaccessible," 
Under  the  shade  of  melancholy  boughs. 
Lose  and  neglect  the  creeping  hours  of  time  ; 
If  ever  you  have  look'd  on  better  days  ; 
If  ever  been  where  bells  have  knoll'd  to  church ; 
If  ever  sat  at  any  good  man's  feast ; 
If  ever  from  your  eyelids  wip'd  a  tear, 
And  know  what 't  is  to  pity  and  be  pitied ; 
Let  gentleness  my  strong  enforcement  be, — 
In  the  which  liope,  I  blush,  and  hide*  my  sword. 

Duke  S.  True  is  it  that  we  have  seen  better  days; 


And  have  with  holy  bell  been  knoll'd  to  church ; 
And    sat   at   good  men's  feasts ;    and  wip'd  oui 

eyes 
Of  drops  that  sacred  pity  hath  engender'd  : 
And  therefore  sit  you  down  in  gentleness, 
And  take  upon  commaud''*  what  help  we  have, 
That  to  your  wanting  may  be  rainister'd. 

Orl.  Then,  but  forbear  your  food  a  little  wliile, 
Whiles,  like  a  doe,  I  go  to  find  my  fawn, 
And  give  it  food.     There  is  an  old  poor  man. 
Who  after  me  hath  many  a  weary  step 
Limp'd  in  pure  love ;  till  he  be  first  suflic'd, 
Oppress'd  with  two  weak  evils,^'  age  au.i  hunger, 
I  will  not  touch  a  bit. 

Duke  S.  Go,  find  him  out. 

And  we  will  nothing  waste  till  you  return. 

Orl.  I  thank  ye :  and  be  bless'd  for  your  good 
comfort !  [Hxit 

Duke  S.  Thou  seest,  we  are  not  all  alone  un- 
happy :^ 
This  wide  and  universal  theatre 
Presents  more  woeful  pageants  than  the  scene 
Wherein  w-e  play  in.*' 

Jaq.  All  the  world  's  a  stage. 

And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players : 
They  have  their  exits,  and  their  entrances ; 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts, — 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.     At  first,  the  infant. 
Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse's  arms : 
Then  the  whining  schoolboy,  with  his  satchel. 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 
Unwillingly  to  school :  aud  then  the  lover. 
Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woeful  ballad 
Made  to  his  mistress'  eyebrow :  Then  a  soldier, 
Full  of  strange  oaths,  and  bearded  like  the  pard, 
Jealous  in  honour,  sudden,  and  quick  in  quarrel, 
Seeking  the  bubble  Keputation 
Even  in  the  cannon's  mouth :  and  then  the  justico. 
In  fair  round  belly,  with  good  capon  lin'd. 
With  eyes  severe,  and  beard  of  formal  cut. 
Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances," 
And  so  he  plays  his  part :  The  sixth  age  shifts 
Into  the  lean  and  slipper'd  pantaloon  f 
With  sj)ectacles  on  nose,  and  pouch  on  side 
His  youthful  hose  well  sav'd,  a  world  too  wide 
For  his  shrunk  shank ;  aud  his  big  manly  voice 
Turning  again  toward  childish  treble,  pipes 
And  whistles  in  his  sound :  Last  scene  of  all, 
That  ends  this  strange  eventful  history. 
Is  second  childishness,  and  mere  oblivion ; 
Sans  teeth,  sans   eyes,  sans  tiste,  sans — evcrj 
thing. 

419 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


SCENE    I. U. 


Re-enter  Orlando,  with  Adam. 

Duke  S.  Welcome ;  Set  down  your  venerable 
burthen, 
Aud  let  him  feed. 

Orl.  I  thank  you  most  for  liim. 

Adam.  So  bad  you  need  ; 
I  scarce  can  speak  to  thank  you  for  myself. 

Duke  S.  Welcome ;  fall  to :  I  will  not  trouble  you 
As  yet,  to  question  you  about  3-our  fortunes : — 
Give  lis  some  music;  aud,  good  cousin,  sing. 

Amiens  sings. 
I. 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind,'' 

Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  ingratitude ; 

Thy  tooth  is  not  60  keen, 

Because  thou  art  not  seen, 
Altliough  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Ileigh  ho!  sing,  heigh  hoi  unto  the  green  holly; 
Alost  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly ; 

Then,  heigh  ho !  the  holly  I 

This  hfe  is  m)st  jolly  1 


II. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot : 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remember'd  not. 
Heigh  ho !  sing,  heigh  ho !  &c. 

Duhe  S.  If  that  you  were  the  good  sir  Row- 
land's son, — 
As  you  have  whisper'd  faithfully  you  were ; 
And  as  mine  eye  doth  his  effigies  witness 
Most  truly  limn'd,  and  living  in  your  face. 
Be  truly  welcome  hither :  I  am  the  duke 
That   lov'd  your   father  :    The   residue   of  your 

fortune. 
Go  to  my  cave  and  tell  me. — Good  old  man, 
Thou  art  right  welcome  as  thy  master  is ; 
Support  him  by  the  arm. — Give  me  your  hand, 
And  let  me  all  your  fortunes  understand. 

]  Exeunt. 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I.— A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Duke  Frederick,  Oliver,  Lords,  a7id 
Attendants. 


Sir, 


that 


Bvke  F.  Not    see    him  since  ? 

cannot  be : 
But  were  I  not  the  better  part  made  mercy, 
I  should  not  seek  an  absent  argument 
Of  my  revenge,  thou  present.     But  look  to  it ; 
Find  out  thy  brother,  wheresoe'er  he  is ; 
Seek  him  with  candle ;  bring  him  dead  or  living 
Within  this  twelvemonth,  or  turn  thou  no  more 
To  seek  a  living  in  our  tciritorj-. 
Thy  lands,  and  ;dl  things  that  thou  dost  call  thine, 
Worth  seizure,  do  we  seize  into  our  hands. 
Till  thou  canst  quit  thee  by  thy  brother's  mouth. 
Of  what  we  think  against  thee. 

Oli.  O,  that  your  liighness  knew  my  heart  in 

this! 
1  never  lov'd  my  brother  in  my  life. 
Duke  F.  More  villain  thou. — Well, 

oul,  of  doors ; 
And  let  my  oflicere  of  such  ;i  nature 
426 


pus 


Make  an  extent"  upon  his  house  and  lands 
Do  this  expediently,  and  turn  him  going. 

[Exeunt 

SCENE  U.—The  Forest. 
Enter  Orlando,  toith  a  paper. 

Orl.  Hang  there,  my  verse,  in  witness  ot  my 

love : 
And,   thou,   tlirice-crowned   queen   of   night,*' 
survey 
With  thy  chaste  eye,  from  thy  pale  sphere  above. 
Thy  huntress'  name,  that  my  full  life  doth  sway 
O  Rosalind !  these  trees  shall  bo  my  books. 

And  in  their  barks  my  thoughts  I  '11  character 
That  every  eye,  which  in  this  forest  looks, 

Shall  see  thy  \'irtue  witness'd  everywhere. 
Run,  run,  Orlando ;  carve  on  every  tree 
The  fair,  the  chaste,  and  unexpressive"  she. 

[Exit. 

Enter  Corin  and  Touchstone. 

Cnr.   And  how  like   you  this  shepherd's  life, 
master  Touchstone  I 


ACT   m. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


SCENE   n. 


Touch.  Truly,  slieplierd,  in  respect  of  itself,  it  is 
a  good  life  ;  but  in  respect  tluit  it  is  a  shepherd's 
life,  it  is  naught.  In  respect  that  it  is  solitary,  I 
like  it  very  well ;  but  in  respect  that  it  is  private, 
•  it  is  a  very  vild  life.  Now,  in  respect  it  is  iu  the 
fields,  it  pleaseth  me  well ;  but  in  respect  it  is  not 
in  the  court,  it  is  tedious.  As  it  is  a  spare  life, 
look  you,  it  fits  my  humour  well ;  but  as  tliere  is 
no  more  plenty  in  it,  it  goes  much  against  my 
Btomach.    Ilast  any  philosophy  in  thee,  shepherd  ? 

Cor.  No  more,  but  that  I  know,  the  more  one 
sickens,  the  worse  at  ease  he  is  ;  and  that  he  that 
wants  money,  means,  and  content,  is  without  three 
good  fiiends  :  That  the  property  of  rain  is  to  wet, 
and  fire  to  burn  :  That  good  pasture  makes  fat 
sheep,  and  that  a  great  cause  of  the  night  is  lack 
of  the  sun  :  That  he  that  hath  learned  no  wit  by 
nature  nor  art,  may  complain  of  good  breeding," 
or  comes  of  a.  very  dull  kindred. 

Touch.  Such  a  one  is  a  natural  philosopher. 
Wast  ever  in  court,  shepherd  ? 

Cor.  No,  truly. 

Touch.  Then  thou  art  damu'd. 

Cor.  Nay,  I  hope, — 

Touch.  Truly  thou  art  damn'd ;  like  an  ill- 
roasted  egg,'°  all  on  one  side. 

Cor.  For  not  being  at  court  ?     Your  reason. 

Touch.  Why,  if  thou  never  wast  at  court,  thou 
never  saw'st  good  manners ;  if  thou  never  saw'st 
good  manners,  then  thy  manners  must  be  wicked ; 
and  wickedness  is  sin,  and  sin  is  damnation.  Thou 
art  in  a  parlous  state,  shepherd  1 

Cor.  Not  a  whit,  Touchstone :  those  that  are 
good  manners  at  the  court  are  as  ridiculous  in  the 
country,  as  the  behaviour  of  the  country  is  most 
mockable  at  the  court.  You  told  me,  3'ou  salute 
not  at  the  court,  but  you  kiss  3-our  hands;  that 
courtesy  would  be  uncleanly,  if  courtiers  were 
shepherds. 

Touch.  Instance,  briefly  ;  come,  instance. 

Cor.  Why,  we  are  still  handling  our  ewes ;  and 
their  fells,  you  know,  are  greasy. 

Touch.  Why,  do  not  your  courtier's  bands  sweat  ? 
and  is  not  the  grease  of  a  mutton  as  wliolesome  as 
the  sweat  of  a  man  ?  Shallow,  shallow  !  A  better 
instance,  I  say ;  come. 

Cor.  Besides,  our  hands  are  hard. 

Touch.  Your  lips  will  feel  them  the  sooner. 
Shallow  again  !    A  more  sounder  instance ;  come. 

Cor.  And  they  are  often  tarr'd  over  with  the 
Burgery  of  our  sheep ;  and  would  you  have  us  kiss 
Uxv]    The  courtier's  hands  are  peifum'd  with  civet. 


Touch.  Most  shallow  man  !  Thou  worms-meat, 
in  respect  of  a  good  piece  of  flesh,  indeed  !  L<'arn 
of  the  wise,  and  perpend  :  Civet  is  of  a  baser  birih 
than  tar ;  the  very  uncleanly  flux  of  a  cat.  !Mend 
the  instance,  shepherd. 

Cor.  You  have  too  courtly  a  wit  for  me  ;  1  '11 
rest. 

Touch.  Wilt  thou  rest  damn'd  ?  God  help  thee, 
sha'Jow  man  !  God  make  incision  in  thee  I"  thou 
art  rr.w. 

Cor.  Sir,  I  am  a  true  labourer;  I  earn  that  I 
eat,  get  that  I  wear ;  owe  no  man  hate,  envy  no 
man's  happiness ;  glad  of  other  men's  good,  content 
with  my  harm :  and  the  greatest  of  my  pride  is,  to 
see  my  ewes  graze,  and  my  lambs  suck. 

Touch.  That  is  another  simple  sin  in  you  ;  to 
bring  the  ewes  and  the  rams  together,  and  to  oft'er 
to  get  your  living  by  the  copulation  of  cattle :  to 
be  bawd  to  a  bell-wether,  and  to  betray  a  she-lamb 
of  a  twelvemonth,  to  a  crooked-pated,  old,  cuck- 
oldy  ram,  out  of  all  reasonable  match.  If  tliou 
be'st  not  damn'd  for  this,  the  devil  himself  will 
have  no  shepherds  ;  I  cannot  see  else  how  thou 
shouldst  'scape. 

Cor.  Here  comes  young  master  Ganymede,  my 
new  mistress'  brother. 

Enter  Rosalind,  reading  a  paper. 

Ros.    "  From  tlie  east  to  western  Ind, 
No  jewel  is  like  Rosalind. 
Her  worth,  being  mounted  on  tlie  wind, 
Through  all  the  world  bears  Kosalind. 
All  the  pictures,  fiiirest  lin\l. 
Are  but  black  to  Kosalind. 
Let  no  iiice  be  kept  in  mind. 
But  the  fair  of  Eosalind." 

Touch.  I  '11  rhyme  you  so,  eight  years  together, 
dinners,  and  suppere,  and  sleeping  hours  excepted  : 
it  is  the  right  butter-woman's  rank  to  market.'' 

Ros.  Out,  fool  1 

ToucJi.  For  a  taste  : 

If  a  hart  do  lack  a  hind, 

Let  him  seek  out  Kosalind. 

If  the  cat  will  after  kind, 

So,  be  sure,  will  Kosalind. 

AVintred  garments  must  be  lin'd, 

So  must  slender  Eosalind. 

They  that  reap  must  sheaf  and  bind  , 

Then  to  cart  with  Kosalind. 

Sweetest  nut  hath  sourest  rind, 

Sueh  a  nut  is  Kosalind. 

He  that  sweetest  rose  will  find, 

Must  find  love's  prick  and  Eosalind. 

This  is  the  very  talse  gallop  of  verses  !     Why  do 
you  infect  yourself  with  them  ? 


ACT    lit. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


SCENE   a. 


Ros.  I'eace,  you  dull  fool ;  I  found  them  on 
9.  tree. 

Touch.  Tiulv,  the  tree  yields  bad  fruit. 

Bos.  1  '11  graff  it  with  you,  and  then  I  shall 
.-rati  it  with  a  medlar :  then  it  will  be  the  earliest 
fiuit  i'  the  country :  for  you  '11  be  rotten  ere  you 
be  half  ripe,  and  that  's  the  right  virtue  of  the 
medlar. 

Touch.  You  have  said  ;  but  whether  wisely  or 
no,  let  the  forest  judge. 

Enter  Celia,  reading  a  paper. 

Ros.  Peace  ! 
Here  comes  my  sister,  reading ;  stand  aside. 

Cil.     "  Why  bIiouIJ  this  a  desert  be  ? 
For  it  is  unpeopled?    No; 
Tongues  I  '11  hang  on  every  tree, 

That  shall  civil  sayings  show.^' 
Some,  how  brief  the  life  of  man 

IJiins  his  erring  pilgrimage  ; 
That  the  ftretcliing  of  a  span 

Buckles  in  his  sum  of  age. 
Some,  of  violated  vows 

'Twixt  the  souls  of  friend  and  friend ; 
But  upon  the  fairest  boughs. 

Or  at  every  sentence'  end, 
"Will  I  Rosalinda  write  ; 

Teaching  all  that  read,  to  know 
The  quintessence  of  every  sprite 

Heaven  would  in  little  show. 
Therefore  Heaven  nature  charg'd 

That  one  body  should  be  fill'd 
"With  all  graces  wide  enlarg'd : 

Nature  presently  distiU'd 
Helen's  cheek,  but  not  her  heart, 

Cleopatra's  majesty, 
Atalantu's  better  part,'" 

Sad  Lucretia's  modesty. 
Thus  Ecisaliud  of  many  parts 

By  heavenly  synod  was  devis'd ; 
Of  many  faces,  eyes,  and  hearts. 

To  have  the  touches  dearest  priz'd. 
Heaven  would  that  she  these  gifts  should  have. 
And  I  to  live  and  die  her  slave." 

Ros.  O  most  gentle  Jupiter  !  what  a  tedious 
homily  of  love  have  you  wearied  your  parishioners 
withal,  and  never  cry'd,  "  Have  patience,  good 
people '" 

Cel.  How  now  !  back,  friends ; — Shepherd,  go 
oS  a  little  :  go  with  him,  sirrah. 

Touch.  Come,  shepherd,  let  us  make  an  houour- 
nbie  retieat ;  though  not  with  bag  and  baggage, 
yet  with  scrip  and  scrippagc. 

[Kceunt  Cokin  and  Touchstone. 

C'd.  Didst  thou  liore  these  verses  ? 

Ros.  O,  yes,  I  heard  them  all,  and  nioro  too ; 
422 


for  some  of  them  had  in  them  more  feet  than  the 
verses  would  bear. 

Cel.  That 's  no  matter  ;  the  feet  n"iight  bear  tlic 
verses. 

Ros.  Ay,  but  the  feet  were  lame,  and  could  not 
bear  themselves  without  the  verse,  and  therefore 
stood  lamely  in  the  verse. 

Cel.  But  didst  thou  hear,  without  wondering, 
how  thy  name  should  be  haug'd  and  carved  upon 
these  trees  ? 

Ros.  I  was  seven  of  the  nine  days  out  of  the 
wonder  before  you  came ;  for  look  here  what  I 
found  on  a  p;dm-tree  :  I  was  never  so  be-rhymed 
since  Pythagoras'  time,  tliat  I  was  an  Irish  rat,^ 
which  I  can  hardly  remember. 

Cel.  Trow  you  who  hath  done  this  ? 
Ros.  Is  it  a  man  ? 

Cel.  And  a  chain,  that  you  once  wore,  about 
his  neck  :  Change  you  colour  ? 
Ros.  I  prithee,  who  ? 

Cel.  0  Lord,  Lord !  it  is  a  hard  matter  for  friends 
to  meet ;  but  mountains  may  be  remov'd^'  with 
earthquakes,  and  so  encounter. 
Ros.  Nay,  but  who  is  it  ? 
Cel.  Is  it  possible  ? 

Ros.  Nay,  I  pr'y'thee  now,  with  most  petitionary 
vehemence,  tell  me  who  it  is. 

Cel.  O  wonderful,  wondeiful,  and  most  wonder- 
ful wonderful !  and  yet  again  wonderful,  and  after 
that  out  of  all  whooping  1 

Ros.  Good  my  complexion  !  dost  thou  think, 
though  I  am  caparison'd  like  a  man,  I  have  a 
doublet  and  hose  in  my  disposition  ?  One  inch  of 
delay  more  is  a  South-sea  of  discovery.  I  prithee, 
tell  me,  who  is  it  quickly,  and  speak  apace :  I 
would  thou  couldst  stammer,  that  thou  mightst 
pour  this  conceal'd  man  out  of  thy  mouth,  as  wine 
comes  out  of  a  narrow-mouth'd  bottle  ;  either  too 
much  at  once,  or  none  at  all.  I  prithee  take  the 
coik  out  of  thy  mouth,  that  I  may  drink  thy 
tidings. 

Cel.  So  you  may  put  a  man  in  your  belly. 
Ros.  Is  he  of  God's  making  ?    What  manner  of 
man?     Is  his  head  worth  a  hat,  or  his  chin  worth 
a  beard  1 

Cel.  Nay,  he  hath  but  a  little  beard. 
Ros.  Why,  God  will  send  more,  if  the  man  will 
be  thankful :  let  me  stay  the  growth  of  liis  beard," 
if  thou  delay  me  not  the  knowledge  of  his  chin. 

Cel.  It  is  young  Orlando,  that  tripped  up  the 
wrestler's  heels,  and  your  heart,  both  in  .an 
instant 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


SCENE   ri. 


Jios.  Nay,  but  the  devil  take  mocking ;  speak, 
sad  brow,  and  trae  maid. 

Cel.  I'  i'aitb,  coz,  't  is  bo. 

Eos.  OilanUo? 

Ccl.  Orlando. 

Bos:  Alas  liie  day !  wbat  sball  I  do  witb  my 
doublet  and  liose  ? — Wbat  did  be  wben  thou  saw'st 
liim  ?  Wbat  said  be  ?  Uow  look'd  he  ?  Wlierein 
went  be  ?  Wbat  makes  be  here  ?  Did  be  ask  for 
me?  Where  remains  be?  How  p.irted  be  witb 
thee,  and  wben  shall  thou  see  bim  again  ?  Answer 
me  in  one  word. 

Ccl.  You  must  borrow  me  Gargant\iii's  moutli"'' 
first :  't  is  a  word  too  great  for  any  mouth  of  this 
age's  size.  To  say  ay,  and  no,  to  these  particulars, 
is  more  than  to  answer  in  a  catechism. 

2io!s.  But  doth  be  know  that  I  am  in  this  forest, 
and  in  man's  appaiel  ?  Looks  he  as  freshly  as  be 
did  the  day  he  wrestled  ? 

Cel.  It  is  as  easy  to  count  atomies,*'  as  to  resolve 
;be  propositions  of  a  lover:  but  take  a  taste  of 
mv  findincr  bim,  and  relish  it  witli  good  observance. 
[  tijuud  bim  under  a  tree,  like  a  di'opp'd  acorn. 

Eos.  It  may  well  be  call'd  Jove's  tree,  wben  it 
irM]>s  forth  such  fruit. 

Cf'l.  Give  mo  audience,  good  madam. 

Eos.  Proceed. 

Cel.  There  lay  be,  stretch'd  along,  like  a  won  nded 
knight. 

Eos.  Though  it  be  pity  to  see  such  a  sight,  it 
well  becomes  the  gi'ound. 

Cel.  Cry,  holla !  to  the  tongue,  I  prithee ;  it 
mrvets  unseasonably.  He  was  furnisb'd  like  a 
buuter. 

Eos.  O  omincus  !  he  comes  to  kill  my  heart ! 

Cd.  I  would  sing  my  song  w^itbout  a  burthen ; 
thou  bring'st  me  out  of  t\ine. 

Eos.  Do  you  Dot  know  I  am  a  woman  ?  wben  I 
think,  I  must  speak.     Sweet,  say  on. 

Enter  Orlando  and  Jaques. 

Cel  You  bring  me  out :'' — Soft !  comes  be  not 
here  ? 

Eos.  'T  is  be ;  slmk  by,  and  note  liim. 

[Celia  and  Rosalind  retire. 

Jaq.  I  thank  you  for  your  company :  but,  good 
'"lifh,  I  bad  .as  lief  have  been  myself  alone. 

Orl.  And  so  had  I ;  but  yet,  for  fiisbion's  sake,  I 
thank  you  too  for  your  soeiety. 

Jaq.  God  be  wi'  you ;  let 's  meet  as  little  as  we 
':an. 

Orl.  I  do  desire  we  may  be  better  strnnarer.s. 


Jiiq.  I  pray  you,  mar  no  more  trees  witb 
writing  love-songs  in  their  barks. 

Orl.  I  pr;iy  you,  mar  no  more  of  my  verses  with 
reading  them  ill-favourcdly. 

Jaq.  Rosalind  is  your  love's  name? 

Orl.  Yes,  just. 

Taq.  I  do  not  like  her  name. 

Orl.  There  was  no  thought  of  pleasing  you, 
when  she  was  christen'd. 

Jaq.  What  stature  is  she  of? 

Orl.  Just  as  liigh  as  my  heart. 

Jaq.  You  are  full  of  pretty  answers !  Have  you 
not  been  acquainted  witb  goldsmiths'  wives,  and 
conned  them  out  of  rings? 

Orl.  Not  so;  but  I  answer  you  right  painted 
cloth,"  from  whence  you  have  studied  your 
questions. 

Jaq.  You  have  a  nimble  wit ;  I  think  't  was 
made  of  Atalanta's  heels.  Will  you  sit  down  with 
me  ?  and  we  two  will  rail  against  our  mistress 
the  world,  and  all  our  miseiy. 

Orl.  I  will  chide  no  breather  in  the  world  but 
myself,  jigainst  whom  I  know  most  faults. 

Jnq.  The  worst  fault  you  have,  is  to  be  in  love. 

Orl.  'T  is  a  fault  I  will  not  change  for  your 
best  virtue.     I  am  weary  of  you. 

Jaq.  By  my  troth,  I  was  seeking  for  a  fool 
when  I  found  you. 

Orl.  He  is  drown'd  in  the  brook ;  look  but  in, 
and  you  shall  see  him. 

Jaq.  There  I  sball  see  mine  own  figiu'e. 

Orl.  Which  I  take  to  be  either  a  fool  or  a  cypher. 

Jaq.  I  '11  tarry  no  longer  with  you :  farewell, 
good  signior  Love. 

Orl.  I  am  glad  of  your  departure  ;  adieu,  good 
monsieur  Melancholy. 

[^Exit  Jaq. — Cel.  and  Ros.  come  forward. 

Eos.  I  will  speak  to  him  like  a  saucy  kcquey 
and  under  that  habit  play  the  knaye  with  him. — 
Do  you  hear,  forester? 

Orl.  Very  well ;  Wbat  would  you  ? 

Eos.  I  pray  you,  what  is  't  a  clock  ? 

Orl.  You  should  ask  me   what  time   o'  day 
there  's  no  clock  in  the  forest. 

Eos.  Then  there  is  no  true  lover  in  the  forest ; 
else  sighing  every  minute,  and  groaning  eveiy 
hour,  would  detect  the  lazy  foot  of  time  as  well 
as  a  clock. 

Orl.  And  why  not  the  swift  foot  of  time  ?  bad 
not  that  been  as  proper  ? 

Eos.  By  no  means,  sir.  Time  travels  in  divers 
paces  with  divers  persons.     I  '11  tell  you  who  Time 

■123 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


ambles  withal,  -n-ho  Time  trots  withal,  who  Time 
[rallops  withal,  and  who  he  stands  still  withal. 

Orl.  I  prithee  who  doth  hs  trot  withal  ? 

Jtos.  Marry,  he  trots  hard  with  a  young  maid,*" 
between  the  contract  of  her  marriage  and  the  day 
it  is  solenmiz'd  :  if  the  interim  be  but  a  se'nnight. 
Time's  pace  is  ao  hard  that  it  seems  the  length  of 
wven  year. 

Orl.  Who  ambles  Time  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  a  priest  that  lacks  Latin,  and  a  rich 
man  that  hath  not  the  gout :  for  the  one  sleeps 
easily,  because  he  cannot  study ;  the  other  lives 
merrily,  because  he  feels  no  pain  :  the  one  lacking 
the  burthen  of  lean  and  wasteful  learning ;  the 
other  knowing  no  burthen  of  heavy  tedious  penury: 
These  Time  ambles  withal. 

Orl.  Who  doth  he  gallop  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  a  thief  to  the  gallows:  for  though 
he  go  as  softly  as  foot  can  fall,  he  thinks  himself 
too  soon  there. 

Orl.  Who  slays  it  still  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  lawyers  in  the  vacation :  for  they 
sleep  between  term  and  term,  and  then  they  per- 
ceive not  how  time  moves. 

Orl.  "Where  dwell  you,  pretty  youth  ? 

Ros.  With  this  shepherdess,  my  sister  ;  here,  in 
the  skirts  of  the  forest,  like  fringe  upon  a  petticoat. 

Orl.  Are  you  native  of  this  place  ? 

Ros.  As  the  cone}-,  that  you  see  dwell  wliere 
she  is  kindled. 

Orl.  Your  accent  is  something  finer  than  you 
could  purchase  in  so  removed  a  dwelling. 

Ros.  I  have  been  told  so  of  many  :  but,  indeed, 
an  old  religious  uncle  of  mine  taught  me  to  speak, 
who  was  in  liis  youth  an  inland  man ;  one  that 
knew  courtship"  too  well,  for  there  lie  fell  in 
love.  I  have  heard  him  read  many  lectures  against 
it ;  and  I  thank  God  I  am  not  a  woman,  to  be 
touch'd  with  so  many  giddy  offences  as  he  hath 
generally  tax'd  their  whole  sex  withal. 

Orl.  Can  you  remember  any  of  the  principal 
evils  that  he  laid  to  the  charge  of  women? 

Ros.  There  were  none  principal ;  they  were  all 
like  one  another,  as  lialfpenee  are:  every  one 
fault  seeming  monstrous,  till  his  fc'llow  fault  came 
to  match  it. 

Orl.  I  prithee  recount  some  of  {\wm. 

Ros.  No ;  I  will  not  cast  away  my  jihy.sic  but 
on  those  that  are  sick.  There  is  a  man  haunts 
the  forest,  that  abuses  our  young  jjlants  with  car- 
ving Rosalind  on  their  b.arks;  liangs  odes  upon 
hnwthorns,  and  elegies  on  brambles;  all,  forsooth, 
4«4 


deifying  the  name  of  Rosalind:  if  I  could  meet 
that  fancy-monger,"  I  would  give  him  some  good 
counsel,  for  be  seems  to  have  the  quotidian  of  love 
upon  him. 

Orl.  I  am  he  that  is  so  love-shak'd  ;  I  pray  you, 
tell  me  your  remedy. 

Ros.  There  is  none  of  my  uncle's  marks  upon 
you  :  he  taught  me  how  to  know  a  man  in  love  ; 
in  which  cage  of  rushes,  I  am  sure,  you  are  not 
prisouer. 

Orl.  What  were  his  maiks  ? 

Ros.  A  lean  cheek,  which  you  have  not :  a 
blue  eye,  and  sunken,  which  you  have  not :  an 
unquestionable"  spirit,  which  you  have  not :  a 
beard  neglected,  which  you  have  not :  (but  I 
pardon  you  for  that ;  for,  simply,  your  having  in 
beard  is  a  younger  brother's  revenue :)  Then 
your  hose  should  be  ungarter'd,  your  bonnet  un- 
handed, your  sleeve  unbutton'd,  your  shoe  unti'd, 
and  everything  about  you  demonstrating  a  care- 
less desolation.  But  you  are  no  such  man ;  you 
are  rather  point-de\'ice  in  your  accoutrements ; 
as  loNing  yourself,  than  seeming  the  lover  of  any 
other. 

Orl.  Fair  youth,  I  would  I  could  make  thee 
believe  I  love. 

Ros.  Me  believe  it  ?  you  may  as  soon  make  her 
that  you  love  believe  it;  which,  I  wan-ant,  she  is 
apter  to  do  than  to  confess  she  does  :  that  is  one 
of  the  points  in  the  which  women  still  give  the 
lie  to  their  consciences.  But  in  good  sooth,  are 
you  he  that  hangs  the  verees  on  the  trees,  whei'ein 
Rosalind  is  so  admired  ? 

Orl.  I  swear  to  thee,  youth,  by  the  white  hand 
of  Rosalind,  I  am  that  he,  that  unfortunate  he. 

Ros.  But  are  you  so  much  in  love  as  your  rhymes 
speak  ? 

Orl.  Neither  rhyme  nor  reason  can  express  how 
much. 

Ros.  Love  is  merely  a  m.aduess  ;  and,  I  fell  you, 
deserves  as  w-ell  a  dark  house  and  a  whip  as  mad- 
men do :  and  the  reason  why  they  are  not  so 
punish'd  and  cured  is,  that  the  lunacy  is  so  ordinary 
that  the  whippers  are  in  love  too  :  Yet  I  profess 
ciu'ing  it  by  counsel. 

Orl.  Did  you  ever  cure  any  so  ? 

Ros.  Yes,  one  ;  and  in  this  maimer.  He  was 
to  im.agine  mo  his  love,  his  mistress;  and  I  set 
him  every  day  to  woo  me:  At  which  time  w^ould 
I,  being  but  a  moonish"  youth,  grieve,  be  effe- 
minate, changeable,  longing,  and  liking;  proud, 
fantastical,  apish,  shallow,  inconstant,  full  of  (ears. 


ACT  in. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


SCENE    111. 


full  of  smiles ;  for  every  passion  something,  and 
for  no  passion  truly  anything,  as  boys  and  women 
Bre,  for  the  most  part,  cattle  of  this  colour :  would 
now  like  him,  now  loathe  him  ;  then  entertain 
him,  then  foi-swear  him ;  now  weep  for  him,  then 
spit  at  him  ;  that  I  drave  my  suitor  from  his  mad 
humour  of  love,  to  a  living  humour  of  madness ;"' 
which  was,  to  forswear  the  full  stream  of  the  world, 
and  to  live  in  a  nook  merely  monastic.  And  thus 
I  cur'd  him  ;  and  this  way  will  I  take  upon  me  to 
wash  your  liver  as  clean  as  a  sound  sheep's  heart, 
lh<i.t  there  shall  not  be  one  spot  of  love  in  't. 

Oil.  I  would  not  be  cured,  youth. 

Jios.  I  would  cure  you,  if  you  would  but  call 
me  Rosalind,  and  come  every  day  to  my  cote,  and 
woo  me. 

Orl.  Now,  by  the  faith  of  my  love,  I  will :  tell 
mo  where  it  is. 

Jio».  Go  with  me  to  it,  and  I  '11  show  it  you : 
and,  by  the  way,  you  shall  tell  me  where  in  the 
forest  you  live.     Will  you  go  ? 

Orl.  With  all  my  heart,  good  youth. 

Hos.  Nay,  you  must  call  me  Rosalind.  Oorae, 
sister,  will  you  go  ?  [IJxeunt. 

SCENE  ni. 

Enter  Touchstone  and  Audrey  ;  Jaques  at  a  dis- 
tance, observing  them. 

Touch.  Come  apace,  good  Audrey ;  I  will  fetch 
up  your  goats,  Audrey.  And  how,  Audrey  ?  am 
I  the  man  yet  ?  Doth  my  simple  feature  content 
you  ? 

Aud.  Your  features !  Lord  warrant  us  !  what 
features  V* 

Touch.  I  am  here  with  thee  and  thy  goats,  as 
the  most  capricious  poet,  honest  Ovid,  was  among 
the  Goths. 

Jaq.  O  knowledge  ill-inhabited !  worse  than 
Jove  in  a  thatch'd  house !  [Aside. 

Touch.  When  a  man's  verses  cannot  be  under- 
stood, nor  a  man's  good  wit  seconded  with  the 
forward  child,  Understanding,  it  strikes  a  man 
more  dead  than  a  great  reckoning  in  a  little 
room.  Tnily,  I  would  the  gods  had  made  thee 
poetical. 

Aud.  I  do  not  know  what  poetical  is ;  is  it 
honest  in  deed  and  word  ?     Is  it  a  true  thing  ? 

Touch.  No,  truly ;  for  the  truest  poetry  is  the 
most  feigning ;  and  lovers  are  given  to  poetry ; 
and  what  they  swear  in  poetry,  may  be  snid,  as 
lovers,  they  do  feign. 


Aud.  Do  you  wish,  then,  that  the  gods  had 
made  mo  poetical  ? 

Touch.  I  do,  truly :  for  thou  swear'st  to  me 
thou  art  honest ;  now,  if  thou  wert  a  poet,  I  might 
have  some  hope  thou  didst  feign. 

Aud.  Would  you  not  have  me  honest  ? 

Touch.  No,  truly,  unless  thou  wert  hard-fa vour'd : 
for  honesty  coupled  to  beauty,  is  to  have  honey  a 
sauce  to  sugar. 

Jaq.  A  material  fool !"  \ Aside. 

Aud.  Well,  I  am  not  fair ;  aud  therefore  I  pray 
the  gods  make  me  honest ! 

Touch.  Truly,  and  to  cast  away  honesty  upon 
a  foul  slut  were  to  put  good  meat  into  an  unclean 
dish. 

Aud.  I  am  not  a  slut,  though  I  thank  the  gods 
I  am  foul." 

Touch.  Well,  praised  be  the  gods  for  thy  foul- 
ness !  sluttishness  may  come  hereafter.  But  be 
it  as  it  may  be,  I  will  marry  thee :  and  to  that 
end,  I  have  been  with  Sir  Oliver  Mar-text,  the 
vicar  of  the  next  village,  who  hath  promis'd 
to  meet  me  in  this  place  of  the  forest,  aud  to 
couple  us. 

Jaq.  I  would  fain  see  this  meeting.  [Aside. 

Aud.  Well,  the  gods  give  us  joy  ! 

Touch.  Amen !  A  man  may,  if  he  were  of  a 
fearful  heart,  stagger  in  this  attempt ;  for  here  we 
have  no  temple  but  the  wood,  no  assembly  but 
horn-beasts.  But  what  though  ?  Courage !  As 
horns  are  odious,  they  are  necessary.  It  is  said, 
Many  a  man  knows  no  end  of  his  goods :  right ! 
many  a  man  has  good  horns,  and  knows  no  end 
of  them.  Well,  that  is  the  dowry  of  his  wife ; 
't  is  none  of  his  o\vn  getting.  Horns  ?  Even  so : 
are  horns  given  to  poor  men  alone  ?  No,  no ;  the 
noblest  deer  hath  them  as  huge  as  the  rascal."  la 
the  single  man  therefore  blessed  ?  No :  as  a  wall'd 
town  is  more  worthier  than  a  village,  so  is  the 
forehead  of  a  married  man  more  honourable  than 
the  bare  brow  of  a  bachelor :  and  by  how  much 
defence"  is  better  than  no  skill,  by  so  much  is  a 
horn  more  precious  than  to  want. 

Enter  Sir  Oliver  Mar-text. 
Here  comes  Sir  Oliver : — Sir  Oliver  Mar-text,  you 
are  well  met :  Will  you  despatch  us  here  under 
this  tree,  or  shall  we  go  with  you  to  your  chapel  ? 
Sir  OH.  Is  there  none  here  to  give  the  woman? 
Touch.  I  will  not  take  her  on  gift  of  any  man. 
Sir  Oli.  Truly,  she  must  be  given,  or  die  mar- 
riage is  not  lawful. 

425 


ACT    III. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


Jaq.  [discovering  himself.]  Proceed,  proceed ; 
I  "11  give  her. 

Touch.  Good  even,  good  master  What  ye  call 't : 
IIow  do  you,  Sir  ?  You  are  very  well  met :  God 
'ild  you  for  vour  last  company :  I  am  very  glad  to 
See  you : — Even  a  toy  in  band  here,  sir : — Nay ; 
pray  be  cover'd. 

Jaq.  TVill  you  be  manied,  Motley  ? 

Touch.  As  the  ox  hath  his  bow,  sir,  the  horse 
his  curb,  and  the  falcon  her  bells,  so  man  hath  his 
desires  ;  and  as  pigeons  bill,  so  wedlock  would  be 
nibbling. 

Jaq.  And  ■\^^I1  you,  being  a  man  of  your  breed- 
ing, be  mariied  under  a  busb,  like  a  beggar  ?  Get 
you  to  church,  and  have  a  good  priest  that  can 
tell  you  what  maniage  is  :  this  fellow  will  but 
join  you  together  as  they  join  wainscot ;  then  one 
of  you  will  prove  a  shrunk  panel,  and,  like  green 
timber,  warp,  warp. 

Touch,  I  am  not  in  the  mind  but  I  were  better 
to  be  married  of  him  than  of  another  :  for  he  is 
not  like  to  maiTy  me  well ;  and  not  being  well 
married,  it  will  be  a  good  excuse  for  me  hereafter 
to  leave  my  wife. 

Jaq.  Go  thou  ^vith  me,  and  let  me  counsel  thee. 

Touch.  Come,  sweet  Audrey : 
We  must  be  married,  or  we  must  live  in  bawdry. 
Farewell,  good  master  Oliver ! 

Not — "  0  sweet  OJiver, 
0  brave  Oliver, 
LciTc  me  not  behind  thee  :" 

But — "Wind  away, 

Begone  I  say, 
I  will  not  to  wedding  witli  thee." 

[Exeimt  Jaq.,  Touch.,  and  Aud. 

Sir  on.  'T  is  no  matter;  ne'er  a  fantastical 

kna^■e  of  them  all  .shall  flout  me  out  of  my  calling. 

[2ixit. 

SCENE  lY.—The  same.     Before  a  Cottage. 

Enter  Rosalind  and  Celia. 

Ros.  Never  talk  to  me,  I  will  weep. 

Cel.  Do,  I  prithee ;  but  yet  have  the  grace  to 
consider  that  teare  do  not  become  a  man. 

Ros.  But  have  I  not  cause  to  weep  ? 

Cel.  As  good  cause  as  one  would  desire ;  there- 
foj-e  weep. 

lios.  His  very  hair  is  of  the  dissembling  colour. 

Cel.  Something  browner  than  Judas's:"  marry, 
bis  kisses  are  Jud;us's  own  children. 

Ros.  V  faith,  his  hair  is  of  a  good  colour. 
426 


Cel.  An  excellent  colour :  your  chesnut  was 
ever  the  only  colour. 

Ros,  And  his  kissing  is  as  full  of  sanctity  rs  the 
touch  of  holy  bread.'" 

Cel.  He  hath  bought  a  pair  of  chaste  lips  of 
Diana :  a  nun  of  Winter's  sisterhood  kisses  not 
more  religiously;  the  very  ice  of  chastity  is  in  them. 

Ros.  But  why  did  he  swear  he  would  come  this 
morning,  and  comes  not  ? 

Cel.  Nay,  certainly,  there  is  no  truth  in  him. 

Ros.  Do  you  think  so  ? 

Cel.  Yes ;  I  think  he  is  not  a  pick-purse,  nor  a 
horse-stealer;  but  for  his  verity  in  love,  I  do  think 
him  as  concave  as  a  covered  goblet,  or  a  worm- 
eaten  nut. 

Ros.  Not  true  in  love  ? 

Cel.  Yes,  when  he  is  in ;  but,  I  think  he  is  not  in 

Ros.  You  have  heard  him  swear  downright  he 
was. 

Cel.  Was  is  not  is :  besides,  the  oath  of  a  lover 
is  no  stronger  than  the  word  of  a  tapster ;  they  are 
both  the  confii'mers  of  false  reckonings.  He  attends 
here  in  the  forest  on  the  duke  your  father. 

Ros.  I  met  the  duke  yesterday,  and  had  much 
question  with  him.  He  asked  me  of  what  parent- 
age I  was ;  I  told  him,  of  as  good  as  he  ;  so  ho 
laugh'd,  and  let  me  go.  But  what  talk  we  oi 
fathers,  when  there  is  such  a  man  as  Orlando  ? 

Cel.  O,  that 's  a  brave  man  !  he  writes  brave 
verses,  speaks  brave  words,  swears  brave  oaths, 
and  breaks  them  bravely,  quite  traverse,  athwart 
the  heart  of  his  lover;  as  a  puisne  tilter,  that  spurs 
his  horse  but  on  one  side,  brealcs  his  stulf  like  a 
noble  goose  ;  but  all  's  brave  that  youlli  mounts, 
and  folly  guides : — Who  comes  here  I 

Enter  Corin. 

Cor.  Mistress,  and  master,  you  have  oft  inquir'd 
After  the  shepherd  that  complain'd  of  love, 
^Vho  you  saw  sitting  by  me  on  the  turf, 
Praising  the  proud  disdainful  shepherdess 
That  was  his  mistress. 

Cel.  Well,  and  what  of  him  ? 

Cor.  If  you  will,  see  a  pageant  truly  play'd, 
Between  the  p.ale  complexion  of  true  love 
And  the  red  glow  of  scorn  and  jiroud  disdain, 
Go  hence  a  little,  and  I  shall  conduct  you, 
If  you  will  mark  it. 

Ros.  0,  come,  let  us  remove ; 

The  sight  of  lovers  feedeth  those  in  love  ;   . 
]5ring  us  to  this  sight,  and  you  shall  say 
1  '11  prove  a  busy  actor  in  their  play.         [Exeunt 


ACT    III. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


SCKXE    V. 


SCENE  V.  —Another  part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  Silvius  and  Phebe. 

Sil.  Sweet  Phebe,  do  not  scorn  me ;  do  not, 

Phebe : 
.Say,  tliat  you  love  me  not ;  but  say  not  so 
ill  bitterness.     The  commou  executioner, 
\Miose  heart  th'  accustom'd  sight  of  death  makes 

liard, 
Falls  not  the  axe  upon  the  humbled  neck, 
But  first  begs  pardon.     Will  you  sterner  be 
Thau  he  that  dies  and  lives  by  bloody  drops  ? 

Eater  Rosalind,  Celia,  and  Corin,  at  a  distance. 

Phe.  I  would  not  be  thy  executioner ; 
[  tly  thee,  for  I  would  not  injure  thee. 
Thou  tcU'st  me,  there  is  luurther  in  mine  eye ; 
'T  is  pretty  sure,  aud  very  probable, 
Tiiat  eyes,  that  are  the  frail'st  and  softest  things, 
Who  shut  their  coward  gates  on  atomies. 
Should  be  call'd  tyrants,  butchers,  murtlierere ! 
Now  I  do  frown  on  thee  with  all  my  heart ; 
Aud,  if  mine  eyes  can  wound,  now  let  them  kill 

thee; 
Now  counterfeit  to  swound ;  why,  now  fall  down ; 
Or,  if  thou  canst  not,  0,  for  shame,  for  shame  1 
Lie  not,  to  say  mine  eyes  are  murtherers. 
Now  show  the  wound   mine  eye  hath  made  iu 

thee  : 
Scratch  thee  but  with  a  pin,  and  there  remains 
Some  scar  of  it ;  lean  upon  a  rush, 
The  cicatrice  and  capable"  impressure 
Thy  palm  some  moment  keeps :  but  now  mine  eyes, 
Wliich  I  have  darted  at  thee,  hurt  thee  not ; 
Nor,  I  am  sure,  there  is  no  force  in  eyes 
That  can  do  hurt. 

Sil.  O  dear  Phebe, 

[f  ever  (as  that  ever  may  be  near) 
You  meet  in  some  fresh  cheek  the  power  of  fancy, 
Then  shall  you  know  the  wouuds  invisible 
That  love's  keen  arrows  make. 

Phe.  But,  till  that  time. 

Come   not  thou  near  me  :  and,  when   that  time 

comes, 
.Vtfiict  me  with  ray  mocks,  pity  me  not ; 
As,  till  that  time,  I  shall  not  pity  thee. 

Ros.  And  why,  I  pray  you  ?  [Advancinrf]  Who 
might  be  your  mother. 
That  you  insult,  exult,  .and  all  at  once. 
Over  the  wretched  ?     What  though  vou  have  no 

beauty, 
(As,  by  my  faith,  I  see  no  more  in  you 


Than  without  candle  may  go  dark  to  bed). 
Must  you  be  therefore  proud  and  pitiless? 
Why,  what  means  this  ?     Wh  >  do  you  look  on  mc ! 
I  see  no  more  in  you  than  in  the  ordinary 
Of  nature's  sale-work. — Od's  my  little  life ' 
I  think  she  means  to  tangle  my  eyes  too : — 
No,  'faith,  proud  mistress,  hope  not  after  it ; 
'T  is  not  your  inky  brows,  your  black  silk  hair. 
Your  bugle  eyeballs,  nor  your  cheek  of  cream, 
That  can  entame  my  spirits  to  your  worship. 
You  foolish  shepherd,  wherefore  do  you  follow  her, 
Like  foggy  south,  puffing  with  wind  and  rain  ? 
You  are  a  thousand  times  a  properer  man, 
Than  she  a  woman.     'T  is  such  fools  as  you 
That  make  the  world  full  of  ill-favour'd  children : 
'T  is  not  her  glass,  but  you,  that  flatters  her ; 
And  out  of  you  she  sees  herself  more  proper 
Tlian  any  of  her  lineaments  can  show  her. 
But,  mistress,  know  yourself;  down  on  your  knees. 
And  thank  Heaven,  fasting,  for  a  good  man's  love : 
For  I  must  tell  you  fnendly  in  your  ear, 
Sell  when  you  can  ;  you  are  not  for  all  markets  : 
Cry  the  man  mercy ;  love  him  ;  take  his  offer ; 
Foul  is  most  foul,  being  foul  to  be  a  scoffer.'^ 
So,  take  her  to  thee,  shepherd ;  fare  you  well. 

Phe.  Sweet  youth,  I  pray  you  chide  a  year 
together ; 
I  had  rather  hear  you  chide  than  this  man  woo. 

Ros.  Ho  's  fall'n  in  love  with  your  foulness,  and 
she  '11  fall  in  love  with  my  anger.  If  it  be  so,  as 
fast  as  she  answers  thee  ■spith  frowning  looks,  I  'II 
sauce  her  with  bitter  words. — Why  look  you  so 
upon  me '? 

Phe.  For  no  ill  will  I  bear  you. 

Ros.  I  pray  you,  do  not  fall  in  love  with  me. 
For  I  am  falser  than  vows  made  in  wine : 
Besides,  I  like  you  not.     If  you  will   know  my 

house, 
'T  is  at  the  tuft  of  olives,  here  hard  by  : — 
Will  you  go,  sister?     Shepherd,  ply  her  hard  ; 
Come,  sister :  Shepherdess,  look  on  him  better, 
And  be  not  proud :  though  all  the  world  could  see^ 
None  could  be  so  abus'd  in  sight  as  he. 
Come,  to  our  llock.     [Exeunt  Ros.,  Cel.,  ayid  Cor 

Phe.    Dead  shepherd  !  now  I  find    thy  saw  o. 
might ; 
"Who  ever  lov'd,  that  lov'd  not  at  first  sight?'"" 

Sil.  Sweet  Phebe, — 

Phe.  Ha !  what  say'st  thou,  Silvius  ? 

Sil.  Sweet  Phebe,  pity  me. 

Phe.  Whv,  I  am  sorry  for  thee,  gentle  Sih"iua 

Sil.  Wherever  sorrow  is,  relief  would  be ; 

427 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


If  jod  Jo  sorrow  at  my  grief  in  love, 

By  giviug  love,  your  sorrow  and  my  grief 

Were  both  extermin'd. 

Phe.   Tliou  ha-st  my  love ;   is  not  that  neigli- 
bourh  ? 

S'd.  I  would  have  you. 

Phe.  Why,  that  were  covetousness. 

Silvius,  the  time  was  that  I  hated  thee ; 
And  yet  it  is  not  that  I  bear  thee  love  : 
But  sinoe  that  thou  canst  talk  of  love  so  well, 
Thy  company,  which  erst  was  irksome  to  me, 
I  wul  endure  ;  and  I  '11  employ  thee  too  : 
But  do  not  look  for  further  recompense 
Thau  thine  owti  gladness  that  thou  art  employ 'd. 

Sil.  So  hoi}'  and  so  perfect  is  my  love, 
.\nd  I  in  such  a  poverty  of  grace, 
That  I  shall  think  it  a  most  plenteous  crop 
To  gleau  the  broken  ears  after  the  man 
That  the  main  harvest  reaps :  loose  now  and  then 
A  scatter'd  smile,  and  that  I  '11  live  upon. 

Phe.  Kuow'st  thou  the  youth  that  spoke  to  me 
erewhile  ? 

Sil.  Not  very  well,  but  I  have  met  him  oft ; 
And  he  hath  bought  the  cottage,  and  the  bounds. 
That  the  old  carlot*'  once  was  master  of. 

Phe.  Think  not  I  love  him,  though  I  ask  for  him ; 
'T  is  but  a  peevish  boy : — yet  he  talks  well ; — 
But  what  care  I  for  words  3  yet  words  do  well. 
When  he  that  speaks  them  pleases  those  that  hear. 
It  is  a  pretty  youth : — not  very  pretty : — 


But,  sure,  he  's  proud ;  and  yet  bis  pride  becomes 

him : 
He  'II  make  a  proper  man.     The  best  thing  in  him 
Is  his  coniplexion  ;  and  fiister  than  his  tongue 
Did  make  oflence,  his  eye  did  heal  it  up. 
He  is  not  very  tall ;  yet  for  his  years  he  's  tall : 
His  leg  is  but  so  so ;  and  yet 't  is  well : 
There  was  a  pretty  redness  in  his  lip  ; 
A  little  riper  and  more  lusty  red 
Than  that  mi.x"d  in  his  cheek  ;  't  was  just  the  dif- 
ference 
Betwixt  the  constant  red,  and  mingled  damask. 
There  be  some  women,  Silvius,  had  they  mark'd 

him 
In  parcels,  as  I  did,  would  have  gone  near 
To  fall  iu  love  with  him :  but,  for  my  part, 
I  love  him  not,  nor  hate  him  not ;  and  yet 
Have  more  cause  to  hate  him  than  to  love  him : 
For  what  hath  he  to  do  to  chide  at  me  1 
He  said  mine  eyes  were  black,  and  my  hair  black ; 
And  now  I  am  remember'd,  scorn'd  at  me : 
I  marvel  \¥hy  I  answer'd  not  again : 
But  that 's  all  one :  omittance  is  no  quittance. 
I  '11  write  him  a  very  taunting  letter. 
And  thou  shalt  bear  it ;  Wilt  thou,  Silvius  ? 
Sil.  Phebe,  with  all  my  heart. 
Phe.  I  '11  write  it  straight : 

The  matter  's  in  my  head,  and  in  my  heart ; 
I  will  be  bitter  with  him,  and  passing  short: 
Go  with  me,  Silvius.  [Exeunt. 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I.— The  Forest. 
Enter  Eosalixd,  Celia,  and  Jaques. 

d'aq.  1  prithee,  pretty  youth,  let  me  be  better 
acquainted  with  thee. 

Ros.  They  say  you  are  a  melancholy  fellow. 

Jaq.  I  am  so:  I  do  love  it  better  than  laughing. 

Ros.  Those  that  are  in  extremity  of  either  are 
abominable  fellows,  and  betray  themselves  to  every 
modern  censure,  worse  than  drunkards. 

J(iq.  Wiiy,  't  is  good  to  be  sad  and  say  nothing. 

Ros.  Why,  then,  't  is  good  to  be  a  jiost. 

J(iq.  I  have  neither  the  scholar's  melancholy, 
which  1:1  feuiulaticn  ;  nor  the  musician's,  which  is 
■128 


fantastical ;  nor  the  courtier's,  which  is  proud 
nor  the  soldier's,  which  is  ambitious ;  nor  the 
lawyer's,  which  is  politic ;  nor  the  lady's,  which 
is  nice;  nor  the  lover's,  which  is  all  these:  but 
it  is  a  melancholy  of  mine  own,  conqiounded  oi 
many  simples,  extracted  from  many  objects,  and, 
indeed,  the  sundry  contemplation  of  my  travels, 
in  which  my  often  rumination  wraps  me  in  a  most 
humorous  sadness. 

Ros.  A  traveller!  By  my  failh,  you  have  great 
reason  to  be  sad :  I  fear  you  have  sold  your  own 
lands,  to  see  other  men's ;  then,  to  have  seen 
much,  and  to  have  nothing,  is  to  have  rich  eyes 
and  poor  hands. 


l\ 


JICT    IV 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


8CESE    I. 


Jaj.  Yes,  I  liave  gain'd  by  experience, 

Miter  Orlando. 

liis.  Anil  your  experience  makes  you  sad  :  I 
liad  ratlier  have  a  fool  to  make  mo  merry,  than 
experience  to  make  me  sad ;  and  to  travel  for  it  too ! 

Orl.  Good  day,  and  happiness,  dear  Rosalind  ! 

Jiiq.  Nay,  then,  God  be  wi'  you,  an  you  talk 
.n  blank  verse. 

Hos.  Farewell,  monsieur  traveller.  Look  you 
lisp,  and  wear  strange  suits  disable  all  the  benefits 
of  your  own  country ;  be  out  of  love  with  your 
nativity,  and  almost  chide  God  for  making  you 
that  countenance  you  are  ;  or  I  will  scarce  think 
you  have  swam  in  a  gondola.  [£!xU  Jaques.] 
Why,  how  now,  Orlando !  where  have  you  been 
all  this  while  ?  You  a  lover? — An  you  serve  me 
such  another  trick,  never  come  in  my  sight  more. 

Ov-Z.  ily  fair  Rosalind,  I  come  within  an  hour  of 
iny  promise. 

Jios.  Break  an  hour's  promise  in  love  ?  He  that 
will  divide  a  minute  into  a  thousand  parts,  and 
break  but  a  part  of  the  thousandth  part  of  a  minute 
in  the  affairs  of  love,  it  may  be  said  of  him  that 
Cupid  liath  clapped  him  o'  the  shoulder,  but  I  '11 
warrant  him  heart-whole. 

Orl.  Pardon  me,  dear  Rosalind. 

Hos.  Nay,  an  you  be  so  tardy,  come  no  more  in 
iny  sight ;  I  had  as  lief  be  woo'd  of  a  snail. 

Orl.  Of  a  snail? 

Hos.  Ay,  of  a  snail ;  for  though  he  come.5  slowly, 
bo  carries  his  house  on  his  head  ;**  a  better  jointure, 
I  think,  than  you  make  a  woman  :  Besides,  he 
brings  his  destiny  with  him. 

Orl.  What's  "that? 

Hos.  Why,  horns;  which  such  as  you  are  fain 
to  be  beholden  to  your  wives  for :  but  he  comes 
armed  in  his  fortune,  and  prevents  the  slander  of 
his  wife. 

Orl.  Virtue  is  no  hom-maker,  and  my  Rosalind 
is  virtuous. 

Hos.  And  I  am  your  Rosalind. 

Cel.  It  pleases  him  to  call  you  so ;  but  he  hath 
a  Rosalind  of  a  better  leer  than  you. 

Hos.  Come,  woo  me,  woo  me  ;  for  now  I  am  in 
u  holiday  humour,  and  like  enough  to  consent : — 
What  would  you  say  to  me  now,  an  I  were  your 
very  very  Rosahnd  ? 

Orl.  I  would  kiss  before  I  spoke. 

Hos.  Nay,  you  were  better  speak  fii-st ;  and 
when  you  were  gravell'd  for  lack  of  matter,  you 
might  take  occasion  to  kiss.     Very  good  orators. 


when  they  are  out,  they  will  spit ;  and  for  lovers, 
lacking  (God  warn  us!)  matter,  the  cleanliest  shift 
is  to  kiss. 

Orl.  How  if  the  kiss  be  denied  ? 

Hos.  Then  she  puts  you  to  entreaty,  and  there 
begins  new  matter. 

Orl.  Who  could  be  out,  being  before  his  beloved 
mistress  ? 

Hos.  Marry,  that  should  you,  if  I  were  your 
mistress;  or  I  should  think  my  honesty  rankei 
than  my  wit. 

Orl.  What,  of  my  suit  ? 

Hos.  Not  out  of  your  apparel,  and  yet  out  of 
your  suit.     Am  not  1  your  Rosalind  ? 

Orl.  I  take  some  joy  to  say  you  are,  because  I 
would  be  talking  of  her. 

Hos.  Well,  in  her  person,  I  say — I  will  not 
have  you. 

Orl.  Then,  in  mine  own  person,  I  die. 

Hos.  No,  faith,  die  by  attorney.  The  poor 
world  is  almost  six  thousand  years  old,  and  in  all 
this  time  there  was  not  any  man  died  in  his  own 
person,  videlicit,  in  a  love-cause.  Troilus  had  his 
brains  dash'd  out  with  a  Grecian  club  :  yet  he  did 
what  he  could  to  die  before  ;  and  he  is  one  of  the 
patterns  of  love.  Leander,  he  would  have  livM 
many  a  fair  year,  though  Hero  had  turn'd  nun,  if 
it  had  not  been  for  a  hot  midsummer  night:  for, 
good  youth,  he  went  but  forth  to  wash  him  in  the 
Ilellespont,  and,  being  taken  with  the  cramp,  was 
drown'd ;  and  the  foolish  coroners  of  that  age 
found  it  was — Hero  of  Sestos.  But  these  are  all 
lies  ;  men  have  died  from  time  to  time,  and  worms 
have  eaten  them,  but  not  for  love. 

Orl.  I  would  not  have  my  right  Rosalind  of  this 
mind ;  for,  I  protest,  her  frown  might  kill  me. 

Hos.  By  this  hand,  it  will  not  kill  a  fly.  But, 
come,  now  I  will  be  your  Rosalind  in  a  more 
coming-on  disposition  ;  and  ask  me  what  you  will, 
I  will  grant  it. 

Orl.  Then  love  me,  Rosalind. 

Hos.  Yes,  faith  will  I,  Fridays,  and  Saturdays, 
and  all. 

Orl.  And  wilt  thou  have  me  ? 

Hos.  Ay,  and  twenty  such  I 

Orl.  What  say'st  thou  ? 

Hos.  Are  you  not  good  ? 

Orl.  I  hope  so. 

Hos.  Why,  then,  can  one  desire  too  much  of  a 
good  thing? — Come,  sister,  you  shall  be  the  priest, 
and  marry  us. — Give  me  your  hand,  Orlando 
What  do  you  say,  sister  ? 

429 


ACT    T7. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


BOESE    n. 


Orl.  Pray  thee,  marry  us. 

C'el.  I  cannot  say  tlie  words. 

Bos.  You  must  begin, — "  Will  you,  Orlando," — 

Ccl.  Go  to  : Will   you,  Orlando,   have  to 

wife  this  Rosalind ! 

Orl.  I  will. 

Jios.  Ay,  but  when  ? 

Orl.  Why,  now ;  as  fast  as  she  can  marry  us. 

lios.  Then  you  must  say, — "  I  take  thee,  Rosa- 
lind, for  wife." 

Orl.  I  take  thee,  Rosalind,  for  wife. 

Mos.  I  might  ask  you  for  your  commission ;  but, 
— I  do  take  thee,  Orlando,  for  my  husband.  There  's 
a  girl  goes  before  the  priest  :  and,  certainly,  a 
woman's  thought  runs  before  her  actions. 

Orl.  So  do  all  thoughts;  they  are  wing'd. 

Eos.  Now  tell  me,  how  long  you  would  have 
her,  after  you  have  possessed  her. 

Orl.  For  ever,  and  a  day. 

Jios.  Say  a  day,  without  the  ever !  No,  no, 
Orlando  ;  men  are  April  when  they  woo,  December 
when  they  wed :  maids  are  May  when  they  are 
maids,  hut  the  sky  changes  when  they  are  wives. 
I  will  be  more  jealous  of  thee  than  a  Barbary 
cock-pigeon  over  his  hen  ;  more  clamorous  than  a 
parrot  against  rain  ;  more  new-tangled  than  an 
ape  ;  more  giddy  in  my  desires  than  a  monkey :  I 
will  weep  for  nothing,  like  Diana  in  the  fountain, 
and  I  will  do  that  when  you  are  dispos'd  to  be 
merry  ;  I  will  laugh  like  a  hyen,'°  and  that  when 
thou  art  inclin'd  to  sleep. 

Orl.  But  will  my  Rosalind  do  so  ? 

Sos.  By  my  life,  she  will  do  as  I  do. 

Orl.  O,  but  she  is  wise. 

Eos.  Or  else  she  could  not  have  the  wit  to  do 
this  :  the  wiser,  the  waywarden  Make  the  doors 
upon  a  woman's  wit,  and  it  will  out  at  the  case- 
ment ;  shut  that,  and  't  will  out  at  the  key-hole  ; 
stop  that,  't  will  fly  with  the  smoke  'out  at  the 
chimney. 

Orl.  A  man  that  had  a  wife  with  such  a  wit, 
he  might  say, — "Wit,  whither  wilt  ?"" 

Eos.  Nay,  you  might  keep  tliat  check  for  it, 
till  you  meet  your  wife's  wit  going  to  your  neigh- 
bour's bed. 

Orl.  A  nd  what  wit  could  wit  have  to  excuse  that  ? 

Eos.  Many,  to  say — she  came  to  seek  you  there. 
You  shall  never  take  her  without  her  answer, 
unless  you  take  Ler  witliout  her  tongue.  0,  that 
woman  that  cannot  make  her  fault  her  husband's 
occasion,"  let  lier  never  nurse  her  child  herself, 
for  she  will  breed  it  like  a  fool, 
•mo 


Orl.  For  these  two  hours,  Rosalind,  I  wi'l 
leave  thee. 

Eos.  Alas,  dear  love,  I  cannot  hick  theo  twc 
hours. 

Orl.  I  must  attend  the  duke  at  dinner  ;  by  two 
o'clock  I  will  be  with  thee  again. 

Eos.  Ay,  go  your  ways,  go  your  ways : — I  knew 
what  you  would  prove ;  my  fi'iends  told  me  as 
much,  and  I  thought  no  less : — that  flattering 
tongue  of  yours  won  me : — 't  is  but  one  cast  away, 
and  so, — come,  death  ! — Two  o'clock  is  your 
hour  ? 

Orl.  Ay,  sweet  Rosalind. 

Eos.  By  my  troth,  and  in  good  earnest,  and  so 
God  mend  me,  and  by  all  pretty  oaths  that  are 
not  dangerous,  if  you  break  one  jot  of  your  promise, 
or  come  one  minute  behind  your  hour,  I  will 
think  you  the  most  pathetical  break-promise,** 
and  the  most  hollow  lover,  and  the  most  unworthy 
of  her  you  call  Rosalind,  that  may  be  chosen  out 
of  the  gi'oss  band  of  the  unfaithful :  therefore 
beware  my  censure,  and  keep  your  promise. 

Orl.  With  no  less  religion  than  if  thou  weH 
indeed  my  Rosalind  :   So,  adieu. 

Eos.  Well,  Time  is  the  old  justice  that  examines 
all  such  oftendei's,  and  let  Time  try.     Adieu ! 

[Exit  Orlando. 

Cel.  You  have  simply  misus'd  our  sex  in  your 
love  prate  :  we  must  liave  your  doublet  and  hose 
plucked  over  your  head,  and  show  the  world  what 
the  bird  hath  done  to  her  own  nest. 

Eos.  O  coz,  coz,  coz,  my  pretty  little  coz,  that 
thou  didst  know  how  many  fathom  deep  I  am  in 
love !  But  it  cannot  bo  sounded  ;  my  atJ'ection 
hath  an  unknown  bottom,  like  the  bay  of  Portugal. 

Ccl.  Or  rather,  bottomless ;  that  as  fast  as'  you 
pour  affection  in,  it  runs  out. 

Eos.  No  ;  that  same  wicked  b.istard  of  Venus, 
that  was  beget  of  thought,  conceiv'd  of  spleen, 
and  born  of  madness;  that  blind  ra.scally  boy, 
that  abuses  every  one's  eyes,  because  his  own  are 
out,  let  him  bo  judge  how  deep  I  am  in  love  : — 
I'll  tell  thee,  Aliena,  I  cannot  be  out  of  the  sigl\t 
of  Orlando.  I'll  go  tind  a  shadow,  and  sigh  tilJ 
he  come. 

Cel.  And  I'll  sleep. 

SCENE  IL— Another  part  of  the  Forest. 

Filter  3 AqvKS  and  Lords, )??,  the  habit  of  Foresters 

Jaq.  Which  is  lie  that  killed  the  deer { 
1  Lord.  Sir,  it  w:ls  L 


ACT  n'. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


HCENE    III. 


Jaq.  Let's  present  him  to  the  duke,  like  a  Ro- 
man conqueror ;  and  it  would  do  well  to  set  the 
(fpor's  horns  upon  his  head,  for  a  branch  of  victory : 
— Have  you  no  song,  forester,  for  this  purpose? 

2  Lord.  Yes,  sir. 

Jaq.  Sing  it ;  't  is  no  matter  how  it  be  in  tune, 
so  it  make  noise  enough. 

SONG. 

1.  What  sliall  he  have  tliat  kill'd  the  deer ! 

2.  His  leather  Bkin,  and  horns  to  wear. 

Jaq.  Tlien  sing  him  liome. 

[They  carry  away  the  deer  singing. 

■All-       Take  thou  no  scorn,  to  wear  the  horn  ; 
It  was  a  crest  ero  thou  wast  born. 

1.  Thy  father's  father  wore  it ; 

2.  And  thy  fatlicr  bore  it ; 

All.       The  horn,  the  born,  tlie  lusty  born. 

Is  not  a  thing  to  laugh  to  scorn.  \^Exeuni. 

SCENE  m.—Tha  Forest. 
Enter  Rosalind  and  Celia. 

Ros.  IIow  say  you  now  ?  Is  it  not  past  two 
o'clock  ?  and  here  mucli  Orlando  !™ 

Cel.  I  waiTant  you,  with  pure  love,  and  troubled 
brain,  ho  hath  ta'en  his  bow  and  arrows,  and  is 
gone  forth — to  sleep :  Look,  who  comes  here. 

Enter  Silvius. 

Sit.  My  errand  is  to  you,  fair  youth ; — 
My  gentle  Phebe  did  bid  me  give  you  this. 

[Giving  a  letter. 
I  know  not  the  contents ;  but,  as  I  guess, 
By  the  stern  brow,  and  waspish  action 
Which  she  did  use  as  she  was  writing  of  it, 
.  t  bears  an  angry  tenor  :  pardon  me, 
.  am  but  as  a  guiltless  messenger. 

Mos.  Patience  herself  would  startle  at  this  letter. 
And  play  the  swaggerer ;  bear  this,  bear  all : 
She  says,  I  am  not  fair  ;  that  I  lack  manners ; 
She  calls  me  proud  ;  and,  that  she  could  not  love 

me 
Were  man  as  rare  as  phoenix.     Od's  my  will ! 
Her  love  is  not  the  hare  that  I  do  hunt. 
Why  writes  she  so  to  me? — W^ell,  shepherd,  well; 
This  is  a  letter  of  your  own  device. 

Sil.  No,  I  protest,  I  know  not  the  contents  ; 
Phebe  did  write  it. 

Jioa.  Come,  come,  you  are  a  fool, 

And  tum'd  into  the  extremity  of  love. 
I  saw  her  hand :  she  has  a  leathern  hand, 
A  fi'oestone-colour'd  hand ;  I  veily  did  think 


That  her  old  glovi-s  were  on,  but 't  w;ts  her  liaixis' 
She  has  a  housewife's  hand  :  but  that 's  no  matter'. 
I  say,  she  never  did  invent  this  letter ; 
This  is  a  man's  invention,  and  Iiis  hand. 

Sil.  Sure,  it  is  hers. 

Jios.  Why,  't  is  a  boisterous  and  a  cruel  style. 
A  style  for  challengers ;  why,  she  defies  me. 
Like  Turk  to  Christian :  woman's  gentle  brain 
Could  not  drop  forth  such  giant  rude  invention, 
Such  Ethiop  words,  blacker  in  their  efi'ect 
Than  in  their  countenance : — Will  you  hear  the 
letter  ? 

Sil.  So  please  you,  for  I  never  hoard  it  yet ; 
Yet  heard  too  nmch  of  Phebe's  cruelty. 

Bos.  She  Phebes   me  :    Mark  how  the  tyiani 
writes. 

"  Art  thou  pod  to  shepherd  turn'd,  [Jiead.^ 

Tliat  a  maiden's  heart  liath  burn'd  ?" — 

Can  a  woman  rail  thus  ? 
Sil.  Call  you  this  railing  ? 

Jios.  "  Why,  thy  godhead  laid  apart, 

Warr'st  thou  with  a  woman's  heart?" 

Did  you  ever  hear  such  railing  ? 

"  Whiles  the  eye  of  man  did  woo  mo. 
That  could  do  no  vengeance  to  rae —  " 

Meaning  me  a  beast. — 

"If  the  scorn  of  your  bright  eyne 
Have  power  to  raise  such  love  in  mine. 
Alack!  in  ine  what  strange  etlect 
Would  they  work  in  mild  aspect? 
Whiles  you  chid  me,  I  did  love  ; 
How  tlien  might  your  prayers  move  ? 
He  that  brings  tliis  love  to  thee. 
Little  knows  tliis  love  in  me : 
And  by  him  seal  up  tliy  mind  ; 
Whether  that  thy  youth  and  kind 
Will  the  faitliful  offer  t.ake 
Of  me,  and  all  that  I  can  make  ; 
Or  else  by  him  my  love  deny. 
And  then  I'll  study  how  to  die." 

Sil.  Call  you  this  chiding  ? 

Ccl.  Alas,  poor  shepherd  ! 

Jios.  Do  you  pity  him  ?  no,  he  deserves  no  pity. 
— Wilt  thou  love  such  a  woman  ? — "What,  to  make 
thee  an  instrument,  and  play  false  strains  u])oi; 
thee!  not  to  be  endur'd  I — Well,  go  your  way  to 
her,  (for  I  see  love  hath  made  thee  a  tan^e  snake,) 
and  say  this  to  her  ; — That  if  she  love  me,  I  charge 
her  to  love  thee :  If  she  will  not,  I  will  never 
have  her,  unless  thou  entreat  for  her. — If  you  be  a 
true  lover,  hence,  and  not  a  word ;  for  here  comes 
more  company.  Exit  Silvius 

4R1 


ACT  rv. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT 


Enter  Oliver. 

Oti.  Good  morrow,  fair  ones  :  Pray  you,  if  you 
know 
Wliere,  in  the  purlieus  of  this  forest,  stands 
A  sheep-cote,  fenc'd  about  with  olive-trees  ? 

Cel.  West  of  this  place,  down  in  the  neighbour 
bottom, 
The  rank  of  osiere,  by  the  murmuring  stream, 
Left  on  your  right  hand,  brings  you  to  the  place : 
But  at  this  hour  the  house  doth  keep  itself; 
There  's  none  within. 

Oli.  If  that  an  eye  may  profit  by  a  tongue, 
Then  should  I  know  ywi  by  description ; 
Such  gai-ments,  and  such  years:  "The  boy  is  fair, 
Of  female  favour,  and  bestows  himself 
Like  a  lipe  sister :  the  woman  low. 
And  browner  than  her  brother."     Are  not  you 
The  owner  of  the  house  I  did  inquire  for  ? 

Cel.  It  is  no  boast,  being  ask'd,  to  say,  we  are. 

Oli.  Orlando  doth  commend  him  to  you  both ; 
And  to  that  youth,  he  calls  his  Rosalind, 
He  sends  this  bloody  napkin  ;  are  you  he  ? 

Ros.  I  am :  what  must  we  understand  by  this  ? 

Oli.  Some  of  my  shame  ;  if  you  will  know  of 
me 
What  man  I  am,  and  how,  and  why,  and  where 
This  handkercher  was  stain'd. 

Cel.  I  pray  you,  tell  it. 

Oli.  When  last  the  young  Orlando  parted  from 

you, 

He  left  a  promise  to  return  again 

Within  an  hour ;  and,  pacing  through  the  forest. 

Chewing  the  food  of  sweet  and  bitter  f;incy, 

Lo,  what  befel !  he  threw  his  eye  aside. 

And,  mark,  what  object  did  present  itself! 

Under  an  old  oak,"  whose  boughs  were  moss'd 

•nith  age, 
And  high  top  bald  with  dry  antiquity, 
A  wretched  ragged  man,  o'ergrown  with  hair, 
Lay  sleeping  on  his  back :  about  his  neck 
A  green  and  gilded  snake  had  wreath'd  itself. 
Who  with  her  head,  nimble  in  threats,  approach'd 
The  opening  of  his  mouth  ;  but  suddenly. 
Seeing  Orlando,  it  unlirik'd  itself. 
And  with  indented  glides  did  siip  away 
Into  a  bush :  under  which  bush's  shade 
A  lioness,  with  udders  all  drawn  dry, 
r.ay  couching,  head  on  grounil,  with  catlike  watch. 
When  that  the  sleeping  man  should  stir;  for  't  is 
The  royal  disposition  of  that  beast. 
To  prey  on  nothing  that  doth  seem  as  dead ; 
'182 


This  seen,  Orlando  did  approach  the  man. 
And  found  it  was  his  brother,  his  elder  brother. 
Cel.  0,  I  have  heard  him  speak  of  that  same 
brother  ; 
And  he  did  render"  him  the  most  imuatural 
That  liv'd  'niongst  men. 

Oli.  And  well  he  might  so  do, 

For  well  I  know  he  was  unnatural. 

Ros.    But,  to    Orlando ; — Did    he    leave   him 
there. 
Food  to  the  suck'd  f.nd  hungiy  lioness  ? 

Oli.  Twice  did  he  turn  his  back,  and  purpos'd 
so-' 
But  kindness,  nobler  ever  than  revenge. 
And  nature,  stronger  than  his  just  occasion, 
Made  him  give  battle  to  the  lioness. 
Who  quickly  fell  before  him ;  in  which  hurtling, 
From  miserable  slumber  I  awak'd. 
Cel.  Are  you  his  brother? 
Ros.  Was  't  you  he  rescu'd  ? 

Cel.  Was  't  you  that  did  so  oft  contrive  to  kill 

him? 
on.   'T  was  I ;    but  't   is   not  I :    I  do  not 
shame 
To  tell  you  what  I  was,  since  roy  conversion 
So  sweetly  tastes,  being  the  thing  I  am. 
Ros.  But,  for  the  bloody  napkin  ? — 
Oli.  By  and  by. 

When  from  the  first  to  last,  betwixt  us  two, 
Tears  our  recountments  had  most  kindly  bath'd, 
As,''  how  I  came  into  that  desert  place ; — 
In  brief,  he  led  me  to  the  gentle  duke. 
Who  gave  me  fresh  array  and  entertainment. 
Committing  mn  unto  my  brother's  love ; 
Who  led  me  instantly  unto  his  cave, 
There  stripp'd  himself,  and  here  upon  his  arm 
The  lioness  had  torn  some  flesh  away. 
Which   all   this  while   had  bled ;    and   now  he 

fainted. 
And  cried,  in  fainting,  upon  Rosalind. 
Brief,  I  recover'd  him  ;  bound  up  his  wound ; 
And,  after   some    small    space,    being   strong   at 

heart. 
He  sent  me  hither,  stranger  as  I  am. 
To  tell  this  story,  that  you  might  excuse 
His  broken  promise,  and  to  give  this  napkin. 
Dyed  in  this  blood,  unto  the  shepherd  youth 
Tli^t  ho  in  sport  doth  call  his  Rosalind. 

Cel.  Why,  how  now,  Ganymede  ?  sweet  Gany- 
mede ?  \\ios.  fainif. 
Oli.  Many  will  swoon  when  they  do  look  on 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


BCENB    I. 


Cel,  Tbere  is  more  iu  it : — Cousin — Ganymede! 

OIL  Look,  he  recovers. 

Ros.  I  would  I  were  at  lioine. 

Cd.  We  '11  lead  you  thither  :— 
1  jirny  you,  will  you  take  him  by  the  arm  ? 

OIL  Be  of  gooil  cheer,  youth  : — You  a  man  ? — 
V  nil  lack  a  man's  heart. 

Ros.  I  do  so,  I  confess  it.  Ah,  sin-a,  a  body 
would  think  this  was  well  counterfeited.  I  pray 
yon,  tell  your  brother  how  well  I  counterfeited. — 
Heigh  ho ! 

OH.  This  was  not  counterfeit ;  there  is  too  great 
testimony  in  your  complexion,  that  it  was  a  pas- 
iion  of  earnest. 


Ros.  Counterfeit,  I  assure  you. 

Oli.  Well,  then,  take  a  goi-J  heart,  and  coun- 
terfeit to  be  a  man. 

Ros.  So  I  do :  but,  i'  faith,  I  should  have  l-^en 
a  womnu  by  right. 

Ccl.  Come,  you  look  paler  and  paler;  pray  you, 
draw  homevi'ards : — Good  sir,  go  with  us. 

Oli.  That  will  I,  for  I  must  boar  answer  back 
Uow  you  excuse  my  brother,  Ilosalind. 

Ros.  I  shall  devise  something :  But,  I  pray  yon, 
commend  my  counterfeiting  to  him  : — Will  you 
go? 

[Exeunt. 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  l.—TIi£  Forest  of  Arden. 
Enter  Touchstone  and  Audrey. 

Touch.  We  shall  find  a  time,  Audrey;  patience, 
gi'ntle  Audrey. 

And.  'Faith,  the  priest  was  good  enough,  for  all 
the  old  gentleman's  saying. 

Touch.  A  most  wicked  sir  Oliver,  Audrey ;  a 
most  vile  Mar-text.  But,  Audrey,  there  is  a  youth 
here  in  the  forest  lays  claim  to  you. 

Aud.  Ay,  I  know  who  't  is ;  he  hath  no  inte- 
rest in  me  in  Lbe  world  :  here  comes  the  man  you 
mean. 

Enter  William. 

Touch.  It  is  meat  and  drink  to  me  to  see  a 
clown.  By  my  troth,  we  that  have  good  wits  have 
much  to  answer  for ;  we  shall  be  flouting ;  we  can- 
not hold. 

Will.  Good  ev'n,  Audrey. 

Aud.  God  ye  good  ev'n,  William. 

Will.  And  good  ev'n  to  you,  sir. 

Touch.  Good  ev'n,  gentle  friend.  Cover  thy 
head,  cover  thy  head  ;  nay,  prithee,  be  cover'd. 
How  old  are  you,  friend  ? 

Will.  Five-and-twenty,  sir. 

Touch.  A  ripe  age !  Is  thy  name  William  ? 

Will.  William,  sir. 

Touch  A  fair  name.  Wast  born  i'  the  forest 
here  ? 

Will.  Ay,  sir,  I  thank  God. 

5S 


Touch.  Thank  God ! — a  good  answer.    Art  ricli  ? 

Will.  Faith,  sir,  so  so. 

Touch.  So  so  is  good,  very  good,  very  excellent 
good  :  and  yet  it  is  not ;  it  is  but  so  so.  Art  thou 
wise  ? 

Will.  Ay,  sir,  I  have  a  pretty  wit. 

Touch.  AVhy,  thou  tay'st  well.  I  do  now  remem- 
ber a  saying;  "The  fool  doth  think  he  is  wise, 
but  the  wise  man  knows  himself  to  be  a  fool.'' 
The  heathen  philosopher,  when  he  had  a  desire 
to  eat  a  grape,  would  open  his  lips  whenJie  put 
it  into  his  mouth ;  meaning  thereby,  that  grapes 
were  made  to  eat,  and  lips  to  open.  Y'ou  do  love 
this  maid  ? 

Will.  I  do,  sir. 

Touch.  Give  lue  your  hand  :  Art  thou  learned  I 

Will.  Xo,  sir. 

Touch.  Then  learn  this  of  me ;  To  have,  is  to 
have  :  For  it  is  a  figure  in  rhetoric,  that  drink, 
being  pour'd  out  of  a  cup  into  a  glass,  by  filling 
the  one,  doth  empty  the  other :  for  all  your  wri- 
ters do  consent,  that  ipse  is  he  ;  now,  you  are  not 
ipse,  for  I  am  he. 

Will.  Which  he,  sir  ? 

Touch.  He,  sir,  that  must  marry  this  woman  1 
Therefore,  you,  clown,  abandon,  which  is  in  the 
vulgar,  leave,  the  society,  which  in  the  boorish  ia, 
company,  of  this  female,  which  in  the  common  is, 
woman,  which  together  is,  abandon  the  society  cf 
this  female ;  or,  clown,  thou  perishest ;  or,  to  thy 
better  understanding,  diest ;  or  to  wit,  I  kill  thee, 

4:;,s 


AOT    V. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


make  thee  away,  translate  thy  life  into  death,  thy 
liberty  into  bondage  :  I  will  deal  in  poison  with 
thee,  or  in  bastinado,  or  in  steel ;  I  will  bandy  with 
thee  in  faction  ;  I  will  o'errun  thee  with  policy ;  I 
will  kill  thee  a  hundred  and  fifty  ways ;  therefore, 
tremble,  and  depart. 

Aud.  Do,  good  William. 

Will.  God  rest  you  merry,  sir.  [Uxit. 

Enter  Corin. 

Cor.  Our  master  and  mistress  seek  you  ;  come, 
away,  away ! 

Touch.  Trip,  Audrey,  trip,  Audrey, — ^I  attend, 
I  attend. 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  \\.—Th.e  same. 

Enter  Orlando  and  Oliver. 

Orl.  Is  't  possible,  that  on  so  little  acquaintance 
you  should  like  her  ?  that,  but  seeing,  you  should 
love  her?  and,  loving,  woo  ?  and,  wooing,  she  should 
gi'ant  ?  and  will  you  persever  to  enjoy  her  ? 

OIL  Neither  call  the  giddiness  of  it  in  question, 
the  poverty  of  her,  the  small  acquaintance,  my 
BUdden  wooing,  nor  her  sudden  consenting ;  but 
say  vrith  me,  I  lov6  Aliena ;  say  with  her,  that 
she  loves  me ;  consent  with  both,  that  we  may 
enjoy  each  other :  it  shall  be  to  your  good ;  for 
my  father's  house,  and  all  the  revenue  that  was  old 
sir  Rowland's,  will  I  estate  upon  you,  and  here  live 
and  die  a  shepherd. 

Orl.  You  have  my  consent.  Let  your  wedding 
be  to-morrow :  thither  will  I  invite  the  duke, 
and  all  his  contented  followers.  Go  you,  and 
prepare  Aliena ;  for,  look  you,  here  comes  my 
Rosalind. 

Enter  Rosalind. 

Ros.  God  save  you,  brother. 

OU,  And  you,  fair  sister.  [Exit. 

Ros.  0,  my  dear  Orlando,  how  it  grieves  me  to 
sec  thee  wear  thy  heart  in  a  scarf  1 

Orl.  It  is  my  arm. 

Ros.  I  thought  thy  heart  had  been  wounded 
with  the  claws  of  a  lion. 

Orl.  Wounded  it  is,  but  with  the  eyes  of  a  lady. 

Ros.  Did  your  brother  tell  you  how  I  counter- 
feited to  swoiind,  when  he  sliow'd  ine  your  hand- 
kercher  S 

Orl.  Ay,  aud  gi-cater  wondei's  than  that. 

Ros.  0, 1  know  whore  you  are  : — Nay,  't  is  true : 
484 


there  was  never  anything  so  sudden,  but  the  fight 
of  two  rams,  and  Caitar's  thrasonical  brag  of —  i 
"  I  came,  saw,  and  overcame."  For  your  brother  j 
and  my  sister  no  sooner  met,  but  they  look'd  ;  i:o  ! 
sooner  look'd,  but  they  lov'd  ;  no  sooner  lov'd,  bin  J 
they  sigh'd  ;  no  sooner  sigh'd,  but  they  ask'd  one  | 
another  the  reason  ;  no  sooner  knew  the  reason,  j 
but  they  sought  the  remedy :  and  in  these  degrees  | 
have  they  made  a  pair  of  stairs  to  marriage,  which 
they  will  climb  incontinent,  or  else  be  incontinent 
before  marriage :  they  are  in  the  very  wrath  o» 
love,  and  they  will  together ;  clubs  cannot  part 
them. 

Orl.  They  shall  be  married  to-morrow,  and  I 
will  bid  the  duke  to  the  nuptial.  But,  0,  how 
bitter  a  thing  it  is  to  look  into  happiness  through 
another  man's  eyes !  By  so  much  the  more  shall  I 
to-morrow  be  at  the  height  of  heart-heaviness,  by 
how  much  I  shall  think  my  brother  happy,  in 
having  what  he  wishes  for. 

Ros.  Why,  then,  to-moiTow  I  cannot  serve  your 
turn  for  Rosalind  ? 

Orl.  I  can  live  no  longer  by  thinking. 

Ros.  I  will  weary  you  then  no  longer  with 
idle  talking.  Know  of  me  then,  (for  now  I  speak 
to  some  purpose,)  that  I  know  you  are  a  gentleman 
of  good  conceit :  I  speak  not  this,  that  you  should 
bear  a  good  opinion  of  my  knowledge,  insomuch, 
I  say,  I  know  you  are  ;  neither  do  I  labour  for  a 
greater  esteem  than  may  in  some  little  measure 
draw  a  belief  from  you,  to  do  youreelf  good,  and 
not  to  grace  me.  Believe,  then,  if  you  please, 
that  I  can  do  strange  things  :  I  have,  since  I  was 
three  year  old,  conversed  with  a  magician,  most 
profound  in  his  art,  and  yet  not  damnable.  If 
you  do  love  Rosalind  so  near  the  heart  as  your 
gesture  cries  it  out,  when  your  brother  marries 
Aliena,  shall  you  marry  her.  I  know  into  what 
straits  of  fortune  she  is  driven  ;  and  it  is  not  im- 
possible to  me,  if  it  appear  not  inconvenient  to 
you,  to  set  her  before  your  eyes  to-morrow,  human 
as  she  is,''  and  without  any  danger. 

Orl.  Speak'st  thou  in  sober  meanings  ? 

Ros.  By  my  life  I  do ;  which  I  tender  dearly 
though  I  say  I  am  a  magician.  Therefore,  put 
you  in  your  best  an'ay,  bid  your  friends ;  for  if 
you  will  be  married  to-morrow,  you  shall ;  and  to 
Rosalind,  if  you  will. 

Enter  Silvius  and  Pheiib. 

Look,  here  comes  a  lover  of  mioe,  and  a  lover  ol 
hers, 


ACT   V. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


ecEN'2  m. 


Phe.  Youth,  you  have  done  me  much  ungen- 
tleness, 
To  show  the  letter  that  I  writ  to  you. 

Ros.  I  care  not  if  I  have  :  it  is  my  study 
To  seem  despiteful  and  ungentle  to  you  : 
You  are  there  follow'd  by  a  faithful  shepherd  ; 
Look  upon  him,  love  him  ;  he  worships  you. 

Plie.  Good  shepherd,  tell  this  youth  what 't  is 
to  love.  I 

Sil.  It  is  to  be  all  made  of  sighs  and  tears ; — 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

Phe.  And  I  for  Ganymede, 

Orl.  And  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.  And  I  for  no  woman ! 

Sll.  It  is  to  be  all  made  of  faith  and  service ; — 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

Phe.  And  I  for  Ganymede. 

Orl.  And  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.  And  I  for  no  woman  ! 

Sil.  It  is  to  be  all  made  of  fantasy. 
All  made  of  passion,  and  all  made  of  wishes ; 
All  adoration,  duty,  and  obedience  ; 
All  humbleness,  all  patience,  and  impatience  ; 
All  purity,  all  trial,  all  observance ; 
And  so  am  I  for  Phebe. 

Phe.  And  so  am  I  for  Ganymede. 

Orl.  And  so  am  I  for  Rosalind. 

Ros.  And  so  am  I  for  no  woman ! 

Phe.  K  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love 
you  ?"  [  To  Rosalind. 

Sil.  If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love 
you?  \To  Phebe. 

Orl.  If  this  be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love 
you? 

Ros.  Who  do  you  speak  to,  "  why  blame  you 
me  to  love  you  ?  " 

Orl.  To  her,  that  is  not  here,  nor  doth  not 
hear. 

Ros.  Pray  you,  no  more  of  this ;  't  is  hke  the 
howling  of  Lish  wolves  against  the  moon. — I 
will  help  you,  [to  Silvius]  if  I  can  : — I  would 
love  you,  \to  Phebe]  if  I  could. — To-morrow  meet 
me  all  together. — I  will  marry  you,  [to  Phebe]  if 
ever  I  marry  woman,  and  I  '11  be  marned  to-mor- 
row : — I  will  satisfy  you,  [to  Orlando]  if  ever  I 
satisfy  man,  and  you  shall  be  married  to-morrow : 
—I  will  content  you,  [to  Silvtds]  if  what  pleases 
you  contents  you,  and  you  shall  be  married  to- 
mon'ow. — As  you  [to  Orlando]  love  Rosahnd, 
meet ; — as  you  [to  Silvius]  love  Phebe,  meet ;  and 
as  I  love  no  woman,  I  '11  meet. — So,  fare  you  well ; 
I  have  left  you  commands. 


Sil.  I  '11  not  fail,  if  I  live. 
Phe.  Nor  I. 

Orl.  Nor  L 


[Exeunt. 


SCENE  m.—The  same. 


Enter  Touchstone  and  Audrey. 

Touch.  To-morrow  is  the  joyful  day,  Audrey 
to-morrow  will  we  be  married. 

Aud.  I  do  desire  it  with  all  my  heart :  and  1 
hope  it  is  no  dishonest  desire,  to  desire  to  be  a 
woman  of  the  world.  Here  come  two  of  the 
banish'd  duke's  pages. 

Enter  two  Pages. 

1  Page.  Well  met,  honest  gentleman. 
Touch.  By  my  troth,  well  met.     Come,  sit,  sit, 

and  a  song. 

2  Page.  We  are  for  you :  sit  i'  the  middle. 

1  Page.  Shall  we  clap  into  't  roundly,  without 
hawking,  or  spitting,  or  saying  we  are  hoarse ; 
which  are  the  only  prologues  to  a  bad  voice  ? 

2  Page.  V  faith,  i'  faith ;  and  both  in  a  tune, 
like  two  gipsies  on  a  horse. 

SONG. 
I. 

It  was  a  lover,  and  his  lass, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  no'.iino. 
That  o'er  the  green  corn-field  did  pass, 

In  the  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time," 
When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding  ; 
Sweet  lovers  lovo  the  spring. 

II. 

Between  the  acres  of  the  rye, 
With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hoy  nonino, 

These  pretty  country  folks  would  lie, 
In  spring  time,  &c. 

III. 

This  carol  they  began  that  hour. 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 

How  that  a  life  was  but  a  flower 
In  spring  time,  &c. 

IV. 

And  therefore  take  the  present  time, 
With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 

For  love  is  crowned  with  the  prime 
In  spring  time,  &c. 

Tmich.  Truly,  young  gentlemen,  though  there 
was  no  great  matter  in  the  ditty,  yet  the  note  waa 
very  untuneable. 

1  Page.  You  are  deceiv'd,  sir ;  we  kept  time 
we  lost  not  our  time. 

435 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


SCENE    IV. 


Touch.  By  my  troth,  yes;  I  count  it  but  time  lost 
to  hear  such  a  foolish  song.  God  be  wi'  you,  and  God 
mend  your  voices!    Come,  Audrey.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IX.— Another  2>art  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  Duke  senior,  Amiens,  Jaques,  Orlando, 
Oliver,  and  Celia. 

Duke  S.  Dost  thou  believe,  Orlando,  that  the  boy 
Can  do  all  this  that  he  hath  promised  ? 

Orl.  I  sometimes  do  believe,  and  sometimes  do 
not; 
As   those    that   fear  they  hope,   and  know  they 
fear." 

JEnter  Rosalind,  Silvius,  and  Piiebe. 

Jios.  Patience  once  more,  whiles  our  compact  is 
urg'd : — 
You  say,  if  I  bring  in  your  Rosalind, 

[To  the  Duke. 
YoTi  will  bestow  her  on  Orlando  here  ? 

Duke  S.  That  would  I,  had  I  kingdoms  to  give 

with  her. 

Jios.  And  you  say,  you  will  have  her,  when  I 

bring  her  ?  [To  Orlando. 

Orl.  That  would  I,  were  I  of  all  kingdoms  king. 

Jios.  You  say,  you  '11  many  me,  if  I  be  willing  ? 

[To  Phebe. 
Pke.  That  will  I,  should  I  die  the  hour  after. 
Ros,  But,  if  you  do  refuse  to  marry  me. 
You  '11  give  yourself  to  this  most  fjiithftil  shepherd  ? 
Phe.  vSo  is  the  bargain. 

Pos.  You  say,  that  you  '11  have  Phebe,  if  she 

will?'  [ro  Silvius. 

Sil.  Though  to  have  her  and  death  were  both 

one  thing. 
Pos.  I  have  promis'd  to  m.ake  all  this  matter 
even. 
Keep  you  your  word,  O  duke,  to  give  your  daugh- 
ter ; — 
\ou  yours,  Orlando,  to  receive  his  daughter  : — • 
Keep  you  your  word,  Phebe,  that  you  '11  marry  me; 
Or  else,  refusing  me,  to  wed  this  shepherd  : — 
Keep  your  word,  Silvius,  that  you  '11  marry  her. 
If  she  refuse  me  : — and  from  hence  I  go. 
To  make  these  doubt.s  all  even. 

[Exeunt  Rosalind  and  Celia. 
Duke  S.  I  do  remember  in  this  shepherd-boy 
Some  lively  touches  of  my  daughter's  favour. 
Orl.  My  lord,  the   first  time   that  I  ever  saw 
him, 
Methought  he  wa.s  a  brother  to  your  daughter : 
486 


But,  my  good  lord,  this  boy  is  forest-bom, 
And  hath  been  tutor'd  in  the  rudiments 
Of  many  desperate  studies  by  his  uncle, 
Whom  he  reports  to  be  a  great  magician, 
Obscured  in  the  circle  of  this  forest. 

Enter  Touchstone  and  Audrey. 

Jaq.  There  is,  sure,  another  flood  towai  3,  and 
these  couples  are  coming  to  the  ark  !  Here  come 
a  pair  of  veiy  strange  beasts,  which  in  all  tongues 
are  call'd  fools. 

Touch.  Salutation  and  greeting  to  you  all ! 

Jaq.  Good  my  lord,  bid  him  welcome.  This  is 
the  motley-minded  gentleman  that  I  have  so  often 
met  in  the  forest :  he  hath  been  a  courtier,  he 
swears. 

Touch.  K  any  man  doubt  that,  let  him  put  me 
to  mv  purgation.  I  have  trod  a  measure ;  I  have 
flattered  a  lady;  I  have  been  politic  with  ray  friend, 
smooth  with  mine  enemy ;  I  have  undone  three 
tailors  ;  I  have  had  four  quarrels,  and  like  to  have 
fought  one. 

Jaq.  And  how  was  that  ta'en  up  ? 

Touch.  Faith,  we  met,  and  found  the  quarrel 
w.Ts  upon  the  seventh  cause. 

Jaq.  How,  seventh  cause  ? — Good  my  lord,  hko 
this  fellow  ? 

Duke  S.  I  like  him  very  well. 

Touch.  God  'ild  you,  sir ;  I  desire  you  of  the  like. 
I  press  in  here,  sir,  amongst  the  rest  of  the  country 
copulatives,  to  swear,  and  to  forswear ;  according 
as  marriage  binds,  and  blood  breaks."  A  poor 
virgin,  sir,  an  ill-fevour'd  thing,  sir,  but  mine  own ; 
a  poor  humour  of  mine,  sir,  to  take  that  tliat  no 
man  else  will.  Rich  honesty  dwells  like  a  miser, 
sir,  in  a  poor  house ;  as  your  pearl  in  your  foul 
oyster. 

Duke  S.  By  my  faith,  he  is  very  swift  and  sen- 
tentious. 

Tottch.  According  to  the  fool's  bolt,  sir,  and  such 
dulcet  disca.ses. 

Jaq.  But,  for  the  seventh  cause  ;  how  did  you 
find  the  quarrel  on  the  seventh  cause  ? 

Touch.  Upon  a  lie  seven  times  removed ; — Bear 
your  body  more  seeming,  Audrey  : — as  thus,  sir. 
I  did  dislike  the  cut  of  a  certain  courtier's  beard  , 
he  sent  me  word,  if  I  said  his  beard  was  not  cut 
well,  he  was  in  the  mind  it  was.  This  is  call'd 
the  "  Retort  courteous."  If  I  sent  him  word 
again,  it  was  not  well  cut,  he  would  send  me 
word,  he  cut  it  to  please  himself.  This  is  call'd 
the  "Quip   modest."     If  again,  it  was  not  well 


AS  YOU  UKE  IT. 


BCESB   IV. 


cut,  he  disabled  my  judgment.  Tliis  is  call'd  the 
"  Reply  ehuilish."  If  again,  it  was  not  well  cut, 
he  would  answer,  I  spake  not  tiue.  This  is  call'd 
the  "  Reproof  valiant."  If  again,  it  was  not  well 
I'.ut,  he  would  say,  I  lie.  This  is  call'd  the 
"  Countercheck  quarrelsome  :"  and  so  to  "  Lie 
circumstantial,"  and  the  "Lie  direct." 

Juq.  And  how  oft  did  you  s.iy,  his  beard  w.as 
not  well  cut? 

Touch.  I  d'lrst  go  no  further  than  the  "Lie 
circumstantial,"  nor  he  durst  not  give  me  the  "  Lie 
direct:"  and  so  we  measur'd  swords,  and  parted. 

Jaq.  Can  you  nominate  in  order  now  the  de- 
grees of  the  lie  3 

Touch.  O  sir,  we  quarrel  in  print,  by  the  book ;°' 
as  you  have  Books  for  Good  Manners.""  I  will 
name  you  the  degrees.  The  first,  the  Retort  cour- 
teous; the  second,  the  Quip  modest;  the  third,  the 
Reply  ■  churlish  ;  the  fourth,  the  Reproof  valiant ; 
the  fifth,  the  Countercheck  quan-elsome ;  the  sixth, 
the  Lie  vi'ith  circumstance ;  the  seventh,  the  Lie 
direct.  All  these  you  may  avoid,  but  the  lie 
direct ;  and  you  may  avoid  that  loo,  with  an  If. 
I  knew  when  seven  justices  could  not  take  up  a 
ouarrel ;  but  when  the  parties  were  met  them- 
selves, one  of  them  thought  but  of  an  If,  as,  "  If 
you  said  so,  then  I  said  so ;"  and  they  shook  hands, 
and  swore  brothers.  Your  If  is  the  only  peace- 
maker; much  virtue  in  If. 

Jaq.  Is  not  this  a  rare  fellow,  my  lord  ?  he  's  as 
good  at  anything,  and  yet  a  fool. 

Duke  S.  lie  uses  his  folly  like  a  stalking-horse, 
and  under  the  presentation  of  that,  lie  shoots  his  wit. 

Enter  Hvmen,  leading  Rosalind  aiid  Celia. 
Still  Music. 

Hynx.     Then  is  there  mirth  in  heaven, 
AVhen  enrthly  tilings  made  even 

Atone  together. 
Good  duke,  receive  thy  daughter; 
Hymen  from  lieaven  brouglit  her. 

Yea,  broiiglit  her  hitlier ; 
That  thou  mightst  join  her  liand  with  his, 
"Whose  heart  witiiiii  lier  bosom  is. 

Ros.  To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  yours. 

[2b  Dlke  S. 
r<)  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  yours. 

\To  Orlando. 
Duke  S.  If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  are  my 

daughter. 
Orl,  If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  are  my  Ro- 
salind. 


Fhe.  If  sight  and  shape  be  true, 
Why,  then, — my  love  adieu  I 

lios.  I  '11  have  no  father,  if  you  be  not  he .  — 

[To  I>/.:e  S 
I  '11  have  no  husband,  if  you  be  not  he  : — 

[To  Ojlanuo 
Nor  ne'er  wed  woman,  if  you  be  not  she. 

[To  PUEBE 

ffym.   Peace,  ho !  I  bar  confusion. 
'T  is  I  must  make  conclusion 

Of  these  most  strange  event.s : 
Here  's  eight  that  must  take  hands. 
To  join  in  Uymen's  bands, 

If  truth  holds  true  contents. 
You  and  you  no  cross  shall  part : 

[To  Ohlando  and  Rosalind 
You  and  you  are  heart  in  heart : 

[To  Oliver  and  Celia 
You  [to  PiiE.]  to  his  love  must  accord. 
Or  have  a  woman  to  your  lord : 
You  and  you  are  sure  together, 

[To  Touchstone  and  Audrey 
As  the  winter  to  foul  weather. 
Whiles  a  wedlock  hymn  we  sing, 
Feed  yourselves  with  questioning. 
That  rea.son  wonder  may  diminisli, 
How  thus  we   met,   and   these   things 

finish. 

SOXG. 

Wedding  is  great  Juno's  crown  ; 

0  blessed  bond  of  board  and  bed  ; 
'T  is  Hymen  peoples  every  town  ; 

High  wedlock,  tiien,  be  honoured: 
Honour,  high  honour  and  renown. 
To  Hymen,  god  of  every  town  1 

Duke  S.  O  my  dear  niece,  welcome  thou  art 
to  me ; 
Even  daughter,  welcome  in  no  less  degree. 

Fhe.  I  will  not  eat  my  woid;  now  thou  art 
mine, 
Thy  faith  my  fancy  to  thee  doth  combine.'"' 

[To  SiLVICS. 

Enter  Jaques  de  Bois. 

Jaques  de  B.  Let  me  have  audience  for  a  word 
or  two ; 
I  am  the  second  son  of  old  sir  Rowland, 
That  bring  these  tidings  to  this  fiiir  assembly : 
Duke  Frederick,  hearing  how  that  every  day 
Men  of  great  worth  resorted  to  this  forest, 
Address'd  a  mighty  power,  which  were  on  foot, 
In  his  own  conduct,  purposely  to  take 

437 


AS  YOU  LIKE  n 


SCENE  rv 


His  brother  here,  and  put  him  to  the  sword : 
And  to  the  skirts  of  this  wild  wood  he  came, 
Where,  meeting  witli  an  old  religious  man, 
Ai'ter  some  question  with  him,  was  converted 
Both  from  his  enterprise,  and  from  the  world : 
His  crown  bequeath'ng  to  his  banish'd  brother, 
And  all  their  lands  restor'd  to  them  again, 
Tlia't  were  with  him  exil'd.     This  to  be  true, 
I  do  engage  my  life. 

Duhe  S.  Welcome,  young  man ; 

Thou  offer'st  fairly  to  thy  brothers'  wedding : 
To  one,  his  lands  withheld  ;  and  to  the  other, 
A  land  itself  at  large,  a  potent  dukedom. 
First,  in  this  forest,  let  us  do  those  ends 
That  here  were  well  begun,  and  well  begot : 
And  after,  every  of  this  happy  number. 
That  have  endur'd  shrewd  days  and  nights  with  us. 
Shall  share  the  good  of  our  returned  fortune, 
According  to  the  measure  of  their  'states. 
Meantime,  forget  this  new-feU'n  dignity, 
And  fall  into  our  rustic  revelry : — 
Flay,  music  ; — and  you  brides  and  bridegrooms  all. 
With  measure  heap'd  in  joy,'"^  to  t-h'  measures  fall. 
Jaq.   Sir,  by  your  patience ;    If  I  heard  you 

rightly, 
Tne  duke  hath  put  on  a  religious  life. 
And  thrown  into  neglect  the  pompous  court? 
Jaq.  de  B.  He  hath. 

Jaq.  To  him  will  I :  out  of  these  convertities 
There  is  much  matter  to  be  heard  and  learn'd. — 
You  to  your  former  honour  I  bequeath ; 

[To  Ddke  S. 
Your    patience,    and    your    \-irtue,    well    deserve 

it:— 
You  \to  Orlando]  to  a  love  that  your  true  faith 

doth  merit : — 
You  \to  Ouver]  to  your  land,  and  love,  and  great 

allies : — 
\'ou  [to  SiLvrcs]  to   a  long  and   well-deserved 

bed:— 

438 


And  you  [to  Touchstone]  to  wrangling ;  for  thy 

loving  voyage 
Is  but  for  two  months  victuall'd  : — So  to  youi 

pleasures ; 
I  am  for  other  than  fc  r  dancing  measures. 
Duke  S.  Stay,  Jaques,  stay. 
Jaq.  To  see  no  pastime,  I : — what  you  would 
have, 
I  '11  stay  to  know  at  your  abandon'd  cave.     [Exit. 
Duke  S.  Proceed,  proceed :  we  '11  begin  these 
rites. 
As  we  do  trust  they  '11  end  in  true  delights. 

[A  dance, 

EPILOGUE. 

J?os.  It  is  not  the  fashion  to  see  the  lady  the 
epilogue  :  but  it  is  no  more  unhandsome,  than  to 
see  the  lord  the  prologue.  If  it  be  true  that 
"  good  wine  needs  no  bush,"""  't  is  true  that  a 
good  play  needs  no  epilogue :  Y'^et  to  good  wine 
they  do  use  good  bushes ;  and  good  plays  prove 
the  better  by  the  help  of  good  epilogues.  What 
a  case  am  I  in  then,  that  am  neither  a  good  epi- 
logue, nor  cannot  insinuate  with  you  in  the  behalf 
of  a  good  play  !  I  am  not  furnish'd  like  a  beggar, 
therefore  to  beg  will  not  become  me  :  my  way  is, 
to  conjure  you  ;  and  I  '11  begin  with  the  women, 
I  charge  you,  O  women,  for  the  love  you  bear  to 
men,  to  like  as  much  of  this  play  as  please  you  : 
and  I  charge  you,  0  men,  for  the  love  you  bear 
to  women,  (as  I  perceive  by  your  simp'ring,  none 
of  you  bate  them,)  that  between  you  and  the 
women,  the  play  may  please.  K I  were  a  woman, 
I  would  kiss  as  many  of  you  as  had  boards  that 
pleas'<l  me,  complexions  that  lik'd  me,  and  breaths 
that  I  defied  not :  and,  I  am  sure,  as  many  as 
have  good  beards,  or  good  faces,  or  sweet  breaths, 
will,  for  my  kind  offer  when  I  make  curtsy,  bid 
me  ferewell. 

[Hxeunt 


lOTES  TO  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


*  Sut  a  poor  thousand  crowns. 

60  the  second  folio,  the  first  edition  reading;,  "but  poor 
&  thineaud  crowns,"  which  may,  however,  bo  riglit ;  not 
exacUy,  I  think,  for  the  reason  assigned  by  Mr.  Knight, 
but  as  &n  instance  of  a  construction  familiar  to  writers  of 
the  period.  "How  poor  an  instrument  may  do  a  noble 
act,"  An.tofiy  a?id  ClcojMtra.  It  tvas  is  understood  before 
charged. 

Stai/gj  keeps,  detains, 

^  Ills  countenance  seems  U  talef^'oin  7n<i. 

Countenance  seems  to  be  equivalent  to,  behaviour.  Used 
.n  eitlieragood  or  bad  sense.  J/i/ie*,  equivalent  to,  un- 
dermines.    What  make  you  liere^  what  do  yon  here? 

3  And  he  navght  awhile! 

This  is  merely  a  petty  oath,  equivalent  to,  a  m,ischief  on 
y</u.     It  is  generally  misunderstood  by  the  actors. 

Sir  AV.  Scott,  in  his  autobiography,  gives  an  interesting 
account  of  the  etfect  this  scene  in  representation  had  upon 
his  youthful  mind.  "  The  most  delightful  recollections  of 
Bdth  are  dated  after  the  arrival  of  my  uncle.  Captain 
Robert  Scott,  who  introduced  me  to  all  the  little  amuse- 
ments which  suited  my  age,  and,  above  all,  to  the  theatre. 
The  play  was  As  You  Like  It;  and  the  witchery  of  the 
whole  scene  is  alive  in  my  mind  at  this  moment.  I  made, 
I  believe,  noise  more  than  enough,  and  remember  being  so 
much  scandalized  at  the  quarrel  between  Orlando  and  his 
brother  in  the  first  scene,  that  I  screamed  out,  *  A'  n't  they 
orotherft  V  A  few  weeks'  residence  at  home  convinced  me, 
who  had  till  then  been  an  only  child  in  the  house  of  my 
grandfather,  that  a  quairel  between  brothers  was  a  very 
flatuial  event." 

<  Villain  seems  to  be  used  in  two  significations,  in  its 
present  sense,  and  also  with  its  original  meaning,  a  person 
born  in  subjection. 

■  An^fieet  the  time  carelessly. 
FUet,  make  to  flit  or  oass.     Baret.  1580,  has  Jleete  for 

Inkndment^  intention. 

^  I  will  stir  this  gam^gter. 

Giimej^t^r^  adventurer,  frolicsome  fellow.  The  term 
occurs  "m  a  similar  sense  in  the  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  ii. 


1,    Encltantinglf/^  as  if  acting  under  the  power  cf  enchant 
raent. 
Kindle^  excite,  entice. 

^  He  never  had  any, 

A  similar  joke,  as  Boswell  observes,  is  found  in  the  oh' 
play  of  Damon  and  Pitbias,  1573: 

I  have  taken  a  wise  othe  on  him  ;  hfxve  I  not,  trow  ye, 

To  trust  such  a  false  knave  upon  his  lionestie  ? 

As  he  is  an  honest  man  (quotii  you  i)  he  may  bewray  all 

to  the  kinge. 
And  breke  his  oth  for  this  never  a  whit. 


•*  You  HI  he  whipped  for  taxation. 

Ta-xation,  censure,  satire.  "Things  much  more  snty- 
ricall  have  passed  both  the  publicke  stage  and  the  prcsse, 
and  never  questioned  by  authority ;  and  there  art*  fewer 
that  will  find  themselves  touched  or  taxed,^^  C.  Brooke, 
1625. 


»  Zaid  on  with  a  t/roicel. 

That  is,  grossly,  without  delicacy.  M.  Mason  says  the 
phrase  is  still  in  use.  A  similar  expression  occurs  in  Tony 
Lumpkin, — "  tliat  was  a  dash  with  the  pound  brusli." 

Amaze,  utterly  confuse,  confound. 


"  With  hUls  on  their  necks. 

Notwithstanding  the  passage  quoted  by  Farmer  from 
Lodge,  I  am  induced  to  believe  Kosalind  intends  by  hilU 
merely  lalels,  or  advertisements,  which  were  formerly  so 
termed. 


11  If  you  saw  yourself  with  your  eyes. 

If  you  could  only  SCO  yourself,  and  exercise  vour  cwu 
judgment  to  know  yourself,  the  fear  of  your  adventure 
would  counsel  you  to  a  more  equal  cnterprizfe. 

15  T%at  vxis  never  gracloits. 

^/•(/rioMs  appears  to  be  here  used  in  the  sense  of  graced 
favoured,  acceptable.     See  Mr.  Singer's  edition,  p.  ]19. 


13  Calling,  name,  appellation. 


4ni) 


NOTES  TO  AS  YOU  LIKE  U\ 


"  Exceeded  all  tn  promise. 

This  readiug  t-f  the  second  folio,  which  appears  to  be 
right,  has  escaped  the  notice  of  all  the  editors. 

'=•  Is  hut  a  quintain^  a  mere  lifeless  lloch 

In  the  diversion  of  the  quintain,  a  strong  post  was  tixed 
in  thegrouuJ,  with  a  piece  of  wood  on  the  top  turning  upon 
»  spindle.  This  piece  of  wood  varied  in  its  form  and  action, 
but  was  always  formed  so  that  a  blow  on  one  side  gave  it  a 
sharp  rotatory  motion.  The  quintain  was  tilted  at  by  horse- 
men, who,  if  expert,  would  contrive  to  ride  with  sufficient 
rapidity  to  escape  the  shock  from  the  revolving  board  or 
image.  The  poet  undoubtedly  alludes  to  some  kind  of 
quintain  which  resembled  the  human  figure. 

i"^  Jle  misconsters  all. 

MUconMer,  the  genuine  archaic  form  of  misconetruey  and 
&hould  not  be  altered.  Mr.  Knight  has  restored  it  in  Henry 
VI.,  but  it  lias  escaped  his  notice  in  the  present  instance. 
As  I  have  elsewhere  remarked,  it  is  a  matter  of  great  diffi- 
culty to  be  uniform  in  these  minute  readings. 

Condition,  temper,  disposition. 

"  For  my  child* s father. 

Mr.  Knight  thinks  this,  the  original  reading,  indelicate; 
and  80  it  wouid  be  undoubtedly  to  modern  ears.  Jokes  of 
this  kind  were  very  commonly  received  in  Shakespeare's 
time,  and  a  worse  one  is  assigned  to  Beatrice  in  Much  Ado 
about  Nothing,  ii.  1. 

^^  If  J  covld  cry  'A^m,'  and  have  him. 

If,  as  1  suspect,  there  is  here  a  quibble  between  hem  and 
^i?«,  the  force,  even  of  Shakespearian  quibbling,  "can  no 
further  go." 

'5  By  this  kind  of  chase. 

Alluding,  probably,  to  the  deer,  quibbling  on  ttie  word 
dearly.  Mrs.  Ford  tells  Falslalf,  "  I  will  never  take  you 
lor  my  love  again,  but  I  will  always  count  you  my  deer  ;'''' 
and  Malone  has  preserved  some  verses,  supposed  to  have 
been  written  by  Shakespeare  on  sir  Thomas  Lucy,  in  which 
the  same  quibble  occurs: — 

Sir  Thomas  was  too  covetous 

To  covet  so  much  deer, 
Wl'.en  horns  enougli  upon  his  head 

Most  plainly  did  appear. 

Uad  not  his  "Worship  one  deer  left? 

Wiiftttlicn?  he  liad  a  wife 
Took  pains  enoutrh  to  find  liim  horns 

Sliould  last  him  during  life. 

Dearly,  extremely. 


'"  Doth  he  iwt  deserve  icellf 

That  is,  to  bo  hatod.    Rosalind  affects  to  understand  her 
In  a  literal  sense. 


"  And  your  own  remorse. 

Bemorse  is  licre  used  in  tlie  sense  of  pity,  compassion. 
NnmorouB  instances  of  ita  use  in  that  signification  octur 
in  eld  plays. 

4<0 


»  A  hind  ofumher. 

Umber  is  a  dusky  yellow-coloured  earth,  brought  from 
Umbria  in  Italy.  In  an  old  play  cal«d  the  Tcll-Tale,  a 
MS.  at  Dniwich  College,  one  of  the  staffe-directions  Ib 
"He  umbers  her  face." 


"  A  swashing  and  a  martial  outside. 

Swashing,  noisy,  blustering.  '*  To  swash,  or  to  make  p 
noise  with  swordes  against  tergats,"  Baret's  Alvearie,  15S0 

^^  Wears  yet  a  precious  jeicel  in  his  head. 

A  graphic  account  of  this  popular  notion  will  be  found 
in  Topsell's  lllstorie  of  Serpents,  1608  : — "There  be  many 
late  writers  which  doe  affirme  that  there  is  a  precious  stone 
in  the  head  of  a  toade,  whose  opinions  (because  thoy  attri- 
bute much  to  the  vertue  of  this  stone)  it  is  good  to  examine 
in  tliis  place,  that  so  the  reader  may  be  satisfied  whether  to 
hold  it  as  a  fable  or  as  a  true  matter,  exemplifying  the 
powerfuU  working  of  Almightie  God  in  nature,  for  there  be 
many  that  weare  these  stones  in  rings,  bceing  verily  per- 
swaded  that  they  keepe  them  from  all  manner  of  grypliigs 
and  paines."  lie  proceeds  to  say,  **  But  the  art  (as  they 
terme  it)  is  In  taking  of  it  out,  for  they  say  it  must  be  fcikeri 
out  of  the  head  alive,  before  tlic  toade  be  dead,  with  a 
peece  of  cloth  of  the  colour  of  redde  skarlet,  wherewithal! 
they  are  much  delighted,  so  that  while  tiicy  strctcli  out 
themselves,  as  it  were,  in  sport  upon  that  cloth,  they  cast 
out  tlie  stone  of  their  head,  but  instantly  tliey  sup  it  up 
againe,  unlesse  it  be  taken  from  them  through  some  secrete 
hole  in  the  said  cloth,  whereby  it  fulleth  into  a  cesternc  oi 
vessell  of  water,  into  the  which  the  toade  darcth  not  eutci 
by  reason  of  the  coldues  of  the  water." 

''  And  thus  the  havry  fool. 

Fool  is  here,  as  in  several  other  places,  used  as  a  term  of 
endearment.     KeedUss,  wanting  not. 

2«  And  to  hill  them  up. 

The  preposition  up  is  redundant,  not  intensative.  Few 
idioms  are  more  common  in  Elizabethan  writers,  and  nume- 
rous instances,  were  it  necessary,  might  be  adduced  ;  but  I 
shall  reserve  them  for  an  essay  on  Shakespearian  phrase- 
ology, which  will  be  appended  to  the  present  edition.  Kd\ 
them,  up  is  equivalent  to  K/^^t'm;  and,  in  the  same  manner, 
drink  up  eiell  in  Ilamlct  is  equivalent  to,  drink  ei'Sil.  Au 
immense  deal  of  unnecessary  commentary  might  be  saved, 
were  simple  facts  of  this  kind  borne  in  mind. 

Cope,  encounter. 

3'  The  roinish  clown. 

lioinish,  literally,  mangy^  but  used  as  a  generic  term  ot 
contempt. 

3*  Search  and  inquisition  quail. 

Quail,  to  slacken  or  relax.  *' Hunger  cureth  love,  foj 
love  quaileth  when  good  cheare  failcth,"  Choise  of  Chan;je 
1685,  ap.  Douce. 

''  The  bonny  priser 
The  gallant  prize-flghter.     Bonny  is  found  in  tho  original 


novel.     Warburtou  reads  hony. 


NOTES  TO  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


»  ThU  ie  no  place. 

That  B.  nj  abiding  plfioe  for  you,  no  place  of  security 
for  yot;  to  remiiin  in.  Diverted,  turned  out  of  ita  proiicr 
courHO. 

"  It  is  too  late  a  week. 

A  week  was  oftci  idiomatically  used  for  an  indefinite 
ruriod  of  time. 

33  IIow  weory  are  my  spirits. 

Mr.  Knigbt  supports  tlie  original  reading,  merry,  but  I 
cannot  bring  myself  to  reject  Tbeobald's  emendation.  If 
Rosalind  was  assuming  a  merry  heart,  how  can  we  rccon- 
ciJe  the  old  reading  with  her  next  speech  ? 

'=  /  should  hear  no  cross. 

A  penny  was  called  a  cross,  because  that  com  formerly 
had  a  cross  stamped  upon  it.  There  is  no  limit  to  tlie 
quibbling  on  this  word. 

"  The  hissing  of  her  batler. 

A  batler  was  the  wooden  bat  or  instrument  used  by 
washicg-women  for  beating  the  coarse  clothes.  The  term, 
corrupted  to  battlelon,  is  still  in  use  in  some  of  the  Western 
counties. 

so  IVifh  weeping  tears. 

If  this  expression  be  borrowed  from  Lodge,  it  may  pos- 
sibly be  introduced  with  an  intention  to  ridicule  it.  One 
of  tne  sonnets  in  the  novel  commences  as  follows : — 

In  sorrowes  cell  I  laid  me  downe  to  sleepe. 
But  walking  woes  were  jealous  of  mine  eyes ; 

They  made  tliem  watcli,  and  bend  themselves  to  weepe, 
But  weeping  tears  tlieir  want  could  not  suffice  : 

Yet  since  for  her  tliey  wept  who  guides  my  heart. 

They  weeping  smile,  and  triumph  in  their  smart. 

According  to  Mr.  Davy,  speaking  of  Suffolk,  "  The  effi- 
cacy of  peascods  in  the  affairs  of  sweethearts  is  not  yet 
forgotten  among  our  rustic  vulgar.  The  kitchen-maid, 
when  she  shells  green  pease,  never  omits,  if  she  finds  one 
having  nine  pease,  to  lay  it  on  the  lintel  of  the  kitchen- 
door,  and  the  first  clown  who  enters  it  is  infallibly  to  be 
her  husband,  or  at  least  her  sweetheart."  Anderson  men- 
tions a  custom  in  the  north,  of  a  nature  somewhat  similar. 
*'  A  Cumbrian  girl,  when  her  lover  proves  unfaithful  to  her, 
is,  by  way  of  consolation,  rubbed  with  pease-straw  by  the 
neighbouring  lads ;  and  when  a  Cumbrian  youth  loses  his 
sweetheart,  by  her  marriage  with  a  rival,  the  same  sort  of 
comfort  is  administered  to  him  by  the  lasses  of  the  villags." 
"  Winter-time  for  shoeing,  peas-cod  time  for  wooing,"  old 
proverb  in  M  S.  Devon  Gl.  The  divin.ation  by  peascods 
alluded  to  by  Mr.  Davy  is  thus  mentioned  by  Gay  :^ 

As  peascods  once  I  pluok'd,  I  chanced  to  see 
One  that  was  closely  fiU'd  with  three  times  three ; 
VVhich,  when  cropp'd,  I  safely  home  convey'd, 
And  o'er  the  door  the  spell  in  secret  laid ; 
The  latch  mov'd  up,  when  who  should  first  come  in, 
]:i'at,  in  his  proper  person, — Lubberkin. 

But  perhaps  the  allusion  in  Shakespeare  is  best  illustra- 
ted by  the  following  passage,  which  seems  to  have  escaped 
the  notice  of  all  writers  on  this  subject. 
6 


The  peascod  grecno  oft  with  no  little  toyle, 
He  'tl  secko  for  in  the  fattest,  fertiTht  so'.lo, 
An<l  rentl  it  from  the  sta'ko  to  bring  it  to  her. 
And  in  her  bosome  for  acceptance  wooe  her. 

Jirowne'a  BritanniaU  Pastorals,  p.  71 

Moll  Berry,  in  Heywood's  Fair  Maid  of  the  KxohaQgf, 
1607,  chooses  the  peascod  for  the  emblem  of  her  love : — 

I  cannot  tell  how  others'  fancies  stand. 
But  I  rejuice  sometime  to  take  in  hand 
The  simile  of  that  I  love  ;  and  I  protest 
Thiit  pretty  peascod  likes  my  humour  best. 

«  Mortal  in  folly. 
Extremely  vreak  in  folly. 

"  JwUl  your  very  faithful  feeder  be. 

Feeder  was  an  old  term  for  a  servant,  but  I  am  not  sure 
it  is  here  employed  in  that  sense. 

2'  And  turn  his  merry  note. 

To  turn  a  tune,  in  the  counties  of  York  and  Durham,  is 
the  appropriate  and  familiar  phrase  for  modulating  the  voice 
properly  according  to  the  turns  or  air  of  the  tune.    Whiter, 

SB  My  voice  ic  ragged. 

Bagged,  broken,  unequal,  discordant.  "I  would  not 
trot  a  false  gallop  through  the  rest  of  his  ragged  verses," 
Nash,  1593. 

Disputable,  inclined  to  dispute. 

«  Ducdame,  duodame,  ducdame. 

The  notes  of  the  commentators  on  this  word  are  by  no 
means  satisfactory.  Mr.  Collier  judiciously  omits  the  ac- 
cent Ducdame,  for,  it  being  necessarily  a  trisyllabic,  owing 
to  the  construction  of  the  verse,  if  any  accent  were  re- 
quired, we  ought  to  print  Ducdame.  The  mere  fact  of  the 
word  being  a  trisyllable  shows  at  once  the  inconsistency  ol 
attempting  to  establish  a  connexion  with  the  old  country 
song,  commencing, — 

"  Dame,  what  makes  your  duels  to  die  ?" 

on  which  Whiter  and  Farmer  have  so  elaborately  written, 
and  which  Mr.  Knight  pronounces  much  more  rational  than 
Ilanmer's  conjecture  oi  due  ad  me,  which  is  forced  and  un- 
necessary, I  admit,  but  not  quite  so  absurd  as  to  suppose 
Jaques  was  using  some  country  call  of  a  woman  to  hei 
ducks.  Mr.  Collier  seems  correct  when  he  says  that  Jaqu  es' 
declaration  of  its  being  "a  Greek  invocation  to  call  fools 
into  a  circle"  is  merely  a  jeer  upon  the  ignorance  of  Amiens. 
In  other  words,  Amiens  understood  as  little  about  Ducdami 
as  the  commentators,  and  the  answer  of  Jaques  is  a  playful, 
not  a  serious  exposition  of  the  word. 

Some  time  ago,  I  met  with  a  passage  in  an  uncoUated 
MS.  of  the  "Visions  of  Piers  Ploughman,"  in  the  Bodleian 
Library,  which  goes  far  to  prove  that  Ducdame  is  a  burden 
of  an  old  song,  an  explanation  which  exactly  agrees  with  its 
position  in  the  song  of  Jaques.  The  passage  is  as  follows:— 

"Thanne  sete  ther  some, 
And  sun^e  at  the  ale. 
And  helpen  to  erye  that  half  akro 
With  Dusadam-7ne-me.^^ 

MS.  Jiawl.  Pint.  187,  f  0. 
411 


NOTES  TO  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


•■  {^tiit  nry/Uh/nrest. 
Unoouth,  ctrangB,  unknown.     So  Ben  Jonsou, — 
-It  is  no  uncouth  thin?, 


To  see  fresh  buildings  f;om  old  ruins  spring. 
Comforiahle,  susceptible  of  comfort, 

"  And  then  he  drew  a  dial  film  flit  poke. 

The  term  dial  was  applied,  io  Sb.tejpeare's  time,  to 
docks  and  watches,  as  well  as  to  tre  ring-dial.  The  pro- 
babilities are  here,  I  think,  in  f.*v,r.r  of  a  watch  being  the 
kense  intended  by  the  authoi.  t<;.  Knight,  however,  cou- 
biders  a  ring-dial  is  meant,  eju  cives  an  interesting  note 
on  tho  subject. 

*'  Doth  v;r /  foolishly, 

Theobald  adds  the  wor'.f  «5<  to  in  the  next  line.  The 
original  is  undoubtedly  corrupt,  for  few  will  adopt  Whiter's 
very  forced  explanation ;  yet  I  much  doubt  if  Theobald's 
correction  be  true.  May  we  not  rather  suppose  a  line  has 
been  omitted  ?    Hob,  satirical  rap,  repartee. 

Sqiuind^ring,  wandering. 

"  The  icearer^s  very  meana. 

Tlie  original  has  weary  very,  which  Whiter  interprets, — 
"  till  that  the  very  means,  being  weary,  do  ebb."  The  text 
is  the  conjectural  emendation  of  Mr.  Singer. 

Bravery,  finery.     Taxing  ;  see  note  8. 

**  Inaccessible,  difficult  of  access. 

*^  Upon  command. 
Upon  your  own  command,  at  your  pleasure. 

*'  WeaTc  evili. 
That  is,  unhappy  weaknesses,  or  causes  of  weakness. 

*s  Wherein  we  play  in. 

The  phraseology  of  the  time.  The  last  preposition  is 
rnnecessarily  omitted  by  Pope. 

"  Full  of  iciu  saws  and  Tnodern  instances. 

Famili.ar  as  every  line  of  this  celebrated  speech  is  to  all 
cars.  It  may  be  doubted  wlicthcr  most  readers  are  aware 
that  m/>dern  is  here  used  in  the  common  old  sense  of,  slight, 
trieial.    So  Ben  Jonson,  satyrizing  Marston,  writes, — 

Alas  I  that  were  no  Tn^^/cra- consequence. 
To  have  cothurnal  buskins  frighted  hence. 

Wo  have  the  word  need  in  the  same  sense  by  Kosaliud 
at  the  commencement  of  tho  fourth  act. 

^'  Into  the  lean  and  slippered  pantaloon. 

The  Pantaloon  was  a  character  in  the  old  Italian  comedy. 
Qo  is  described  by  Addison  aa  "  an  old  cully." 


**  Blow,  blow,  tliou  winter  wind. 

A  very  early  song  in  MS.  Ilarl.  2253,  written  about  thci 
fear  1300,  commences  with  tho  line, — 

Blow,  northcrne  wynd. 
•l-t2 


"  Malce  an  exi-^nt  upon  his  hoitee  and  lands. 

An  extent,  says  Blonnt,  Law  Dictionary,  1691,  *' some- 
times signifies  a  writ  or  commission  to  the  sheriff  for  the 
valuing  of  hands  or  tenements ;  sometimes  the  act  of  tho 
sheriff,  or  other  ccmmissioner,  upon  this  writ." 


'2  Thrice-orowned  queen  of  night, 

"Alluding,"  says  Dr.  Johnson,  "to  the  triple  character 
of  Proserpine,  Cynthia,  and  Diana,  given  by  some  mytho- 
logists  to  the  same  goddess,  and  comprised  in  these  memo- 
rable lines : 

"  Terret,  lustrat,  agit,  Proserpina,  Luna,  Diana, 
Ima,  supcrna,  feras,  sceptro,  fulgore,  sagittis." 

Character,  inscribe.    Cf.  Two  Gent,  of  Ver.  ij.  7. 


"  And  unexpresdve  the, 

Uneipressive,  inexpressible.    Milton  uses  the  term  more 
than  once,  and  it  is  also  found  in  Glapthome's  Poems,  1639. 


65  May  complain  of  good-breeding. 

This  is  elliptical,  as  Dr.  Johnson  observes,  for  "  may 
complain  of  the  want  of  good  breeding."  The  idiom  is 
even  not  yet  entirely  obsolete. 


"  Liie  an  ill-roasied  egg. 

Thou  art  damn'd,  completely  destroyed,  spoilt  as  inevi- 
tably as  an  egg  is  which  is  roasted  all  on  one  side.  "  A 
fool  is  the  best  roaster  of  an  egg,  because  he  is  always 
turning  it,"  old  proverb. 

"  God  mate  incition  in  thee  ! 

That  is,  says  Caldecott,  let  God  enlarge  and  open  thy 
mind.  Steevens  thinks  it  may  have  reference  to  the  pro- 
verbial expression  of  being  cut  for  the  simples.  Baw,  ig- 
norant, inexperienced.  This  word,  now  only  used  in  slang, 
was  formerly  classical.  Perhaps,  however,  the  first  ex 
pression  is  metaphorically  taken  from  an  old  surgical  term. 

*8  Butter-woman^ s  rank  to  marlcet, 

Banlc  is  liere  equivalent  to  order,  "The  right  butter- 
woman's  rank  to  market,"  says  Whiter,  "  means  tho  jog- 
trot rate,  as  it  is  vulgarly  called,  with  which  butter-women 
uniformly  travel  one  after  another  in  their  road  to  market." 


»'  That  shall  cIdH  sayings  show. 

Civil  sayings,  explained  by  Gififord,  "  sayings  collected 
from  an  intercourse  with  civil  life."  That  great  critic, 
speaking  of  tho  word  civil,  says  it  alludes  to  the  political 
regulations,  customs,  and  habits  of  the  city,  as  distin- 
guished from  the  court :  sometimes,  indeed,  it  takes  a 
wider  range,  and  comprises  a  degree  of  civilization  or 
moral  improvement,  as  opposed  to  a  state  of  barbarism,  oi 
pure  imlurc. 

A  few  other  observations  on  tho  poem  read  by  Celia  maj 
not  bo  unacceptable.  Brring,  wandering.  Boikles  is  an 
archaism  for  bends.  In  little,  in  miniature.  "  A  hundred 
ducats  a  piece  for  his  picture  in  little."  Hamlet.  i>ad,  ap 
plied  to  Lucrotia,  grave,  serious.     2'ouchet,  features. 


NOTES  TO  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


<"  AUUanta's  better  part. 

A  isrreat  deal  h»s  been  written  on  the  meaning  of  Atalan- 
!a's  letter  part,  and  one  critic  unhesitating  states  it  refers  to 
her  virginity  I  It  appears,  liowevcr,  merely  to  have  been 
%u  iiliomatio  expression  for  the  miuil  or  Bpirit.  Macbeth 
mys,- 

For  it  has  cow'd  my  better  part  of  man. 

"  TfuU  I  was  an  Irith  rat. 

An  old  myth  that  rata  were  frequently  rhymed  to  death 
in  Ireland,  is  several  times  alluded  to  by  our  old  poets.  Ben 
Jonson  tlius  mentions  the  belief  in  the  Poetaster, — 

Rhyme  them  to  death,  as  they  do  Iriwh  rats 
In  "drumming  tunes. 

See  further  in  Giiford's  Ben  Jonson,  ii.  546. 

«  But  mountains  may  be  remov'd. 

An  old  proverb  says, — 

Friends  may  meet, 

But  mountains  never  greet. 

Out  of  all  w?ioopin(/,  out  of  all  cry,  out  of  all  measure. 
Good  mi/-(vnipUxlon,  equivalent  to,  "  my  good  natural  char- 
acter," which  she  apostrophizes. 

One  incli  of  delay  vwre  is  a  South  Sea  of  discovery.  Thus 
explained  by  Mr.  Knight, — "If  you  perplex  me  any  fur- 
ther, I  have  a  space  for  conjecture  as  wide  as  the  South 
Sea."  I  prefer,  however,  Mr.  Collier's  interpretation : — 
"  a  single  inch  of  delay  is  more  to  Eosalind  than  a  whole 
continent  in  the  South-Sea." 

"  Zet  me  stay  the  growth  of  his  heard. 

Let  me  wait  for  the  growth  of  his  beard,  if  you  will  tell 
me  who  he  is. 

•'  Garagantua's  mouth. 

No  very  early  translation  of  Kabolais  is  known  to  exist, 
out  there  was  probably  a  popular  work  on  the  subject  of 
this  giant,  Gargantua  being  mentioned  as  tlie  title  of  a  tract 
in  Laneham's  letter  from  Kenilworth,  1575.  A  book  en- 
titled the  "  History  of  Gargantua"  was  entered  on  the  books 
of  the  Stationers*  Company  in  1594.  The  author  of  Harry 
Wliites  Humour,  16-10,  "is  of  this  opinion,  that  if  the 
histories  of  Gargantua  and  Tom  Thumbe  be  true,  by  con- 
sequence, Bevis  of  Hampton  and  Sooggin'a  jests  must 
needs  be  authenticaU." 

"'  It  is  as  easy  to  count  atomies. 

Atomies,  the  old  form  o{  atoms..  "Cireumstanoes  are  the 
atomies  of  policie.  Censure  the  being.  Action  the  life,  but 
Buocesse  the  ornament,"  Overbury's  New  and  Choise  Char- 
acters, 1615. 

"  You  bring  me  out. 
Tliat  is,  you  put  me  out,  interrupt  me. 

"  1  answer  you  right  painted  cloth. 

Painted  cloth  was  cloth  or  canvass  painted  in  oil,  and 
often  e-ihibited  mottos  and  verses.  Taylor,  the  Water- 
Poet,  quoted  by  Mr.  Dyce,  gives  the  following  specimens  of 
painted-cloth  poetry  copied  from  the  walls  of  an  inn  at  Uye 
in  1658:— 

No  flower  so  fresh,  but  frost  may  it  deface  ; 
!Noue  sits  so  fast,  be  heo  may  lose  his  place. 


Tis  concord  keeps  a  roalmo  in  stable  stay, 
But  discord  brings  all  kingdoms  to  decay. 

No  8ul)joct  ought,  for  any  kind  of  cause, 
Kesibt  his  prince,  but  yeeld  him  to  the  lawes. 

Sure  God  is  just,  whose  stroako,  delayed  long. 
Doth  light  at  last  with  paiue  more  sharp  and  strong. 

Time  never  was,  nor  neVe,  I  thinkc,  shall  be. 
That  truth  unshent  might  speake  in  all  things  free. 

We  have  had  a  specimen  of  a  similar  phraseology  in  the 
same  act, — "Speak  sad  brow,  and  true  maid." 

*8  JJe  trots  hard  with  a  young  maid. 

Can  this  be  accepted  that  Time  appears  so  long  to  her  thai 
it  increases  the  necessary  pace  to  enable  him  to  overcome 
it  ?  There  appears  some  defect  in  the  text,  and  I  am  almost 
inclined  to  adopt  Mr.  Hunter's  emendation. 

•'  OourtsMp,  courtly  manners. 

'"  Jf  I  could  meet  that  fancy-monger. 

Fancy  is  love,  as  has  been  already  observed.  So  in 
A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream, — 

Wishes  and  tears,  poor  fancy's  followers 

"  An  unquestionable  spirit. 

Unquestionable,  not  to  be  conversed  with.  Question  Li 
constantly  used  in  the  sense  oi  discourse.  Eosalind  says  in 
another  scene,  "I  met  the  duke,  and  had  much  question 
with  him."  Having,  possession,  property.  Point-device, 
exactly  in  the  fashion. 

"  Mbonish,  inconstant,  variable, 

'3  A  living  humour  of  madness. 

Living,  absolute,  undoubted.  "  Give  me  a  living  rea-son 
she's  disloyal,"  Othello,  iii.  3. 

'*  Lord  warrant  us.'  what  features  f 

A  mere  piece  of  rustic  simplicity,  Audrey  not  understand- 
ing the  meaning  of  the  word,  and  repeating  it  in  perplexity, 
The  note  of  Steevens  appears  to  me  to  be  unnecessarily 
prurient. 

Ili-inhabited,  badly  lodged. 

"  A  material  fool. 

That  is,  a  fool  full  of  good  sense  and  sound  information. 
The  Duke,  speaking  of  Jaques,  says, — 

I  love  to  cope  him  in  these  sullen  fits. 
For  then  he  's  full  of  ^natter. 

'"  lam  foul. 

Foul,  homely  looking.  This  meaning  of  the  term  oon 
tinned  in  use  ti'J  the  last  century.    So  Pope, — 

If  fair,  though  chaste,  she  cannot  long  abide, 
By  pressing  youth  attack'd  on  every  side; 
If  foul,  her  wealth  the  lusty  lover  lures. 

'7  As  huge  as  the  rascal. 

liascal  was  applied  to  a  lean  deer,  out  of  season.  "  And 
have  known  a  rascal  from  a  fot  doer,"  Quarles's  Virgin 
Widow,  1649.  "llascall,  refuse  beest,  nfus,"  Palsgravo 
1530. 

443 


NOTES  TO  AS  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


"  B(fence,  tlie  knowledge  of  fence.  Sir  Oliver  ifarUxt, 
the  sir  corresponding  to  the  Latin  dominus.  See  note  No. 
1  to  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

'"  Sometldn^  browner  than  Judas' s. 

The  hnir  of  Jadaa  was  usually  represented  aa  red  in  the 
old  tnjicstry. 

'"  Tilt  Umch  of  holy  Iread. 

Holy  b.'cad  was  bread  touched  by  the  priest,  and  given 
"in  sign  of  our  union  to  Christ." 

So.  5,  now  counterfeit  to  sounds  i.  e.,  to  swoon.  This 
genuine  arcnaism  should  be  preserved.  It  occurs  again  in 
Act  V.  Sc.  2. 

81  The  cicatrice  and  capable  impressure. 

That  is,  the  scar  and  perceptible  impression.  Oipaile  is 
here  equivalent  to,  able  to  receive. 

M  Foul  u  most  foul,  being  foul,  to  be  a  scoffer. 

That  is,  literally,  ugliness  is  most  ugly,  to  be  a  seoiTer, 
being  ugly.  In  other  words,  an  ugly  person  is  most  ugly, 
when  he  is  a  scotier. 

«2  Who  ever  lov'd,  that  lov'd  not  at  first  sight  f 

A  quotation  from  Marlowe,  "who,  had  he  lived,  would 
have  ''rivaird  all  but  Shakespeare's  name  below."  It 
occurs  in  his  Hero  and  Leander  : 

Whore  both  deliberate,  the  love  is  slight ; 
Who  ever  lov'd,  that  lov'd  not  at  first  sight? 

The  line  passed  into  a  proverb,  and  is  used  as  one  In  the 
prose  history  of  George  a  Green,  1706.  A  modern  poet 
expands  the  sentiment  thus, — 

Let  no  one  say  that  there  is  neew 

Of  time  for  love  to  grow. 
Ah,  no  !  the  love  that  kills  indeed 

Despatches  with  a  blow  ! 

8*  Tliat  the  old  carlot  once  was  master  of. 
Tlie  usual  old  English  word  was  carl,  a  churl,  a  bond- 
n:an,  a  rude  country  clown.  (A.S.)     Peevish,  foolish. 

85  Be  carries  his  house  on  his  Jiead. 

A  curious  story  of  a  young  bride  is  related  in  the  Apoph- 
thegms of  the  Earl  of  Worcester,  p.  81.  Her  husband 
wishes  her  to  go  like  the  snail,  "  who  seldoms  stirs  abroad, 
but  whilst  that  blessing,  tli«  dew  of  heaven,  is  upon  the 
earth,  th.at  she  may  g.ather  benefit."  0,  my  lord,  said  she, 
"  if  I  should  go  abroad  like  the  snail,  I  should  carry  a  house 
upon  my  back,  and  horns  in  my  forehead." 

Leer,  countenance,  feature. 

"'  I  will  laugh  Hie  a  hyen.. 

llyen,  hyena,  a  common  old  form.  It  ocoars  in  Braith- 
wait's  Strappado  for  the  Divell,  1615,  p.  42. 

Make  the  doors,  fasten  the  doors.  Tin?  phrase  is  still  in 
use  in  the  provinces. 

»'  Wit,  whitlier  wilt  ? 
A  common  old  proverbial  expression.    A  good  example 
of  it  occurs  in  Middlcton's  More  Dissemblers  besides  Wo- 
men, ed.  Dyce,  p.  611, — 

"  G.  Cap.  Wit,  whither  wilt  thou? 
444 


"Don.  Marrj',  to  the  next  pocket  I  can  come  at;  and  it 
it  be  a  gentleman's,  I  wish  a  whole  quarter's  rent  in  't  " 

^  Make  her  fault  h*:r  husbands  occasion. 

That  is,  says  Dr.  Johnson,  represent  her  fault  as  oocj 
Bioned  by  her  husband. 

*"  Pathetical  hrealc-promise. 

.We  have  had  "  most  pathetical  nit,"  (not  wit,  as  pnutod 
by  Mr.  Knig\it),  in  Love's  Labour's  Lost. 

"  And  here  much  Orlando  ! 

Spoken  ircinically,  equivalent  to.  Arid  here  no  Orlando. 
Much,  used  in  this  way,  is  of  frequent  occurrence  ..i  the 
old  dramatists.  "  Much  duchess,  &;.  I  fnixh  queen,  I  trow  !" 
Hey  wood's  Edward  IV.  '■^  Much  wench,  or  much  son  I'' 
Every  Man  in  his  Humour. 

"  Under  an  old  oak. 

"Saladyne,  wearie  with  wandering  up  and  downe,  and 
hungry  with  long  fasting,  finding  a  Uttle  cave  by  the  side  ol 
a  thicket,  eating  such  fruite  as  the  forest  did  aifoord,  and 
contenting  liimselfe  with  such  drinke  as  nature  had  pro- 
vided and  thirst  made  delicate,  after  his  repast  he  fell  in 
dead  sleepe.  As  thus  he  lay,  a  hungry  lyon  came  huntin;; 
downe  the  edge  of  the  grove  for  pray,  and  espying  SalaJync, 
began  to  ceaze  upon  him  :  b  it  sering  he  lay  still  without 
any  motion,  he  left  to  touch  him,  for  that  lyona  hate  to  pray 
on  dead  earkasses ;  and  yet  desirous  to  have  some  fuodc 
the  lyon  lay  downe  and  watclit  to  see  if  he  would  stirtc. 
AVhile  thus  Saladyne  slept  secure,  fortune  that  was  careful 
of  her  champion  began  to  smile,  and  brought  it  so  to  passe, 
that  Kosader  (having  stricken  a  deere  that  but  slightly  h  url 
fled  through  the  tliicket)  came  pacing  downe  by  the  grove 
with  a  boare-spcare  in  his  hande  in  great  haste.  He  sjiyed 
where  a  man  lay  a  sleepe,  and  a  lyon  fost  by  him  :  amazed 
at  this  sight,  as  he  stoode  gazing,  his  nose  on  the  sodaine 
bleddc,  which  made  him  conjecture  it  was  some  friend  ol 
his.  Whereuppon  drawing  more  nigh,  he  might  easily  dis- 
cerne  his  visage,  perceived  by  liis  phisnomie  tliat  it  was  his 
brother  Sahadyne,  which  drave  Kosader  into  a  deep  passion 
as  a  man  perplexed  at  the  sight  of  so  unexpected  a  chance, 
marvelling  what  should  drive  his  brother  to  traverse  those 
secrete  desarts  without  any  companie,  in  such  distresse  and 
forlorne  sorte.  But  the  present  time  craved  no  such  doubtr 
ing  ambages,  for  he  must  eyther  resolve  to  hazard  his  life 
for  his  reliefe,  or  else  steale  away,  and  leave  him  to  the 
crueltie  of  the  lyon."     Euphues  Golden,  Lcgacie,  15'J2. 

■"  Render,  i.  e.,  represept. 

^^  As,  how  I  came. 
As,  that  is,  as  for  instance. 

"  Ilvman  as  she  is. 

Thiit  is.  Dr.  Johnson  says,  not  a  phantom,  but  the  real 
Rosalind,  witliout  any  of  the  diuigcr  generally  conceived  tc 
attend  the  rites  of  incantation. 


BO  Why  bUime  y'^  me  to  love  you. 

Mr.  ICnight  reads,  to  love  me,  whieli  is  probably  u  mcr# 
oversight,  not  an  intentional  new  reading. 

To  be  a  wonuin  (f  the  world,  a  pro\erbi;d  plirf^e  for  to  be 
Duirried. 


^  The  onl(f  pretty  ring  t'nn^. 

Kin^  time,  the  time  for  mnrriago.  Tho  music  to  tliis 
ioritf  is  pivcn  in  Morluy'H  First  Kooko  of  Ayres,  fol.  IttOO, 
ond  tliu  urrftngcmciil  in  our  text  is  adopted  from  that  very 
rare  work. 

"  As  those  ihatjear  they  hope,  and  know  they  fenr. 

Ah  tlioso  tliat  fear  what  they  hope,  and  know  very  well 
they  fear  a  disappointment. 

*•*  According  as  7wzrriage  binds  and  blood  breaks. 

"  A  man,  by  the  marriage  ceremony,  swears  that  he  will 
fceep  only  to  hia  wife;  when,  therefore,  to  gratify  his  lust, 
he  leaves  her  for  another,  blood  breaks  hia  matrimonial 
obligation,  and  he  is  forsworn,"  Ileuley. 

Seeming^  seemingly. 

»•  We  quarrel  in  print  by  the  hoolc. 

Warburton's  note  is  so  necessary  to  the  proper  apprecia- 
tion of  tliis  satire,  the  reader  will  bo  glad  to  have  the  oppor- 
tunity of  perusing  it  :^ 

"The  poet  has,  in  this  scene,  rallied  fhe  mode  of  formal 
duelling;  then  so  prevalent,  with  the  highest  hunaour  and 
address  :  nor  could  he  have  treated  it  with  a  happier  con- 
tempt, than  by  making  his  Clown  so  knowing  in  tho  forms 
and  preliminaries  of  it.  The  particular  book  here  alluded  to 
i3  a  very  ridiculous  treatise  of  one  Vineentio  Saviolo,  entitled, 
Of  Honour  and  Ilononrable  Quarrels,  in  quarto,  printed  by 
Wolf,  ISy-i.  The  first  part  of  this  tract  he  entitles,  A  Dis- 
course most  necessary  for  all  Gentlemen  that  have  in  regard 
their  Honours,  touching  the  giving  and  receiving  tho  Lie, 
whereupon  the  Duello  and  tho  Combat  in  divers  Forms  doth 
ensue ;  and  many  other  Inconveniences,  for  lack  only  of 
true  Knowledge  of  Honour,  and  ihainght  Understindlng  of 
IVofdij  which  here  is  set  down.  The  contents  of  the  seve- 
r:il  chapters  are  as  follow : — I.  What  the  Kcason  is  that 
the  Party  unto  whom  the  Lie  is  given  ought  to  become 
Challenger,  and  of  tho  Nature  of  Lies.  IL  Of  the  Manner 
and  Diversity  of  Lies.  lU.  Of  Lies  certain  [or  direct.] 
IV".  Of  conditional  Lies,  [or  the  lie  circumstantial.]  V,  Of 
the  Lie  in  general.  VL  Of  the  Lie  in  particular.  VIL  Of 
foolish  Lies.  VIIL  A  Conclusion  touching  the  wresting  or 
returning  back  of  the  Lie,  [or  the  countercheck  quarrel- 
some.] In  the  chapter  of  conditional  Lies,  speaking  of  the 
particle  i/",  ho  says,  * — Conditional  lies  be  such  as  are 
Eri^ou  conditionally,  as  if  a  man  should  say  or  write  these 
wordes :  if  thou  hast  said  that  I  have  ofl'ered  my  lord 
ilnise,  thon  liest;  or  i/  thou  sayestso  hereafter,  thou  shalt 


lie.  Of  thcpo  kind  of  lies,  given  in  tJiis  manner,  of):en  anw 
much  contention  in  wordes, — whereof  no  sure  conclusion 
can  arise.'  By  which  ho  means,  they  cannot  proceed  to 
cut  ono  anothcr'3  throat,  while  thcro  is  an  i/  between. 
Which  is  the  reason  of  Shakespeare  making  tlie  Clown  i^ay, 
'I  knew  when  seven  justices  could  not  make  up  a  quarrel; 
but  when  the  parties  wore  met  themselves,  ono  of  them 
thought  but  of  an  if;  as,  if  you  said  so^  thtn  I  said  so^  and 
they  shook  hands,  and  swore  brothers.  Your  ?y  is  the  only 
peace-maker;  mucli  virtue  in  if."*  Caranza  was  anothei 
of  these  authentiek  authors  upon  tho  Duello.  Fletcher,  in 
bis  last  Act  ot  Love's  Pilgrimage,  ridicules  him  with  much 
humour."  The  words  included  within  crotchets  are  Dt, 
Warburton's. 

Has  he  given  the  lie 

In  circle  or  obiifiuc,  or  semicircle, 

Or  direct  parallel  ?     You  must  challenge  him, 

FUtcher''8  Queen  of  Corinth, 

^"0  You  have  BooJcsfor  Good  Manners. 

Hugh  Rhodes  wrote  tho  "Boko  of  Nurture,  or  Schoole 
of  Good  Maners  for  Men,  Servants,  and  Children,"  8vo,. 
1577.  An  earlier  work,  under  a  similar  titJo,  occors  in 
MS.  llarl.  149. 

Atone,  reconcile,  agree. 

">  To  'thee  doth  comhine. 

Combine,  bind,  unite,  attach.    The  term  has  ocurred  in 
Measure  for  Measure,  iv.  S. 
Address''d,  prepared. 

103  With  measure  heap'd  in  joy. 

A  heaped  measure  was  a  technical  term.  "  Large  meas- 
ure, heaped  measure,  measure  with  advantage,"  Cotgrave, 
I  mention  this,  not  tliat  the  line  requires  any  explanation, 
but  merely  to  show  the  source  for  the  use  of  what  wouM 
now  be  considered  a  forced  metaphor, 

103  Good  wine  needs  no  bush, 

A  bush  w.^3  a  common  sign  for  a  vintner.  Tho  cnston 
is  thus  alluded  to  in  Barnaby's  Journal, — 

Good  wine  no  busli  doth  need,  as  I  suppose, 
Let  Bacchus  bush  be  Barnaby's  rich  noso; 
No  bush,  no  garland  needs  of  cypress  green  ; 
Barnaby's  nooo  may  for  a  bush'be  seen. 

Cotgrave,  in  v.  Bon,  gives  tho  proverb, — "Good  wiiv 
dj-aws  customers  Tithout  any  help  of  an  ivy-bush." 

445 


I 


€\)t  €mm[]  of  tlje  Ijjrm, 


fPIIE  immediate  scmrce  of  this  amusing  drama  is  to  be  traced  in  a  bombastic  comedj  fiist  piibiifliO'l 
in  1594,  under  the  title  of,  "A  Pleasant  Conceited  Historie  called  The  Taming  of  a  Shrew,  As  it 
was  sundry  times  acted  by  the  Right  Honorable  the  Earle  of  Pembrook  his  servants.'  The  author 
of  this  prodjction  is  unkno^vn,*  but  there  appears  to  be  reasonable  grounds  for  believing  it  to  have 
been  written  by  Marlowe ;  unless,  indeed,  several  imitations  of  passages  in  that  writer  are  to  be 
regarded  as  plagiarisms.  It  was  very  popular,  having  been  reprinted  in  1596  and  1607  ;  and  Shakes- 
pea-'-e's  obligations  to  it  were  doubtlesdy  notorious  and  acknowledged.  He  appears,  in  fact,  to  have 
taken  no  pains  to  conceal  the  extent  of  them.  The  title  of  this  play  differs  only  in  a  particle,  and,  if 
we  except  an  incident  adopted  from  Gascoigne's  translation  of  the  Suppositi  of  Ariosto,  the  story  and 
the  method  of  its  treatment  are  the  same  in  both  dramas. 

The  source  of  the  "Induction,"  which  appears  to  me  to  be  one  of  the  choicest  fragments  in 
Shakespeare's  comedies,  is  of  oriental  origin,  and  will  recall  the  memory  of  every  reader  to  the  adven- 
tures of  Abou  Hassan  in  the  Arabian-Nights.  The  story  occurs  under  a  great  variety  of  forms  in 
European  literature,  but  some  of  its  romantic  character  has  been  lost  in  its  transmission.  It  was 
probably  first  read  by  Shakespeare  in  a  collection  of  stories  by  Richard  Edwards,  which  appeared  in 
1570,  a  book  wliich  was  seen  by  Warton,  but  has  since  been  lost,  and  a  portion  only  recently  re- 
covered by  Mr.  Norton  of  Livei-pool.  As  this  addition  to  the  materials  for  the  literary  history  of  the 
play  has  not  been  accessible  to  previous  editors,  and  will  bear  perusal,  I  am  induced  to  insert  a  copy 
of  it  :— 

In  the  time  tTiat  Phillip  Duke  ot  Burgundy  (who  by  the  gentlenesse  and  curteousnesse  of  his  carriage  purchasto 
the  name  of  good)  guided  the  reinea  of  the  country  o^  Flanders,  this  prince,  who  was  of  an  humour  pleasing,  and  fuU 
cf  judicious  goodnesse,  rather  then  silly  simplicity,  used  pastimes  which  for  their  singularity  are  commonly  called  the 
pleasures  of  Princes:  after  this  manner  he  no  lesse  shewed  the  quaintnesse  of  his  wit  then  his  prudence. 

Being  in  BruxelUs  with  all  his  Court,  and  having  at  his  table  discoursed  amply  enougli  of  the  vanities  and  great- 
nesse  of  tliis  world,  he  let  each  one  say  his  pleasure  on  this  subject,  whereon  was  alleadged  grave  sentences  and  rare 
examples  :  walking  towards  the  evening  in  the  towne,  his  head  full  of  divers  thoughts,  he  found  a  Tradesman  lying  in 
a  corner  sleeping  very  soundly,  the  fumes  of  Bacchus  having  surcharged  his  braine.  I  describe  this  man's  drunkenesso 
in  as  good  manner  as  I  can  to  the  credit  of  the  party.  This  vice  is  so  common  in  both  the  superior  and  inferiour  Ger- 
Vbdny^  that  divers,  making  glory  and  vaunting  of  their  dexterity  in  this  art,  enerease  their  praise  thereby,  and  hold  it 
for  a  brave  act.  The  good  Duke,  to  give  his  followers  an  example  of  the  vanity  of  all  the  magnificence  with  which  ho 
was  inviroued,  devised  a  meanea  farre  Icsse  dangerous  than  that  which  Dionysius  tlio  TjTant  used  towards  Ikmocles, 
and  which  in  pleasantuesse  beares  a  msirvellous  utility.  Ho  caused  his  men  to  carry  away  this  sleeper,  with  whom,  as 
with  a  blocke,  they  might  doe  what  they  would,  without  awaking  him;  he  caused  tliem  to  carry  him  into  one  cf  the 

*  Somo  interesting  papers  on  this  subject  by  ilr.  S.  Hiekson  have  recently  been  published  in  the  NoUaanI  Quo  its; 
but  oiu"  limited  space  will  not  permit  im  examination  of  the  ini^enious  theory  suggested  by  that  gentleman. 

4« 


THE  TAmNG  OF  THE  SHREW. 


sumptuosest  parts  of  Ills  Pallace,  into  a  chamber  most  state-like  furnislied,  anJ  makes  them  lay  him  on  a  rich  bed 
They  presently  strip  him  of  his  bad  cloatbes,  and  put  him  on  a  very  fine  and  cleane  shirt,  in  stead  of  bis  own,  which  was 
foule  and  filtliy.  They  let  him  sleepe  in  that  place  at  his  ease,  and  whilest  hee  settles  his  drinke,  tlie  Duke  prepares  the 
pleasantest  pastime  that  can  be  imagined. 

In  the  morning,  this  drunkard  being  awake  drawes  the  curtaines  of  this  brave  rich  bed,  sees  himselfe  in  a  cham- 
ber adorned  like  a  Faradice,  lie  considers  the  rich  furniture  with  an  amazement  such  as  you  may  imagine :  he  beleeves 
not  his  eyes,  but  layes  his  fingers  on  them,  and  feeling  them  open,  yet  perswades  himselfe  they  are  shut  by  sleep,  and 
that  all  he  sees  is  but  a  j.'Ure  dreame. 

AsBOone  as  he  was  knowne  to  be  awake,  in  comes  the  officers  of  the  Dukes  house,  who  were  instructed  by  tho 
Duke  what  they  should  do.  There  were  pages  bravely  appariilled,  Gentlemen  of  the  chamber,  Gentleman  waiters,  and 
tlie  High  Chamberlaine,  who,  all  in  faire  order  and  without  laughing,  bring  cloatbing  fur  this  new  guest:  they  honour 
him  with  the  same  great  reverences  as  if  he  were  a  Soveraigne  Prince  ;  they  serve  him  bare  headed,  and  aske  him  what 
suite  hee  will  please  to  weare  that  day. 

This  fellow,  affrighted  at  the  first,  beleeving  these  things  to  be  inchantment  or  dreames,  reclaimed  by  these  sub- 
missions, tooke  heart,  and  grew  bold,  and  setting  a  good  face  on  the  matter,  chused  amongst  all  the  apparell  that  they 
presented  unto  him  that  which  he  hked  best,  and  which  hee  thouglit  to  be  fittest  for  him :  ho  is  accommodated  like  a 
King,  and  served  with  such  ceremonies,  as  he  had  never  scene  before,  and  yet  beheld  them  without  saying  any  thing, 
and  with  an  assured  countenance.  This  done,  the  greatest  Nobleman  in  the  Dukes  Court  enters  tlie  chamber  with  the 
same  reverence  and  honour  to  him  as  if  he  had  been  their  Soveraigne  Prince  {Phillip  with  Princely  delight  beholds  this 
play  from  a  private  place  ;)  divers  of  purpose  petitioning  him  for  pardons,  which  hee  grants  W'th  such  a  countinance 
and  gravity,  as  if  he  had  had  a  Crowne  on  his  head  all  his  life  time. 

Being  risen  late,  and  dinner  time  approaching,  they  asked  if  he  were  pleased  to  have  his  tables  covered.  He  likes 
that  very  well.  The  table  is  furnished,  where  he  is  set  alone,  and  under  a  rich  Canopie :  he  eats  with  the  same  cere- 
mony which  was  observed  at  the  Duke's  meales ;  he  made  good  cheere,  and  chawed  with  all  his  teeth,  but  only  drank 
with  more  moderation  then  he  could  have  wisht,  but  the  Majesty  which  he  represented  made  him  refraine.  All  taken 
away,  he  was  entertained  with  new  and  pleasant  things :  ttiey  led  him  to  walke  about  the  great  Chambers,  Galleries, 
and  Gardens  of  the  Pallace  (for  all  this  merriment  was  played  within  the  gates,  they  being  shut  only  for  recreation  to 
the  Duke  and  the  principall  of  his  Court) :  they  shewed  him  all  the  richest  and  most  pleasantest  things  therin,  and 
tidked  to  him  thereof  as  if  they  had  all  beene  his,  which  he  heiird  with  an  attention  and  contentment  beyond  measure, 
not  saying  one  word  of  his  base  condition,  or  declaring  that  they  tooke  him  for  another.  They  made  him  passe  tho 
afternoone  in  all  kind  of  sports ;  musicke,  dancing,  and  a  Comedy,  spent  some  part  of  the  time.  They  talked  to  liim 
of  some  State  matters,  whereunto  he  answered  according  to  his  skiU,  and  like  a  right  TwelfijtiJe  King. 

Supper  time  approaching,  they  aske  this  new  created  Prince  if  he  would  please  to  have  the  Lords  and  Ladies  of  his 
Court  to  sup  and  feast  with  him ;  whereat  he  seemed  something  unwilling,  as  if  hee  would  not  abase  his  dignity  unto 
such  famiharity :  neverlesse,  counterfeiting  h'-imanity  and  atfability,  he  made  signes  that  ho  condiscended  thereunto  : 
he.  then,  towards  night,  was  led  with  sound  of  Trumpets  and  Hoboyes  into  a  faire  hall,  where  long  Tables  were  set, 
which  were  presently  covered  with  divers  sorts  of  dainty  mcates,  the  Torches  shined  in  every  corner,  and  made  a  day 
in  the  midst  of  a  night:  the  Gentlemen  and  Gentlewomen  were  set  in  fine  order,  and  the  Prince  at  the  upper  end  m  a 
higher  scat.  The  service  was  magnificent ;  the  musicke  of  voyees  and  instruments  fed  the  care,  whilest  mouthes  found 
their  food  in  the  dishes.  Never  was  the  imaginary  Duke  at  such  a  feast;  carousses  begin  after  tho  manner  of  tho 
Country ;  the  Prince  is  assaulted  on  all  sides,  as  the  Owle  is  assaulted  by  all  the  Birdes,  when  he  begins  to  soare.  Not 
to  seeme  unoivill,  he  would  doe  the  like  to  his  good  and  faithful!  subjects.  They  serve  him  with  very  strong  wine,  good 
Ilipocras,  which  hee  swallowed  downe  in  great  draughts,  and  frequently  redoubled  ;  so  that,  charged  with  so  many  ex 
traordinaryes,  he  yeelded  to  deaths  cousin  gcrman,  sleep,  which  closed  his  eyes,  stopt  his  cares,  and  made  him  looso 
the  use  of  his  reason  and  all  his  other  sences. 

Then  the  right  Duke,  who  had  put  himselfe  among  the  throng  of  his  Officers  to  have  the  pleasure  of  this  mummery, 
commanded  that  this  sleeping  man  should  be  stript  out  of  his  bravo  cloathes,  and  cloathed  ngaine  in  his  old  ragges,  and 
so  sleeping  carried  and  layd  in  the  same  place  where  he  was  taken  up  the  night  before.  This  was  presently  done,  and 
there  did  he  snort  all  the  night  long,  not  taking  any  hurt  either  from  tho  hardnesse  of  the  stones  or  tho  night  ayro,  ss 
well  was  his  stomacke  filled  with  good  preservatives.  Being  awakened  in  the  morning  by  some  passenger,  or  it  mar 
bee  by  some  that  the  good  Duke  Philip  had  thereto  appointed,  ha !  said  he,  my  friends,  what  have  you  done  ?  you  hava 
rob'd  mee  of  aKingdonie,  and  have  taken  mee  out  of  tho  sweetest  and  happiest  dreame  that  ever  man  could  have  fallen 
into.  Then,  very  well  remembring  all  tlio  particulars  of  what  had  passed  the  day  before,  ho  related  unto  them,  from 
point  to  poiJit,  all  tliat  had  happened  unto  him,  still  thinking  it  assuredly  to  bee  a  dreame.  Being  returned  homo  to 
his  house,  he  entertaines  his  wife,  neighbours,  and  friends,  with  this  his  dreame,  as  hee  thought:  the  truth  whereof 
being  at  last  published  by  the  mouthes  of  those  Courtiers  who  had  been  present  at  this  pleasant  recreation,  the  good 
man  could  not  beleeve  it,  tliiiiking  that  for  sport  they  had  framed  this  history  upon  his  drcanic  ;  but  when  Duke  I'kilip, 
who  would  have  the  full  contentment  of  tliis  pleasant  tricke,  had  shewed  him  tho  bed  wherein  he  lay,  the  cloathes 
which  he  had  worne,  tho  persona  who  had  served  him,  the  Hall  wherein  ho  had  eaten,  tho  gardens  and  galleries 
wherein  hee  had  walked,  hardly  could  hee  be  induced  to  belccve  what  hee  saw,  imagining  that  all  this  was  meoro 
inchantment  and  illusion. 

The  Duke  used  some  liberality  towards  him  for  to  helpe  him  in  the  poverty  of  his  family  ;  and,  taking  an  occasion 
thorcon  to  make  an  Oration  unto  his  Courtiers  .concerning  the  vanity  of  this  worlds  honours,  heo  told  them  that  all 
that  amliitious  persons  sccko  with  so  much  industry  is  but  smoake,  and  u  mecro  dreame,  and  that  they  are  strucken 
with  tliat  pleasant  folly  of  the  Athenian,  who  im.agined  all  the  riches  that  arrived  by  shipping  in  the  haven  oi  Athene 
to  bo  his,  and  that  all  tho  Marchants  were  but  his  factors  :  his  friends  getting  him  cured  by  a  skilful  Physitian  of  the 
debility  of  his  brain,  in  lieu  of  giving  tlicni  thanks  for  this  good  office,  he  reviled  tbcm,  saying  that,  whereas  ho  wa» 
rioli  ill  conceit,  they  had  by  this  euro  made  him  poore  and  miscrablo  in  elTeot. 
■t4b 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


In  the  ol'd  pl;iy,  tlic  stoiy  of  the  dninkard  is  continued,  and  ho  is  intiojiieed  at  the  conclusion, 
letiirned  to  sobriety,  and  firmly  convinced  that  all  the  transactions  of  the  scene  were  merely  tiie  imagi- 
nations of  a  dream.  Shaicespeare  evidently  felt  that  this  arrangement  was  not  dramatically  necessary, 
and  after  a  few  unimportant  words  at  the  conclusion  of  the  first  scene  of  tho  first  act,  we  hear  no  more 
of  (lie  tinker. 

Tlie  Taming- of  ^7tc  Shrew  w.is  first  published  in  tho  folio  of  1G23.  It  was  not  mentione<l  by 
Meres  in  1598,  and,  althou<Th  that  circumstance  is  only  a  kind  of  negative  evidence,  I  am  inclined  ic> 
place  the  date  of  its  composition  after  that  year.  Sir  John  Harrington  ia  1590  mentions  the  older 
play,  which  would  lead  us  to  believe  it  had  not  then  been  superseded  by  Shakespeare's.  Mr.  Collier 
would  assign  a  date  after  1601,  the  name  Baptista  being  improperly  used  in  Hamlet,  an  error  which 
was  corrected  in  the  Taming  of  the  Shrew.  There  is,  however,  a  great  uncertainty  in  reasoning  on 
mmute  indications  of  this  character. 

A  sequel  or  imitation  of  the  fammg  of  the  Shrew,  under  the  title  of,  "  Tho  Woman's  Prize,  or 
tl:e  Tamer  Tam'd,"  was  written  by  Fletcher,  and  is  mentioned  by  Herbert  as  "an  ould  play"  as  ejirlj 
as  163.3.  Tho  exact  d.ate  of  its  composition  is  not  known.  In  this  play  Katharine  is  supposed  to  be 
dead,  and  Petrucio  married  to  another  lady,  who,  with  the  assistance  of  her  companions,  tames  the 
unruly  husband  who  has  cured  the  shrew  in  Shakespeare's  play.  It  is  almost  unnecessary  to  say  that 
Petrucio's  indisndualit}',  as  pourtrayed  by  Shakespeare,  is  not  preserved  by  Fletcher ;  but  the  "  Woman's 
Prize"  IS,  nevertheless,  an  amusing  drama,  and  when  acted  before  the  Court  in  1633,  it  seems  to  have 
gi\'en  greater  satisfaction  than  the  other.  Herbert's  memoranda  are  as  follows: — "On  Tusday  night, 
at  St.  James,  the  26  of  Novemb.  1633,  was  acted  before  the  King  and  Queene  The  Tarainge  of  the 
Shrew  :  Likl. — On  Thursday  night,  at  St.  James,  the  28  of  Novemb.  1633,  was  acted  before  the  King 
and  Queene,  Tho  Tamer  Tamd,  made  by  Fletcher .  Veri/  well  likt." 

The  original  MS.  containing  these  curious  entries  is  preserved  at  Powis  Cattle,  the  seat  of  the 
Earls  of  Powis  ;  and  the  late  Lord  Powis  kindly  promised  me  the  full  use  of  it  for  the  Shakespeare 
Society.  His  Lordship's  untimely  death  prevented  the  fulfilment  of  this  desirable  object ;  but  I  trust 
it  will  be  confii-med  by  his  successor.  The  MS.  is,  perhaps,  the  most  curious  record  of  early  English 
pLi}s  known  to  be  extant. 

The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  can  only  be  correctly  estimated  by  bearing  in  mind  the  manners  and 
tendencies  of  the  age  in  which  it  was  written.  We  must  recollect  that  the  power  of  gentleness — its 
efficiency  greater  than  force  moving  to  gentleness — is  a  truth  only  just  now  beginning  to  be  recognized, 
f  ha'tespeare  was  one  of  the  few  writers  of  his  time  that  appreciated  this  influence ;  and  even  in  illus- 
trating the  then  vernacular  method  of  charming  a  woman's  tongue,  he  has  encompassed  it  with  snffi- 
;ieut  frolic  to  soften  the  unpleasing  purpose  of  the  story.  Katharine,  however,  is  not  an  ordinary  typo. 
Vixenish,  proud,  and  dominant,  she  is  subdued  by  the  exhibition  rather  than  by  the  action  of  power; 
by  the  observation  of  the  continual  proofs  of  Petrucio's  indomitable  disposition,  and  the  obrious  impos- 
sibilitv  of  attempting  to  control  it.  She  does  not  perceive  that  much  of  his  character  is  assumed  ;  but 
he  IS,  in  fact,  a  humorist  of  great  power,  and  conquers  Katharine  by  a  succession  of  jests  and  practical 

jokes  of  his  own  invention. 

s;  .  449 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED   IN  THE  INDUCTION. 

A  Lord. 

Christopher  Slt,  a  drunken  Tinker. 

Hostess,  Page  Players,  Huntsmen,  and  Servants, 


PERSONS  EEPRESENTED  IN  THE  PLAY. 


Baptista,  a  rich  gentleman  of  Padua. 

fr)!t\:re,  Aot  I.  se.  1.    Act  II.  bo.  1.    Act  III.  ec.  2.    Act 

IV.  so.  i.    Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2. 

V^iscENTio,  an  old  gentleman  of  Pisa. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  5.     Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  so  2. 

LucENTio,  son  to  Vincentio,  in  love  with  Bianca. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  II.  sc.  1.    Act  III.  sc.  1 ; 

Bc.  2.    Act  IV.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  4.    Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2. 

Petrucio,   a  gentleman   of  Verona,  a  suitor   to 

KatLarina. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.    Act  II.  so.  1.    Act  III.  so.  2.    Act 

IV.  BC.  1 ;  so.  3 ;  sc.  5.    Act  V.  so.  1 ;  sc.  2. 

Gremio,  a  suitor  to  Bianca. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  II.  sc.  1.     Act  III.  sc.  2. 
Act  V.  60.  1 ;  sc.  2. 

IIqrtensio,  a  suitor  to  Bianca. 

Appears,  Act  I.  ac.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  II.  so.  1.    Act  III.  bo.  1 ; 
BC.  2.    Act  IV.  so.  2 ;  sc.  3 ;  so.  5.    Act  V.  so.  2. 

Tranio,  servant  to  Lucentio. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  so.  2.    Act  II.  sc.  1.     Act  III.  bo.  2. 
Act  IV.  BO.  2 ;  BO.  4.    Act  V.  so.  I ;  ec.  2. 

BioNDKLLO,  servant  to  Lucentio. 

Appears,  Act  I.  8C.  1 ;  bc.  2.    Act  II.  bo.  1.    Act  III.  bo.  2. 
Act  IV.  EC.  2 ;  r,c.  1.    Act  V.  sc.  I ;  so. «. 
450 


Grcmio,  servant  to  Pctrucic. 

Appears,  Act  I.  so.  2.    Act  III.  sc.  2.    Act  IV.  «c.  J ,  s-.v  3 
Act  V.  sc.  2. 


Curtis,  servant  to  Petrucio. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  I. 

Pedant,  an  old  fellow  set  up  to  jyersonate  Vincentio. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  4.    Act  V.  sc.  I ;  so,  2. 

A  Tailor  and  Habevdaslier. 

Appear,  Act  IV.  sc.  8. 

Katharina,  the  shrew,  daugJUer  to  Baptista. 

Appears,  Act  I.  so.  1.    Act  II.  bc.  1.    Act  III.  so.  2.    Ac! 
IV.  BC.  1;  80.  3;  bc.  6.  Act  V.  so.  1 ;  sc.  2. 

Bianca,  sister  to  Katliarina. 

Appears  Act  I.  sc.  1.    Act  II.  so.  1.    Act  III.  so.  1 ;  m.  i. 
Act  IV.  60.  2.    Act  V.  BO.  1 ;  so.  2. 

Widow. 

Appears,  Act  V.  bo.  S. 


SCENE, So.METIMES   IN  PaDUA  ;    AND    SOMF.rrMK.'! 

IN  Pktrucio's  House  in  tub  Countrt. 


i 


I)e  €niniiig  of  flji^  Ijjrenj. 


INDUCTION. 


SCENE  I. — Before  an  Alehouse  on  a  Heath. 

Enter  Hostess  and  Sly. 

Shj.  I  '11  pheese'  you,  in  feitu- 

Host.  A  pair  of  stocks,  you  rogue  ! 

Sly.  Y'  are  a  baggage  ;  the  Slys  are  no  rogues. 
Look  in  the  chronicles,  we  came  in  with  Eichard 
Conqueror.  Therefore,  paucas  pallabris  ;'  let  the 
Korld.  slide :  Scssa  ! 

Host.  You  will  not  pay  for  the  glasses  you  have 
burst  ? 

Sly.  No,  not  a  denier  !  Go  by,  St.  Jeronimy' — 
Go  to  thy  cold  bed,  and  warm  thee. 

Host.  I  know  my  remedy,  I  must  go  fetch  the 
thirdborough.'  [^Exit. 

Sly.  Third,  or  fourth,  or  fifth  borough,  I  '11 
answer  him  by  law  :  I  '11  not  budge  an  inch,  boy;' 
let  him  come,  and  kindly.  [Lies  down  on  the  ground, 
and  falls  asleep. 

Wind  Horns.     Enter  a  Lord  from  hunting,  with 
his  Train. 

Lord.  Iluntsraan,  I  charge  thee,  tender  well  my 

hounds : 
Brach  Merriman, — the  poor  cur  is  emboss'd  f 
And    couple    Clowder    with    the    deep-mouth'd 

brach. 
Saw'st  thou  not,  boy,  how  Silver  made  it  good 
At  the  hedge  corner,  in  the  coldest  fault  ? 
[would  not  lose  the  dog  for  twenty  pound. 


1  Hun.  Why,  Bolman   is  as  good  a.*.  Lc,  mj 
lord  ; 
He  cried  upon  it  at  the  merest  loss. 
And  twice  to-d.iy  pick'd  out  the  dullest  scent . 
Trust  me,  I  take  him  for  the  better  dog. 

Lord.  Thou  art  a  fool ;  if  Echo  were  as  fleet. 
I  would  esteem  him  wortli  a  dozen  such. 
But  sup  them  well,  and  look  unto  them  all  • 
To-morrow  I  intend  to  hunt  again. 

1  Hun.  I  will,  my  lord. 

Lord.  What's  here?  one  dead,  or  drunk?   See. 
doth  he  breathe  ? 

2  Hvn.  He  breathes,  my  lord.     W%re  he  not 

wapiii'd  with  ale, 
This  were  a  bed  but  cold  to  sleep  so  soundly. 
Lord.  O  monstrous  beast !  how  like  a  swine  he 

lies ! 
Grim   death,  how   foul   and    loathsome  is   thine 

image ! 
Sirs,  I  will  practise  on  this  drunken  man. 
What  think  you,  if  he  were  convey'd  to  bed, 
Wrapp'd   in  sweet   clothes,  rings  put  upon  liia 

fingers, 
A  most  delicious  banquet  by  his  bed, 
And  brave  attendants  near  him  when  he  waives. 
Would  not  the  beggar  then  forget  himself? 

1  Han.  Believe  me,  lord,  I   think   ho  cannot 

chooee. 

2  Ifun.  It  would  seem  strange  unto  him  when 

he  wak'd. 

451 


ISDUCTION. 


THE  TAillNG  OF  THE  SHREW. 


Lord.  Even  as  a  flatl'riug  dream,  or  worthless 
foncy. 
Then  take  him  up,  and  manage  well  the  jest ; 
CaiTy  him  gently  to  my  fairest  chamber, 
And  hang  it  round  with  all  my  wanton  pictures  : 
Malm  his  foul  head  in  warm  distilled  waters. 
And  burn  sweet  wood  to  make  the  lodging  sweet : 
Procure  me  music  ready  wheu  he  wakes. 
To  make  a  dulcet  and  a  heavenly  sound ; 
And  if  he  chance  to  speak,  be  ready  straight, 
And,  with  a  low  submissive  reverence. 
Say, — "What  is  it  your  honour  will  command  ? 
Let  one  attend  him  with  a  silver  bason. 
Full  of  rose-water,  and  bestrew'd  with  flowers  ; 
Another  bear  the  ewer,  the  third  a  diaper. 
And  say, — Will 't  please  your  lordship  cool  your 

hands  ? 
Some  one  be  ready  with  a  costly  suit. 
And  ask  him  what  apparel  he  will  wear ; 
Another  tell  him  of  his  hounds  and  horse. 
And  that  his  lady  mourns  at  his  disease : 
Pereuade  him  that  ko  hath  been  lunatic  : 
And,  when  he  says  he  is — -^  say  that  he  dreams, 
For  he  is  nothing  but  a  mighty  lord. 
This  do,  and  do  it  kindly,  gentle  sirs ; 
It  will  be  pastime  passing  excellent 
If  it  be  husbanded  with  modesty. 

1  Hun.  My  lord,  I  warrant  you,  we  'II  play  our 

part. 
As  he  shall  think,  by  our  true  diligence. 
He  is  no  loss  than  what  we  say  he  is. 
Lord.  Take   him   up  gently,  and  to  bed  with 
him ; 
And  each  one  to  his  office,  when  he  wakes. 

\Soim  bear  out  Slv.     A  trumpet  sounds. 
Sirrah,  go  see  what  trumpet 't  is  that  sounds ; 

[Exit  Servant. 
Belike,  some  noble  gentleman,  that  means. 
Travelling  some  journey,  to  repose  him  here. 

Re-enter  Servant. 
Eow  now  ?  who  is  it  ? 

Serv.  An  't  please  your  honour,  players 

That  offer  service  to  your  lordshi[). 

Lord.  Bid  them  come  near. 

Enter  Players. 

Now,  follows,  you  are  welcome. 

Players.  We  thank  your  honour. 

Lord.  Do  you  intend  to  stay  with  me  to-night? 

2  Play.  So  please  your  lordship  to  accept  our 

duty. 

462 


Lord.  With  all  my  heart. — This   fellow  I  re- 
member, 
Since  once  he  play'd  a. farmer's  eldest  son  ; — 
'T  was  where  you  woo'd   the   gentlewoman   so 

well : 
I  have  forgot  your  name ;  but,  sure,  that  part 
Was  aptly  fitted,  and  naturally  perform'd. 

1  Play.  I  think,  't  was  Soto  that  your  honour 
means. 

Lord.  'T  is  very   tme ; — thou   didst   it  excel 
lent.— 
Well,  you  are  come  to  me  in  happy  time; 
The  rather  for  I  have  some  sport  in  hand, 
Wherein  your  cunning  can  assist  me  much. 
There  is  a  lord  will  hear  you  play  to-night : 
But  I  am  doubtful  of  your  modesties. 
Lest,  over-eying  of  his  odd  behaviour, 
(For  yet  his  honour  never  heard  a  play,) 
You  break  into  some  merry  passion. 
And  so  ofiend  him  ;  for  I  tell  you,  sirs. 
If  you  should  smile,  he  gi'ows  impatient. 

1  Play.  Fear   not,  my  lord;    we  can  contain 
ourselves. 
Were  he  the  veriest  antic  in  the  world. 

Lord.  Go,  sirrah,  take  them  to  the  buttery, 
And  give  them  fiiendly  welcome  eveiy  one : 
Let  them  want  nothing  that  my  house  atibrds. — 
[Exeunt  Servant  and  Players, 
Sirrah,  go  you  to  Bartholomew,  my  page, 

[To  a  Ser\-aut 
And  sec  him  dress'd  in  all  suits  like  a  lady : 
That  done,  conduct  him  to  the  drunkard's  chamber 
And  call  him  madam: do  him  obeisance. 
Tell  him  from  me,  as  he  will  win  my  love, 
He  bear  himself  with  honoiffable  action, 
Such  as  he  hath  observ'd  in  noble  ladies 
Unto  their  lords,  by  them  accomplished  : 
Such  duty  to  the  drunkard  let  him  do. 
With  soft  low  tongue  and  lowly  courtesy ; 
And  say, — W^hat  is 't  your  honour  will  command, 
Wherein  your  lady,  and  your  humble  wife. 
May  show  her  duty,  and  make  known  her  love  1 
And  then,   with   kind  embracements,    tempting 

kisses. 
And  with  declining  head  into  his  bosom. 
Bid  him  shod  tears,  as  being  oveijoyed 
To  see  her  noble  lord  restor'd  to  health, 
Who,  for  this  seven  years,  hath  esteemed  him 
No  better  than  a  poor  and  loathsome  beggar : 
And  if  the  boy  have  not  a  woman's  gift, 
To  rain  a  shower  of  commanded  tears, 
An  onion  will  do  well  for  such  a  shift,* 


INDUCTION. 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


6CESE    U. 


Which  in  a  n.-ipkin  being  close  convey'd, 
Shall  in  despite  enforce  a  watery  eye. 
See  this  despatch'd  with  all  the  haste  thou  canst ; 
Anon  I  '11  give  thee  more  instructions. 

[Kelt  Servant. 
I  know  the  boy  will  well  usurp  the  grace, 
Voice,  gait,  and  action  of  a  gentlewoman  : 
I  long  to  hear  him  call  the  drunkard  husband ; 
Afld    how    my  men    will   stay    themselves   from 

laughter, 
When  they  do  homage  to  this  simple  peasant. 
I  '11  in  to  counsel  them  :  haply,  my  presence 
Nfay  well  abate  the  over-merry  spleen. 
Which  otherwise  would  grow  into  extremes. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  n. — A  bed-chamber  in  the  Lord's  House. 

Si.Y  is  discovered  in  a  rich  night-gown,  with  Atten- 
dants ;  so)ne  with  apparel,  others  with  bason, 
ewer,  and  other  appurtenances.  Enter  Lord, 
dressed  like  a  servant. 

Sly.  For  God's  sake,  a  pot  of  small  ale.' 

1  Serv.  Will 't  please  your  lordship  drink  a  cup 

of  sack  ? 

2  Serv.  Will 't  please  your  honour  taste  of  these 

consejves  ? 

3  Serv.  What  raiment  will  your  honour  wear 

to-day  ? 

Sly.  I  am  Christophero  Sly.  Call  not  me 
honour,  nor  lordship :  I  ne'er  drank  sack  in  my 
life  ;  and  if  you  give  me  any  conserves,  give  me 
conserves  of  beef.  Ne'er  ask  rae  what  raiment  I  '11 
wear ;  for  I  have  no  more  doublets  than  backs, 
m^  more  stockings  than  legs,  nor  no  more  shoes 
tban  feet;  nay,  sometime,  more  feet  than  shoes, 
or  such  shoes  as  my  toes  look  through  the  over- 
leather. 

Lord.  Heaven  cease  this  idle  humour  in  your 
honour ! 
0,  that  a  mighty  man  of  such  descent, 
Of  such  possessions,  and  so  high  esteem. 
Should  be  infused  with  so  foul  a  spirit ! 

Sly.  What !  would  you  make  me  mad  ?  Am  not 
I  Christopher  Sly,  old  Sly's  son,  of  Burton-heath  ; 
by  birth  a  pedler,  by  education  a  card-maker,  by 
transmutation  a  bear-herd,  and  now  by  present  pro- 
fession a  tinker  ?  Ask  Marian  Hacket,  the  fat  ale- 
(rife  of  Wincot,'  if  she  know  me  not :  if  she  say  I 
am  not  fourteen  pence  on  the  score  for  sheer  ale, 
Bcore  me  up  for  the  lying'st  knave  in  Christendom. 
What !  I  am  not  bestraught :    Here 's — 


3   Serv.  O,  this  it  is  that  makes  your  lady  mourn. 

2  Serv.  0,  this  it  is  that  makes  your  servants 
droop. 

Lord,  llence  comes  it  that  your  kindred  sliuo 
your  house. 
As  beaten  hence  by  your  strange  lunacy. 
O,  noble  lord,  bethink  thee  of  thy  birth ; 
Call  home  thy  ancient  thoughts  from  banishment, 
And  banish  hence  these  abject  lowly  dreams. 
Look  how  thy  servants  do  attend  on  thee, 
Each  in  his  office  ready  at  thy  beck. 
Wilt  thou  have  music  1  hark !  Apollo  plays, 

[Music. 
And  twenty  caged  nightingales  do  sing: 
Or  wilt  thou  sleep  ?  wo  '11  have  thee  to  a  couch. 
Softer  and  sweeter  than  the  lustful  bed 
On  purpose  trimm'd  up  for  Semiramis. 
Say,  thou  wilt  walk :  we  will  bestrew  the  ground 
Or  wilt  thou  ride  ?  thy  horses  shall  be  trapp'd, 
Their  harness  studded  all  with  gold  and  pearl. 
Dast  thou  love  hawking  ?  thon  hast  hawks  will  soar 
Above  the  morning  lark  :  or  wilt  thou  hunt  ? 
Thy  hounds  shall  make  the  welkin  answer  them, 
And  fetch  shrill  echoes  from  the  hollow  earth. 

1  Serv.  Say,  thou  wilt  course ;  thy  greyhoumis 

are  as  swift 
As  breathed  stags,  ay,  fleeter  than  the  roe. 

2  Serv.  Dost  thou  love  pictures  ?  we  will  fetch 

thee  straight 
Adonis,  painted  by  a  running  brook ; 
And  Cytherea  all  in  sedges  hid. 
Which  seem  to  move,  and  wanton  with  her  breatli 
Even  as  the  waving  sedges  play  with  wind. 

Lord.  We  '11  show  thee  lo,  as  she  was  a  maid ; 
And  how  she  was  beguiled  and  suipris'd. 
As  lively  painted  as  the  deed  was  done. 

3  Serv.  Or  Daphne,  roaming  through  a  thorny 

wood ; 
Scratching  her  legs  that  one  shall  swear  she  bleeds 
And  at  that  sight  shall  sad  Apollo  weep. 
So  workmauly  the  blood  and  tears  are  drawn. 

Lord.  Thou  art  a  lord,  and  nothing  but  a  lord 
Thou  hast  a  lady  far  more  beautiful 
Than  any  woman  in  this  waning  age. 

1   Serv.  And,  till  the  tears  that  she  hath  shed  for 
thee, 
Like  envious  floods  o'er-ran  her  lovely  face, 
She  was  the  fairest  creature  in  the  world ; 
And  yet  she  is  inferior  to  none. 

Sly.  Am  I  a  lord  ?  and  have  I  such  a  lady  ? 
Or  do  1  dream,  or  have  I  dream'd  till  now  ? 
I  do  not  sleep :  I  see,  I  hear,  I  speak ; 

453 


INDUCTION.                               THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW                                  bcese  ii. 

[  smel'  f  weet  savours,  and  I  feel  soft  tilings  : — 

Sly.  I  know  it  well :  what  must  I  call  her  ? 

Upon  ray  life,  I  am  a  lord,  indeed  ; 

Lord.  Madam. 

And  not  a  tinker,  nor  Christopher  S'.y. 

Sly.  Alee  madam,  or  Joan  madam  ? 

Well,  bring  our  lady  hither  to  our  sight; 

Lord.  Madam,  and  nothing  else ;  so  lords  call 

And,  once  again,  a  pot  o'  the  smallest  ale. 

ladies. 

2   Serv.  Will  't  plea«e  your  mightiness  to  wash 

Sly.  Madam  wife,  they  say  that  I  have  dream'd, 

your  hands  ? 

And  slept  above  some  fifteen  year  or  more. 

[Servants  2)resent  an  ewer,  baso7i,  and  napkin. 

Paye.  Ay,  and  the  time  seems  thirty  unto  me  • 

0,  how  we  joy  to  see  your  wit  restor'd  ! 

Being  all  this  time  nbandon'd  from  your  bed. 

0,  that  once  more  you  knew  but  what  you  are  ! 

Sly.  'T  is  much.     Servants,  leave  me  and  her 

These  fifteen  years  you  have  been  in  a  dream ; 

alone. 

Or.  when  you  wak'd,  so'wak'd  as  if  you  slept. 

Madam,  undress  you,  and  come  now  to  bed. 

Sly.  These  fifteen  years  ?   by  my  fay,  a  goodly 

Paye.  Thrice  noble  lord,  let  me  entreat  of  you 

nap. 

To  pardon  me  yet  for  a  night  or  two ; 

But  did  I  never  speak  of  all  that  time  ? 

Or,  if  not  so,  until  the  sun  be  set : 

1   Serv.  0  yes,  my  lord ;  but  very  idle  words  : — 

For  your  physicians  have  expressly  charg'd. 

For  though  you  lay  here  in  this  goodly  chamber. 

In  peril  to  incur  your  former  malady, 

Yet  would  you  say  ye  were  beaten  out  of  door ; 

That  I  should  yet  absent  me  from  your  bed : 

And  rail  upon  the  hostess  of  the  house ; 

I  hope,  this  reason  stands  for  my  excuse. 

And  say,  you  v>-ould  present  her  at  the  leet. 

Sly.  Ay,  it  stands  so,  that  I  may  hardly  tarry 

Because  she   brought  stone  jugs   and  no  seal'd 

so   long.     But  I  would  bo  loth  to  fall  into   my 

quarts :'» 

dreams  again.     I  will  therefore  tarry,  in  despite 

Sometimes  you  would  call  out  for  Cicely  Hacket. 

of  the  flesh  and  the  blood. 

Sii/.  Ay,  the  woman's  maid  of  the  house. 

3  Serv.  Why,  sir,  you  know  no  house,  nor  no 

LJnter  a  Servant. 

such  maid  ; 

Serv.    Your  honour's   players,    hearing    your 

Xor  no  such  men  as  you  have  reckon'd  up, — 

amendment, 

As  Stephen  Sly,  and  Old  John  Naps  o'  the  Green, 

Are  come  to  play  a  pleasant  comedy, 

And  Peter  Turph,  and  Henry  Pimpernell ; 

For  so  your  doctors  hold  it  very  meet : 

And  twenty  more  such  names  and  men  as  these. 

Seeing  too  much  sadness  hath  congeal'd  yourbloo<l, 

Which  never  were,  nor  no  man  ever  saw. 

And  melancholy  is  the  nurse  of  frenzy. 

Sly.  Now,  Lord  be  thanked  for  my  good  amends ! 

Therefore,  they  thought  it  good  you  hear  a  play. 

All.  Amen. 

And  fiame  your  mind  to  mirth  and  merriment. 

Sly.  I  thank  thee ;  thou  shalt  not  lose  by  it. 

Which  bars  a  thousand  harms,  and  lengthens  life. 

Sly.  !Marry,  I  will  let  them  play :    Is  it  not  a 

£ntcr  the  Page,  as  a  lady,  with  Attendants. 

commonty,"  a  Christmas  gambol,  cr  a  tumbling- 

Paye.  How  fares  my  noble  lord  3 

trick  1 

Sly.  Marry,  I  fare  well ;  for  here  is  cheer  enough. 

Paye.  No,  my  good  lord ;  it  is  more  pleasing 

Where  is  my  wife  5 

stuff 

Faye.  Here,  noble  lord.     What  is  thy  will  with 

Sly.  What,  household  stuff! 

her  ? 

Paye.  It  is  a  kind  of  history. 

Sly.  Are   you  my  wife,  and  will  not  call  me 

Sly.  Well,  we  '11  see  't.     Come,  madam  wife,  sit 

husband  ? 

by  my  side,  and  let  the  world  slip  •  we  shall  ne'ei 

.Mv  men  should  call  me  lord  ;  I  am  your  croodman. 

be  younger. 

Paye.  My  husband  and  my  lord,  luy  lord  and 

^  Tkey  sit  down 

husband ; 

I  am  your  wife  in  all  obedience. 

454 

.■ 

' 

ACT  I                                       llIE  TAMLNG  OF  TllK  SHREW.                                   bcese  i. 

ACT   I 

SCENE  I.— Padua.     A  public  Place. 

No  profit  grows  whore  is  no  pleasure  ta'i-n  ; — 

£n.er  Luckntio  and  Tranio. 

In  brief,  sir,  study  what  you  most  affect. 

Luc.  Gramercies,  Tranio,  well  dost  thou  ad\iK0. 

Lvc.  Tranio,  since,  for  the  great  desire  I  Lad 

If,  Biondello,  thou  wert  come  ashore. 

Tc  see  fair  Padua,  nursery  of  arts, 

We  could  at  once  put  us  in  readiness ; 

I  am  arriv'd  for  fruitful  Lombardy," 

And  take  a  lodging,  fit  to  entertain 

The  pleasant  garden  of  great  Italy , 

Such  friends  as  time  in  Padua  shall  beget. 

And,  by  my  father's  love  and  leave,  am  arm'd 

But  stay  awhile  :  what  company  is  this  ? 

With  his  good  will,  and  thy  good  company, 

Tra.  Master,  some  show,  to  welcome  us  to  town. 

My  tiusty  servant,  well  approv'd  in  all ; 

Here  let  us  breathe,  and  haply  institute 

jEnter  Baptista,  Katiiakina,  Bianca,  Gkemio,  and 

A  course  of  learning,  and  ingenious  studies. 

noRTENSio.    LucEXTio  and  Tranio  stand  aside. 

Pisa,  renowned  for  grave  citizens. 

Bop.  Gentlemen,  importune  me  no  farther, 

Gave  me  my  being,  and  my  fiither  first, 

For  how  I  firmly  am  resolv'd  you  know : 

A  merchant  of  great  traffic  through  the  world. 

That  is,  not  to  bestow  my  youngest  daughter, 

Vincentio,  come  of  the  Bentivolii. 

Before  I  have  a  husband  for  the  elder : 

Vir.centio's  son,  brouglit  up  in  Florence, 

K  either  of  you  both  love  Katharina, 

It  shall  become,  to  serve  all  hopes  conceiv'd, 

Because  I  know  you  well,  and  love  you  well. 

To  deck  his  fortune  with  his  ^-irtuous  deeds  • 

Leave  shall  you  have  to  court  her  at  your  pleasure, 

And  therefore,  Tranio,  for  the  time  I  study, 

Gre.  To  cart  her  rather :'''   She  'a  too  rough  for 

Virtue,  and  that  part  of  philosophy 

me : 

Will  I  apply,  that  treats  of  happiness 

There,  there,  Hortensio,  will  you  any  wife  ? 

Bj'  virtue  'specially  to  be  achiev'd. 

Kath.  I  pray  you,  sir,  [to  Bap.]  is  it  your  will 

Tell  me  thy  mind :  for  I  have  Pisa  left, 

To  make  a  stale  of  me  amongst  these  mates  ? 

And  am  to  Padua  come,  as  he  that  leaves 

Hot:  Mates,  maid !    how  mean  you  that  ?    no 

A  shallow  plash,  to  plunge  him  in  the  deep. 

mates  for  you. 

And  with  satiety  seeks  to  quench  his  thirst. 

Unless  you  we?e  of  gentler,  milder  mould. 

Tra.  Mi  perdonatc,  gentle  master  mine, 

Kath.  r  fiiith,  sir,  you  shall  never  need  to  fear ; 

I  am  in  all  affected  as  yourself; 

I  wis,  it  is  not  half  way  to  her  heart : 

Glad  that  you  thus  continue  your  resolve, 

But,  if  it  were,  doubt  not  her  care  should  be 

To  suck  the  sweets  of  sweet  philosophy. 

To  comb  your  noddle  with  a  three-legg'd  stool, 

Only,  good  master,  while  wo  do  admire 

And  paint  youf  face,  and  use  you  like  a  fool. 

This  virtue,  and  this  moral  discipline. 

Hor.  From  all  such  dcNdls,  good  Lord,  deliver  us! 

Let 's  be  no  stoics,  nor  no  stocks,  I  pray ; 

Ore.  And  me  too,  good  Lord ! 

Or  so  devote  to  Aristotle's  checks, 

Tra.  Hush,  master  !  here  's  some  good  pastimo 

As  Ovid  be  an  outcast  quite  abjur'd : 

toward  ; 

Balk"  logic  with  acquaintance  that  you  have, 

That  wench  is  stark  mad,  or  wonderful  froward. 

And  practise  rhetoric  in  your  common  talk : 

Lue.  But  in  the  other's  silence  do  I  see 

Music  and  poesy  use  to  quicken  you ; 

Maids'  mild  behaviour  and  sobriety. 

The  mathematics,  and  the  metaphysics, 

Peace,  Tranio. 

Fall  to  them,  as   you  find   your  stomach  serves 

Tra.  Well  said,  master ;  mum  I  and  gaze  yout 

you  • 

fill. 

46S 

....                                                                                                        1 

THE  TAlSnNG  OF  THE  SHEEW. 


Bap.  Gentlemen,  that  I  may  soon  make  good 
What  I  have  said,  Bianca,  get  you  in  : 
And  let  it  not  displease  thee,  good  Bianca ; 
Fot  I  will  love  thee  ne'er  the  less,  my  girl. 

Kath.  A  pretty  peat ;"  it  is  best 
Put  finger  in  the  eye — an  she  knew  why. 

Bian.  Sister,  content  you  in  my  discontent. 
Sir,  to  vour  pleasure  humbly  I  subscribe  : 
My  books    and    instruments    shall    be    my  com- 
pany ; 
Un  them  to  look,  and  practise  by  myself. 

Luc.  Hark,  Tranio  !  thou  mayst  hear  MineiTa 
speak.  [Aside. 

Hor.  Siguior  Baptista,  will  you  be  so  strange  ? 
Sorry  am  I  that  our  good  will  effects 
Bianca's  grief. 

Gre.  Why,  will  you  mew  her  up, 

Signior  Baptista,  for  this  fiend  of  hell. 
And  make  her  bear  the  penance  of  her  tongue  ? 

Bap.  Gentlemen,  content  ye ;  I  am  resolv'd  : 
Go  in,  Bianca.  [Exit  Bianca. 

And,  for  I  know  she  taketh  most  delight 
In  music,  instruments,  and  poetry, 
Schoolmastei-s  will  I  keep  within  my  house, 
Fit  to  instruct  her  youth.     If  you,  Hortensio, 
Or,  signior  Gremio,  you  know  any  such. 
Prefer  them  hither  ;  for  to  cunning  men 
I  will  be  very  kind,  and  liberal 
To  mine  own  children  in  good  bringing-up  ; 
And  so  farewell.     Katharina,  you  may  stay ; 
For  I  have  more  to  commune  with  Bianca.     [Exit. 

Kath.  Why,  and  I  trust  I  may  go  too.     May  I 
not? 
What,  shall   I  be  appointed   hours ;    as  though, 

belike, 
I   knew   not  what  to  take,  and  what  to  leave  ? 
Ha !  [Exit. 

Grc.  You  may  go  to  the  devil's  dam ;  your  gifts 
are  so  good,  here 's  none  will  hold  you.  Their  love 
is  not  so  great,  Hortensio,  but  we  may  blow  our 
nails  together,  and  fast  it  fairly  out ;  our  cake 's 
dougli  on  both  sides.  Farewell : — Yet,  for  the 
love  I  bear  my  sweet  Bianca,  if  I  can  by  any 
raeiuis  light  on  a  fit  man  to  teach  her  that  wherein 
she  delights,  I  will  wish  him"  to  her  fiither. 

Hor.  So  will  I,  signior  Gremio :  But  a  word,  I 
pray.  Though  the  nature  of  our  quarrel  yet  never 
brook'd  park',  know  now,  upon  advice,  it  touchcth 
us  both, — that  we  may  yet  again  have  access  to 
our  fair  mistress,  and  be  happy  rivals  in  Bianca's 
love, — to  labour  and  effect  one  thing  .specially. 

Ore.  What  's  that,  I  pray  ? 
450 


Hor.  Marry,  sir,  to  get  a  husband  for  her  sister 

Gre.  A  husband  !  a  devil. 

Hor.  I  say,  a  husband. 

Gre.  I  say,  a  devil :  'J'hink'st  thou,  Hortensio 
though  her  fallier  be  veiy  rich,  any  man  is  so  verj 
a  fool  to  bo  married  to  hell  ? 

Hor.  Tush,  Gremio,  fliough  it  pass  your  patience 
and  mine  to  endure  her  loud  alarums,  why,  man, 
there  be  good  fellows  in  the  world,  an  a  man  could 
light  on  them,  would  take  her  with  all  faults,  and 
money  enough. 

Ore.  I  cannot  tell ;  but  I  had  as  lief  take  her 
dowry  with  this  condition, — to  be  whipped  at  the 
high-cross  every  morning. 

Hor.  'Faith,  as  you  say,  there 's  small  choice  in 
rotten  apples.  But,  come ;  since  this  bar  in  law 
makes  us  friends,  it  shall  be  so  far  forth  fi'iendly 
maintain'd,  till,  by  helping  Baptista's  eldest  daugh- 
ter to  a  husband,  we  set  his  youngest  free  for  a 
husband,  and  then  have  to  't  afresh. — Sweet 
Bianca ! — Happy  man  be  his  dole  1"  He  that 
runs  fastest  gets  the  ring.  How  say  you,  signior 
Gremio  ? 

Gre.  I  am  agreed :  and  would  I  had  given  him 
the  best  horse  in  Padua  to  begin  his  wooing,  that 
would  thoroughly  woo  her,  wed  her,  and  bed  her, 
and  rid  the  house  of  her.     Come  on. 

[Exeunt  Gre.  and  IIor. 

Tra.  [Advancing^  I  pray,  sir,  tell  me, — Is  il 
possible 
That  love  should  of  a  sudden  take  such  hold  ? 

Luc.  O  Tranio,  till  I  found  it  to  be  tnie, 
I  never  thought  it  possible,  or  likely ; 
But  see !  while  idly  I  stood  looking  on, 
I  found  the  effect  of  love  in  idleness  : 
And  now  in  plainness  do  confess  to  thee, — 
That  art  to  me  as  secret,  and  as  dear. 
As  Anna  to  the  queen  of  Carthage  wa-s, — 
Tranio,  I  burn,  I  pine,  I  perish,  Tranio, 
If  I  achieve  not  this  youug  modest  girl : 
Counsel  me,  Tranio,  for  I  know  thou  canst ; 
Assist  me,  Tranio,  for  I  know  thou  wilt. 

Tra.  Master,  it  is  no  time  to  chide  you  now ; 
Affection  is  not  rated  from  the  heart : 
If  love  have  touch'd    you,  nought  remains   bul 

so,— 
licdime  ie  captiim  quam  qucas  minimo. 

Luc.    Gramercies,  lad ;    go    forward,  this  con 
tents ; 
The  rest  will  comfort,  for  thy  counsel  's  sound. 

Tra.  Master,  you  look'd  so  longly  on  the  maid, 
Perhaps  you  mark'd  not  what 's  the  pith  of  all. 


THE  TAlVnNG  OF  THE  SHREW. 


SCENE    I. 


Luc.  0  yes,  I  saw  sweet  beauty  in  lier  face, 
Such  as  the  daughter  of  Agenor  had 
That   made    great  Jove    to    humble    him  to  her 

hand, 
VVhen  with  his  knees  he  kiss'd  the  Cretan  strand. 

Tra.  Saw  you  no  more  ?  mark'd  you  not,  how 
her  sister 
Began  to  scold  ;  and  raise  up  such  a  storm, 
That  mortal  ears  might  hardly  endure  the  din  ? 

Luc.  Tranio,  I  saw  her  coral  lips  to  move, 
And  with  her  breath  she  did  perfume  the  air ; 
Sacred,  and  sweet,  was  all  I  saw  in  her. 

Tra.  Nay,  then,  'tis  time  to  stir  him  from  his 
trance. 
I  pray,  awake,  sir  :  If  you  love  the  maid, 
Bend  thoughts  and  wits  to  achieve  her.     Thus  it 

stan4s  : 
Her  elder  sister  is  so  curst  and  shrewd. 
That,  till  the  father  lid  his  hands  of  her, 
Master,  your  love  must  live  a  maid  at  home  ; 
And  therefore  has  he  closely  mew'd  her  up, 
Because  she  will  not  be  annoy'd  with  suitors. 

Luc.  Ah,  Tranio,  what  a  cruel  father  's  he  1 
But  art  thou  not  advis'd,  he  took  some  care 
To  get  her  cunning  schoolmastera  to  instruct  her  ? 

Tra.  Kj,  marry,  am  I,  sir ;  and  now 't  is  plotted. 

Luc.  I  have  it,  Tranio. 

Tra.  Master,  for  my  hand. 

Both  our  inventions  meet  and  jump  in  one. 

Luc.  Tell  me  thine  first. 

Tra.  You  will  be  schoolmaster. 

And  undertake  the  teaching  of  the  maid  : 
That 's  your  device. 

Luc.  It  is  :  May  it  be  done  ?" 

Tra.   Not  possible.     For  who  shall  bear  your 
part. 
And  be  in  Padua  here  Vincentio's  son  ? 
Keep   house,  and    ply  his    book ;    welcome    his 

friends ; 
Visit  his  countrymen,  and  banquet  them  ? 

Luc.  Basta ;"  content  thee  ;  for  I  have  it  full. 
We  have  not  yet  been  seen  in  any  house ; 
Nor  can  we  be  distinguish'd  by  our  faces. 
For  man  or  master :  then  it  follows  thus ; — 
Thou  shalt  be  master,  Tranio,  in  my  stead, 
Keep  house,  and  port,  and  servants,  as  I  should  : 
I  will  some  other  be  ;  some  Florentine, 
Some  Neapolitan,  or  meaner  man  of  Pisa. 
'T  is  hatch'd,  and  shall  be  so  : — Tranio,  at  once 
Uncase  thee,  take  my  colour'd  hat  and  cloak : 
When  Biondello  comes,  he  waits  on  thee  ; 
But  I  will  charrr_  him  first  to  keep  his  tongue. 


Tra.  So  had  you  need.     [They  exchange  habits 
In  brief,  sir,  sith  it  your  pleasure  is. 
And  I  am  tied  to  be  obedient, 
(For  so  your  father  charg'd  me  at  our  parting  ; 
"  Be  serviceable  to  my  sou,"  quoth  lie. 
Although,  I  think  't  was  in  another  sense,) 
I  am  content  to  be  Lucentio, 
Because  so  well  I  love  Lucentio. 

Luc.  Tranio,  bo  so,  because  Lucentio  loves : 
And  let  me  be  a  slave,  t'  achieve  that  maid 
Whose   sudden  sight  hath  thrall'd  my  wounded 
eye. 

Unter  Biondello. 

Here  comes  the  rogue. — Sirrah,  where  have  you 
been  ? 
Bion.  Where  have  I  been  ?     Nay,  how  now 
where  are  you  ? 
Master,  has  my  fellow  Tranio  stol'n  your  clothes  ? 
Or  you  stol'n  his  ?    or  both  ?    pray,  what  's  the 
news? 
Luc.    Sirrah,   come  hither ;    't  is   no    time   tc 
jest. 
And  therefore  frame  your  manners  to  the  time. 
Your  fellow  Tranio  here,  to  save  my  life, 
Puts  my  apparel  and  my  count'nance  on, 
And  I  for  my  escape  have  put  on  his ; 
For  in  a  quarrel,  since  I  came  ashore, 
I  kill'd  a  man,  and  fear  I  was  descried. 
Wait  you  on  him,  I  charge  you,  as  becomes, 
While  I  make  way  fi'om  hence  to  save  my  life  , 
You  understand  me  ? 

Bion.  I,  sir  ?  ne'er  a  whit. 

Luc.  And  not  a  jot  of  Tranio  in  your  mouth  ; 
Tranio  is  chang'd  into  Lucentio. 

Bion.  The  better  for  him.    'Would  I  were  so  too 
Tra.  So  would  I,  faith,  boy,  to  h.ave  the  next 
wish  after,— 
That  Lucentio  indeftt  had   Baptista's   youngest 

daughter. 
But,  sirrah,  not  for  my  sake,  but  your  master  s,  I 

advise 
You  use  your  manners  discreetly  in  all  kind  of 

companies : 
When  I  am  alone,  why,  then  I  am  Tranio ; 
But  in  all  places  else,  your  master  Lucentio. 

Luc.  Tranio,  let 's  go : — 
One  thing  more  rests,  that  thyself  execute ; 
To  make  one  among  these  wooers:  If  thou  ask  me 

why,— 
SuflSceth  my  reasons  are  both  good  and  weighty. 

\Hxeunt 
467 


ACT   I. 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


BCEKS  IL 


{The presenters  abcce  tpeak.) 

1  Serv.  My  lord,  you  nod ,  you  do  not  mind  the  play. 

Sly.  Yes,  by  saint  Anne,  do  I.    A  good  matter,  surely. 
Comes  iLere  any  more  of  it  ? 

Page.  My  lord,  't  is  but  begun. 

Sly.  'T  Is  a  very  e.xoellent  piece  of  work,  Madam  lady, 
■Would  H  77ere  done  !  [  They  sii  and  mark. 

SCENE  II. — The  same.   BeforeUoTtensio's  House. 
Enter  Petrucio  and  Grumio. 

Pet.  Verona,  for  a  while  I  take  my  leave, 
To  see  my  friends  in  Padua  ;  but,  of  all, 
My  best  beloved  and  approved  friend, 
Hortensio ;  and,  I  trow,  this  is  liis  house  : 
Here,  sirrah  Grumio ;  knock,  I  say. 

Gru.  Knock,  sir !  whom  should  I  knock  ?  is 
there  any  man  has  rebus'd  your  worahij)  ? 

Pet.  Villain,  I  say,  knock  me  here  soundly.'" 

Gru.  Knock  you  here,  sir  ?  why,  sir,  what  am 
I,  sir,  that  I  should  knock  you  here,  sir  ? 

Pet.  Villain,  I  say,  knock  me  at  this  gate. 
And  rap  me  well,  or  I  '11  knock  your  knave's  pate. 

Gru.  My  master  is  grown  quarrelsome :  I  should 
knock  you  first, 
And  then  I  know  after  who  comes  by  the  worst. 

Pet.  Will  it  not  be  ? 
'Faith,  siiTah,  an  you  '11  not  knock,  I  '11  wiiug  it ; 
I  '11  try  how  you  can  sol,  fa,  and  sing  it. 

\He  wrinffs  Grumio  by  the  ears. 

Gru.  Help,  masters,  help  1  my  master  is  mad. 

Pet.  Now,  knock  when   I   bid   you :    sirrah ! 
villain  1 

Enter  Hortensio. 

Hor.  How  now  ?  what  's  the  matter  ? — My  old 
friend  Grumio  !  and  my  good  friend  Petrucio  ! — 
How  do  you  all  at  Verona  ? 

Pet.  Signior  Hortensio,  come  you  to  part  the 
fray  ? 
Con  tutto  il  core  hen  trovaio,  may  I  say. 

Hor.  Alia  nostra  casa  ben  vcnuto, 
Mollo  honorato  signior  mio  Petrucio. 
Rise,  Grumio,  rise;  we  will  compound  this  quarrel. 

Gru.  Nay,  't  is  no  matter,  sir,  what  he  'leges  in 
Latin. 
— If  this  be  not  a  lawful  cause  for  me  to  leave  his 
service, — Look  you,  sir, — he  bid  me  knock  him, 
and  rap  him  soundly,  sir :  Well,  was  it  fit  for  a 
servant  to  use  liis  master  so ;  being,  perhaps,  (for 
aught  I  see,)  two-aiid-tliirty, — a  ]iip  out  ?'" 
Whom,  'would  to  God,  I  had  well  knock'd  at  first, 
Tlicn  had  not  Grumio  como  by  the  worst. 
453 


Pet.  A  senseless  villain ! — Gocd  Hortensio, 
I  bade  the  rascal  knock  upon  your  gate, 
And  could  not  get  him  for  my  heart  to  do  it. 

Gru.  Knock  at  the  gate  ? — 0  Heavens ! 
Spake  you  not  the«e  words  plain — "  Sirrah,  knock 

me  here. 
Rap   me   here,   knock   me  well,  and   knock  ma 

soundly"  ? 
And  come  you  now  with — knocking  at  the  gate  ? 

Pit.  Sin-ah,  be  gone,  or  talk  not,  I  advise  you. 

Hor.  Petrucio,  patience ;  I  am  Gnimio's  pledge : 
Why,  this  a  heavy  chance  'twixt  him  and  you ; 
Your  ancient,  trusty,  pleasant  servant,  Grumio. 
And  tell  me  now,  sweet  friend, — what  happy  gale 
Blows  you  to  Padua  here,  from  old  Verona  ? 

Pet.  Such  wind  as  scatters  young  men  through 
the  world. 
To  seek  their  fortunes  farther  than  at  home. 
Where  small  experience  grows.     But,  in  a  few,'' 
Signior  Hortensio,  thus  it  stands  with  me  : — 
Antonio,  my  father,  is  deceas'd ; 
And  I  liave  thrust  myself  into  this  maze, 
Haply  to  wive,  and  thrive,  as  best  I  may : 
Crowns  in  my  purse  I  have,  and  goods  at  home, 
And  so  am  come  abroad  to  see  the  world. 

Hor.  Petrucio,  shall  I  then   come  roundly  to       ) 
thee, 
And  wish  thee  to  a  shrew'd  ill-favour'd  wife  ? 
Thou  'dst  thank  me  but  a  little  for  my  counsel : 
And  yet  I  '11  promise  thee  she  shall  be  rich. 
And  very  rich  : — but  thou  'rt  too  much  my  friend, 
And  I  '11  not  wish  thee  to  her. 

Pet.  Signior  Hortensio,  'twixt  such  friends  aa 
we 
Few  words  suffice  :  and,  therefore,  if  thou  know 
One  rich  enough  to  be  Petrucio's  wife, 
(As  wealth  is  burthen  of  my  wooing  dance) 
Be  she  as  foul  as  was  Florentius'  love,"* 
As  old  as  Sibyl,  and  as  curst  and  shrewd 
As  Socrates'  Xantippe,  or  a  worse. 
She  moves  me  not,  or  not  removes,  at  least, 
Affection's  edge  in  me.     Wore  she  as  rough 
As  are  the  swelliug  Adriatic  seas  ; 
I  come  to  wive  it  wealthily  in  Padua  ; 
If  wealthily,  then  happily  in  Padu.a. 

Gru.  Nay,  look  you  sir,  he  tells  you  flatly  what 
his  mind  is.  Why,  give  him  gold  enough  and 
marry  him  to  a  p  jppet,  or  an  aglet-baby ;  or  an 
old  trot  with  ne'er  a  tooth  it  her  head,  though  she 
have  as  many  dae;ises  as  two-and-fit'ly  horses : 
wliy,  nothing  comes  amis.s,  so  money  comes  withal 

Hor.  Petrucio,  since  wo  are  stepp'd  thus  far  in, 


ACT  T. 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


SCENE  n. 


[  will  continue  that  I  broach'd  in  jest. 

r  can,  Petrucio,  help  thee  to  a  wife 

With  wealth  enough,  and  young,  and  beauteous ; 

[{rouglit  up  as  best  becomes  a  geutlewoman  : 

Ller  only  fault  (and  that  is  fault  enough) 

[s, — that  she  is  intolerable  curst, 

And  shrewd,  and  froward :  so  beyond  all  measure, 

That,  were  my  state  far  worser  than  it  is, 

I  would  not  wed  her  for  a  mine  cf  gold. 

Pet.  Hortensio,  peace  ;  thou  know'st  not  gold's 
eflect : 
Tell  me  her  father's  name,  and  't  is  enough  ; 
For  I  will  board  her,  though  she  chide  as  loud 
As  thunder,  when  the  clouds  in  autumu  crack. 

Hor.  Her  father  is  Baptista  Minola, 
An  affable  and  courteous  gentleman  : 
Her  name  is  Kathariua  Minola, 
Renown'd  in  Padua  for  her  scolding  tongue. 

Pet.  I  know  her  father,  though  I  know  not  her; 
And  he  knew  my  deceased  father  well : 
I  will  not  sleep,  Hortensio,  till  I  see  her  ; 
And  therefore  let  me  be  thus  bold  with  you. 
To  give  you  over  at  this  first  encounter, 
Unless  you  will  accompany  mo  thither. 

Gru.  I  pray  you,  sir,  let  him  go  while  the 
Lumour  lasts.  0'  my  word,  an  she  knew  him  as 
WL'U  as  I  do,  she  would  think  scolding  would  do 
little  good  upon  him.  She  ma}',  perhaps,  call  him 
half  a  score  knaves,  or  so  :  why,  that 's  nothing  ; 
nn  he  begin  once,  he  '11  rail  in  his  rope-tricks.^^ 
I  '11  tell  you  what,  sir, — an  she  stand  him  but  a 
Httle,  he  will  throw  a  figure  in  her  face,  and  so 
disfigure  her  with  it,  that  she  shall  have  no  more 
eyes  to  see  withal  than  a  cat :  you  know  him  not, 
sir. 

Hor.  Tarry,  Pertrucio,  I  must  go  with  thee  ; 
For  in  Baptista's  keep  my  treasure  is  : 
He  hath  the  jewel  of  my  hfe  in  hold, 
His  youngest  daughter,  beautiful  Bianca ; 
And  her  withholds  he  from  me,  and  other  more 
Suitors  to  her,  and  rivals  in  my  love : 
Supposing  it  a  thing  impossible, 
(For  those  defects  I  have  before  rehears'd,) 
That  ever  Katharina  will  be  woo'd, 
Therefore  this  oi'der  hath  Baptista  ta'en. 
That  none  shall  have  access  unto  Bianca, 
rill  Katharine  the  curst  have  got  a  husband. 

Grit,  Katharins  tb.3  curst ! 
A  title  for  a  maid  of  all  titles  the  worst. 

Hor.  Now  shall  my  friend  Peti-ucio  do  me  grace ; 
And  offer  me,  disguis'd  in  sober  robes, 
To  old  Baptista  as  a  schoolmaster, 


Well  seen  in  music,"  to  instruct  Bianca : 
That  so  I  may  by  this  device,  at  least. 
Have  leave  and  leisure  to  make  love  to  her. 
And,  unsuspected,  court  her  by  herselt 

Enter  Gremio  ;  with  him  Lucentio  disffuised,  with 
books  under  his  arm. 

Gru.  Hero  's  no  knavery  !  See  ;  to  Itoguilc 
the  old  folks,  how  the  young  folks  lay  their  heails 
together  !  Master,  master,  look  about  you.  Who 
goes  there  2  ha  1 

Hor.  Peace,  Grumio ;    it  is  the  rival  of  my 
love : — 
Petrucio,  stand  by  a  while. 

Gru.  A  proper  stripling,  and  an  amorous ! 

[They  retire. 

Grc.  O,  very  well :  I  have  perus'd  the  note. 
Hark  you,  sir ;  I  '11  have  them  very  fairly  bound : 
All  books  of  love,  see  that  at  any  hand ;" 
And  see  you  read  no  other  lectures  to  her : 
You  understand  me : — Over  and  beside 
Signior  Baptista's  liberality, 

I  '11  mend  it  with  a  largess : — Take  yoiu-  papers  too 
And  let  me  have  them  very  well  perfum'd  ; 
For  she  is  sweeter  than  perfume  itself. 
To  whom  they  go  to.     What  will  you  read  to  her 

Luc.  Whate'er  I  read  to  her,  I  '11  plead  for  you 
As  for  my  patron,  (stand  you  so  assur'd,) 
As  firmly  as  yourself  were  still  in  place : 
Yea,  and  perhaps  with  more  successful  words 
Than  you,  unless  you  were  a  scholar,  sir. 

Gre.  O  this  learning !  what  a  thing  it  is ! 

Gru.  0  this  woodcock  !™  what  an  ass  it  is  ! 

Pet.  Peace,  sirrah. 

Hor.  Grumio,   mum ! — God   save  you,   signior 
Gremio  ! 

Gre.  And  you  are  well  met,  signior  Hortensio. 
Trow  you 
Whither  I  am  going  ? — To  Baptista  Minola. 
I  promis'd  to  inquire  carefully 
About  a  schoolmaster  for  the  fair  Bianca  ; 
And,  by  good  fortune,  I  have  lighted  well 
On  this  young  man ;  for  learning,  and  behaviour, 
Fit  for  hei  turn  ;  well  read  in  poetry 
And  other  books, — good  ones,  I  warrant  ye. 

Hor.  'T  is  well :  and  I  have  met  a  gentleman. 
Hath  promis'd  me  to  help  me  to  another, 
A  fine  musician  to  instruct  our  mistress ; 
So  shall  I  no  whit  be  behind  in  duty 
To  fair  Bianca,  so  belov'd  of  me. 

Gre.  Beloved  of  me, — and  that  my  deeds  shell 
prove. 

469 


THE  TAHnNG  OF  THE  SHREW. 


frru.  And  that  liis  bags  shall  prove.        \Aside. 

Hor.  Gremio,  't  is  now  no  time   to  vent  our 
love  ; 
Listen  to  me,  and  if  you  speak  me  fair, 
I  '11  tell  you  news  indifierent  good  for  either. 
Here  is  a  gentleman,  whom  by  chance  I  met, 
Lljion  agi'eement  from  us  to  his  liking, 
Will  undertake  to  woo  curet  Katharine  ; 
Vea,  and  to  marry  her,  if  her  dowry  please. 

Gre.  So  said,  so  done,  is  well : — 
Hortensio,  have  you  told  him  all  her  faults  ? 

Pet.  I  know  she  is  an  irksome,  brawling  scold ; 
If  that  be  all,  maisters,  I  hear  no  hami. 

Gre. 'Hoi    Say'st  me  so,  friend  ?    What  country- 
man ? 

Pet.  Born  in  Verona,  old  Antonio's  son : 
My  father  dead,  my  fortune  lives  for  me  ; 
And  I  do  hope  good  days,  and  long,  to  see. 

Gre.  O,  sir,  such  a  life,  with  such  a  wife,  were 
strange : 
But  if  you  have  a  stomach,  to  't  o'  God's  name ; 
You  shall  have  me  assisting  you  in  all. 
But  will  you  woo  this  wild-cat  ? 

Pet.  Will  I  live  ? 

Gre.  Will  he  woo  her  ?  ay,  or  I  '11  hang  her. 

\_Aside. 

Pet.  Why  came  I  hither,  but  to  that  intent  ? 
Think  you,  a  little  din  can  daunt  lume  ears  ? 
Have  I  not  in  my  time  heard  lions  roar  ? 
Have  I  not  heard  the  sea,  puff'd  up  with  winds, 
Rage  like  an  angiy  boar,  chafed  with  sweat  ? 
Have  I  not  heard  great  ordnance  in  the  field, 
And  heaven's  artillery  thunder  in  the  skies! 
Have  I  not  in  a  pitched  battle  heard 
Loud  'larums,  neighing  steeds,  and  trumpets'  clang? 
And  do  you  tell  me  of  a  woman's  tongue. 
That  gives  not  half  so  great  a  blow  to  hear. 
As  will  a  chestnut  in  a  farmer's  fire  3 
Tush  !  tush  !  fear  boys  with  bugs." 

Gru.  For  he  fears  none.  \^Aside. 

Gre.  Hortensio,  hark ! 
This  gentleman  is  happily  arriv'd, 
My  mind  presumes,  for  his  own  good,  and  yours. 

Hor.  I  promis'd,  wc  would  be  contributors. 
And  bear  his  charge  of  wooing,  whatsoe'er. 

Gre.  And  so  we  will,  provided  that  he  win  her. 

Gru.  1  would  I  were  as  sure  of  a  good  diuner. 

[Aside. 

Enter  Tnkn to,  bravely  apparelled  ;  and  Biondello. 

Tra.  Gcntienion,  God  save  you !   if  I  may  be 
bold, 
460 


Tell  me,  I  beseech  you,  which  is  the  readiest  way 
To  the  house  of  signior  Baptista  Minola  ? 

Bion.  He  that  has  the  two  fair  daughters: — is'' 
he  you  mean? 

Tra.  Even  he,  Biondello. 

Gre.  Hark  you,  sir ;  You  mean  not  her  to — - 

Tra.  Perhaps,  him   and  her,  sir.     What  have 
you  to  do  ? 

Pet.  Not  her  that  chides,  sir,  at  any  hand,  I 
pray. 

Tra.  I  love  no  chiders,  sir.—  Biondello,  let 's 
awav. 

Luc.  Well  begun,  Tranio.  [Aside. 

liar.  Sir,  a  word  ere  you  go ; — 
Are  you  a  suitor  to  the  maid  you  talk  of,  yea  oi 
no? 

Tra.  An  if  I  be,  sir,  is  it  any  offence  ? 

Gre.  No  ;  if,  without  more  words,  you  will  get 
you  hence. 

Tra.  Whv,  sir,  I  pray,  are  not  the  streets  as  fi'eo 
For  me,  as  for  you  ? 

Gre.  But  so  is  not  she. 

Tra.  For  what  reason,  I  beseech  you  ? 

Gre.  For  this  reason,  if  you  '11  know. 
That  she  's  the  choice  love  of  signior  Gremio. 

Bor.  That  she 's  the  chosen  of  signior  Hortensio 

Tra.  Softly,  my  masters !  if  you  be  gentlemen. 
Do  me  this  right, — hear  me  with  patience. 
Baptista  is  a  noble  gentleman, 
To  whom  my  father  is  not  all  unknown  ; 
And,  were  his  daughter  fairer  than  she  is. 
She  may  more  suitors  have,  and  me  for  one. 
Fair  Leda's  daughter  had  a  thousand  wooers  ; 
Then  well  one  more  may  fair  Bianca  have  : 
And  so  she  shall ;  Lucentio  shall  make  one, 
Though  Palis  came,  in  hope  to  speed  alono. 

Gre.  What!  this  gentleman  will  out-talk  us  all 

Ltic.  Sir,  give  him  head ;  I  know,  he  '11  prove 
a  jade. 

Pet.  Hortensio,  to  what  end  are  all  these  words 

JTor.  Sir,  let  me  be  so  bold  as  to  ask  you. 
Did  you  yet  ever  see  Baptista's  daughter  ? 

Tra.  No,  sir;  but  hear  I  do,  that  he  haih  two 
The  one  as  famous  for  a  scolding  tongue. 
As  is  the  other  for  beauteous  modesty. 

Pet.  Sir,  sir,  the  first 's  for  mo  ;  let  her  go  by. 

Gre.  Yon,  leave  that  labour  to  great  Hercules 
And  let  it  be  more  than  Alcaides'  twelve. 

Pet.  Sir,  understand  you  this  cif  me,  in  sooth  ;— 
The  youngest  daughter,  whom  yau  hearken  for. 
Her  father  keeps  from  all  acces.s  of  suitors. 
And  will  not  promise  her  to  any  man 


ACT  II 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SUKEW. 


SCENE    I. 


Until  tlio  elder  sister  fii-st  bo  wed  : 

Tile  yunijer  then  is  fi'ee,  and  not,  before. 

Tra.  li  it  bo  so,  sir,  that  you  are  the  man 
Must  stead  us  all,  and  me  amongst  the  rest ; 
An  if  you  break  the  ice,  and  do  this  seek, — 
Achieve  the  elder,  set  the  younger  free 
For  our  access, — whose  hap  shall  be  to  have  hei 
Will  not  so  graceless  be  to  be  ingrate. 

Hor.  Sir,  you  say  well,  and  well  you  do  con- 
ceive : 
And  since  you  do  profess  to  be  a  suitor. 


You  must,  as  we  do,  gratify  this  gentleman, 
To  whom  we  all  I'est  generally  beholden. 

Tra.  Sir,  1  shall  not  be  sUok:  in  sign  wheidof, 
Please  ye  we  may  contrive  this  afternoon," 
And  quaflf  carouses  to  our  mistress'  liealth  ; 
And  do  as  adversaries  do  in  law, — 
Strive  mightily,  but  oat  and  drink  as.  friends. 

Gru.  JJion.  O  excellent  motion !  Fellows,  let 
begone. 

ITor.  The  motion 's  good  imleed,  and  be  it  so  ; — 
Potracio,  I  shall  be  your  ben  venulo.         [Exeunt 


ACT  II. 


SCENE  L — The  same.     A  Room  in   Baptista'« 
House. 

Enter  Katiiarina  and  Bianca,  tlie  latter  with  her 
hands  bound. 

Bian.    Good  sister,  wrong  me  not,  nor  wrong 
yourself. 
To  make  a  bondmaid  and  a  slave  of  me ; 
That  I  disdain  :  But  for  these  other  goods. 
Unbind  my  hands,  I  '11  pull  tliem  off  myself, 
Yea,  all  my  raiment,  to  my  petticoat ; 
Or,  what  you  will  command  me,  will  I  do, 
So  well  I  know  my  duty  to  my  elders. 

Kalh.  Of  all  thy  suitors,  here  I  charge  thee, 
tell 
Whom  tliou  lov'st  best :  see  tliou  dissemble  not. 

Bian.  Believe  me,  sister,  of  all  the  men  alive, 
T  never  yet  beheld  that  special  foce 
Which  I  could  fancy  more  tlian  any  other. 

Kath.    Minion,    thou    liest !    Is  't    not    Hor- 
tensio  ? 

Bian.  If  you  afi'eot  him,  sister,  here  I  swear, 
I'll  plead   for   you    myself,  but   you   shall   have 
him. 

KaXh.  O  then,  belike,  you  fancy  riches  more ; 
Vou  will  have  Gremio  to  keep  you  fair. 

Bian.  Is  it  for  him  you  do  envy  me  so  ? 
Nay,  then  you  jest;  and  now  I  well  perceive. 
You  have  but  jested  with  me  all  this  while  : 
[  prithee,  sister  Kate,  untie  my  hands. 

Kath.  If  that  be  jest,  then  all  the  rest  was  so. 

\Strikes  her. 


Enter  Baptist  a. 
Bap.  Why,  how    now,   dame !  whence  gi'ows 
this  insolence  ? 
Bianca,  stand  aside ; — poor  girl !  she  weeps : — 
Go  ply  thy  needle  ;  meddle  not  with  her. 
For  shame,  thou  hilding,"'  of  a  devilish  spirit, 
Why  dost  thou  wrong  her  that  did  ne'er  wrong 

thee  ? 
When  did  she  cross  thee  with  a  bitter  word  ? 
Kath.    Her  silence  flouts  me,  and  I  '11  be  re- 
veng'd.  [Flies  after  Bianca. 

Bap.  What,  in  my  sight  ? — Bianca,  get  thee  in. 

[Exit  Bianca, 
Kath.  W'hat,  will  you  not  suffer  me  ?  Nay,  now 
I  see 
She  is  your  treasure,  she  must  have  a  husband; 
I  must  dance  barefoot^"  oil  her  wedding-day. 
And,  for  your  love  to  her,  lead  apes  in  hell. 
Talk  not  to  me.     I  will  go  sit  and  weep. 
Till  I  can  find  occasion  of  revenge. 

[Exit  Kath 
Bap.  Was  ever  gentleman  thus  griev'd  as  1 1 
But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Gremio,  with  Lucestio  in  the  fiabii  of  a 
mean  man;  Petrucio,  teith  Hortensio  as  a 
musician;  and  Traiho,  with  Biondello  bettring 
a  lute  and  books. 

Ore.  Good  morrow,  neighbour  Baptists. 
Bap.  Good  morrow,  neighbour  Gremio :    God 
save  you,  gentlemen  1 

461 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


SCENE    I 


Pet.  And  you,  good  sir !  Pray  have  you  not  a 
daughter 
Call'd  Katharina,  fair  and  virtuous  ? 

Bap.  I  have  a  daughter,  sir,  call'd  Katharina. 
Gre.  You  are  too  blunt ;  go  to  it  orderly. 

Pet.  You  wTong  me,  signior  Gremio ;  give  me 
leave. 
I  am  a  gentleman  of  Verona,  sir. 
That,  hearing  of  her  beauty,  and  her  wit, 
Her  aflabilit}',  and  bashful  modesty, 
Her  wondrous  qualities,  and  mild  behaviour, 
Am  bold  to  show  myself  a  forward  guest 
Within  your  house,  to  make  mine  eye  the  witness 
Of  that  report  which  I  so  oft  have  heard. 
And,  for  an  entrance  to  my  entertainment, 
I  do  present  you  with  a  man  of  mine, 

[Presenting  Hortensio. 
Cunning  in  music,  and  the  mathematics, 
To  instiuct  her  fully  in  those  sciences. 
Whereof,  I  know,  she  is  not  ignorant : 
Accept  of  him,  or  else  you  do  me  wrong ; 
His  name  is  Licio,  bom  in  Mantua. 

Bap.  You  're  welcome,  sir ;    and   he  for  your 
good  sake : 
But  for  my  daughter  Katharine,  this  I  know, 
She  is  not  for  your  turn,  the  more  my  grief. 

Pet.  I  see  you  do  not  mean  to  part  with  her ; 
Or  else  you  like  not  of  my  company. 

Ba2).  Mistake  me  not,  I  speak  but  as  I  find. 
Whence    are   you,  sir  ?    what    may  I  call    your 
name  ? 

Pet.  Petrucio  is  mv  name  ;  Antonio's  son, 
A  man  well  known  throughout  all  Italy. 

Bap.  I  know  him  well :  you  are  welcome  for 
his  s.ike. 

Gre.  Saving  your  tale,  Petrucio,  I  pray, 
Let  us,  that  are  poor  petitioners,  speak  too : 
Baccare  I"  you  are  marvellous  forward. 

Pet.  O,  pardon  me,  signior  Gremio ;  I  would  fain 
be  doing. 

Gre.  I  doubt  it  not.  sir;  but  you  will  curse 
your  wooing ! 
Neighbour,  this  is  a  gift  very  grateful,  I  am  sure 
of  it.  To  express  the  like  kindness  myself,  that 
have  been  more  kindly  beholding  to  you  than  any, 
I  freely  give  unto  you  this  young  scholar,  [;;rf- 
VMlintj  LucENTio]  tiiat  hath  been  long  studying 
at  Rheims  ;  as  cunning  in  Greek,  Latin,  and  other 
languages,  as  the  other  in  music  and  mathematics : 
bis  name  is  Cambio;  pray  accept  his  service. 

B(ip.  A  thousand  thanks,  signior  Gremio  :  wel- 
come, good  Cambio. — But,  gentle  sir,  [to  Tuanio] 
4A2 


methinks  you  walk  like  a  stranger.     Mav  I  be  so 
bold  to  know  the  cause  of  your  coming  ? 

Tra.  Pardon  me,  sir,  the  boldness  is  mine  owu ; 
That,  being  a  stranger  in  this  city  here. 
Do  make  myself  a  suitor  to  your  daughter, 
Unto  Bianca,  fair,  and  virtuous. 
Nor  is  your  firm  resolve  unknown  to  me, 
In  the  preferment  of  the  eldest  sister: 
This  liberty  is  all  that  I  request, — 
That,  upon  knowledge  of  my  parentage, 
I  may  have  welcome  'mongst  the  rest  that  woo, 
And  free  access  and  favour  as  the  rest. 
And,  toward  the  education  of  your  daughters, 
I  here  bestow  a  simple  instrument. 
And  this  small  packet  of  Greek  and  Latin  books  : 
If  you  accept  them,  then  their  worth  is  great. 

Bap.  Lucentio  is  your  name  ?  of  whence,  I  pray  'i 

Tra.  Of  Pisa,  sir ;  son  to  Vincentio. 

Bap.  A  mighty  man  of  Pisa :  by  report 
I  know  him  well :  you  are  very  welcome,  sir. 
Take  you  [to  Hob.]  the  lute,  and  you  [to  Luc] 

the  set  of  books. 
You  shall  go  see  your  pupils  presently. 
Holloa,  within ! 

£nter  a  Servant. 
Sirrah, 
Lead  these  gentlemen  to  my  daughters;  and  tcl! 

them  both 
These  are  their  tutors ;  bid  them  use  them  well. 

[£ji7  Servant,  7oiik  Hon.,  Luc,  and  Bion. 
We  will  go  walk  a  little  in  the  orchard. 
And  then  to  dinner.    You  are  passing  welcome, 
And  so  I  pray  you  all  to  think  yourselves. 

Pet.  Signior  Baptista,  my  business  asketh  haste, 
And  every  day  I  cannot  come  to  woo." 
You  knew  my  father  well ;  and  in  him,  me. 
Left  solely  heir  to  all  his  lands  and  goods. 
Which  I  have  better'd  rather  than  decreas'd : 
Then  tell  me, — If  I  get  your  daughter's  love, 
What  dowry  shall  I  have  with  her  to  wife  ? 

Bap.    After   my    death,    the    one    half  of  mv 
lands : 
And,  in  possession,  twenty  thousand  crowns. 

Pet.  And  for  that  dowiy,  I  '11  assure  her  of 
Her  widowhood, — be  it  that  she  survive  me, — 
In  all  my  lands  and  leases  whatsoever : 
Let  specialties  be  therefore  drawn  between  us, 
That  covenants  ni.ay  be  kept  on  either  hand. 

Bap.     Ay,   wlien    the   special   thing    is   well 
obtain'd. 
That  is, — her  love  ;  for  that  is  all  in  all. 


t 


THE  TAMING  OF  TUE  SHKEW. 


SCENE    I. 


Pet.    "Why,  that  is  nothing ;    for  I  tell  you, 
father, 
I  ain  as  peremptory  as  she  proud-minded  ; 
And  where  two  raging  fires  meet  together, 
They  do  consume  the  thing  that  feeds  their  fury : 
Though  little  fire  grows  great  with  little  wind, 
Yet  extreme  gusts  will  hlow  out  fire  and  all : 
Ro  I  to  her,  and  so  she  yields  to  me ; 
For  I  am  rough,  and  woo  not  like  a  babe. 

Bap.  Well  mayst  thou  woo,  and  happy  bo  thy 
speed  I 
But  be  thou  arm'd  for  some  unhappy  words. 

Pet.  Ay,  to  the  proof;  as  mountains  are  for 
winds, 
That  shake  not,  though  they  blow  perpetually. 

Re-enter  IIortensio,  loith  his  head  Iroken. 

Bap.  How  now,  my  friend  ?  why  dost  thou  look 
so  pale  ? 

Hor.  For  fear,  I  promise  you,  if  I  look  pale. 

Ba}).  What,  will  my  daughter  prove  a  good 
musician  ? 

Hor.  I  think,  she  '11  sooner  prove  a  soldier ; 
Iron  may  hold  with  her,  but  never  lutes. 

Bap.  Why,  then  thou  canst  not  break  her  to 
the  lute  ? 

Hor.  Why,  no ;  for  she  hath  broke  the  lute  to  me. 
I  did  but  tell  her  she  mistook  her  frets," 
And  bow'd  her  hand  to  teach  her  fingering ; 
When,  with  a  most  impatient  devilish  spiiit, 
"  Frets,  call  you  these  3"  quoth  she  :  "  I  'II  fume 

with  them :" 
And,  with  that  word,  she  struck  me  on  the  head, 
And  through  the  instrument  my  pate  made  way ; 
And  there  I  stood  amazed  for  a  while, 
As  on  a  pillory,  looking  through  the  lute ; 
While  she  did  call  me, — rascal  fiddler. 
And    twangling   Jack ;    with    twenty  such    vild 

terms. 
As  she  had  studied  to  misuse  me  so. 

Pet.  Now,  by  the  world,  it  is  a  lusty  wench  ; 
I  love  her  ten  times  more  than  e'er  I  did  : 
0,  how  I  long  to  have  some  chat  with  her ! 

Bap.  Well,  go  with  me,  and  be  not  so  discom- 
fited: 
Proceed  in  practice  with  my  younger  daughter; 
She  's  apt  to  learn,  and  thankful  for  good  turns. 
Signior  Petrucio,  will  you  go  with  us ; 
Or  shall  I  send  my  daughter  Kate  to  you  ? 

Pet.  I  pray  you  do ;  I  will  attend  her  here, — 
[Exeunt  Bap.,  Gre.,  Tra.,  and  Hor. 
And  woo  her  with  some  spirit  when  she  comeo. 


Say,  that  she  rail ;  why,  then  I  '11  tell  her  plain 

She  sings  as  sweetly  a.s  a  nightingale  : 

Say,  that  she  frown  ;  I  '11  say,  slio  looks  as  clear 

As  morning  roses  newly  wash'd  with  dew : 

Say,  she  be  mute,  and  will  not  speak  a  word ; 

Then  I  '11  commend  her  volubility. 

And  say  she  uttereth  piercing  eloquence  : 

If  she  do  bid  me  pack,  I  'II  give  her  thanks 

As  though  she  bid  me  stay  by  her  a  week ; 

If  she  deny  to  wed,  I  '11  crave  the  day 

When  I  shall  a.sk  the  banns,  and  when  be  mar 

ried : — 
But  here  she  comes ;  and  now,  Petrucio,  speak. 

Enter  Katharina. 

Good  morrow,  Kate;    for  that  's  your  name,  1 
hear. 
Kaih.  Well  have  you  heard,  but  something  hart! 
of  hearing ; 
They  call  me — Katharine,  that  do  talk  of  me. 
Pet.  You  lie,  in  faith  !  for  you   are  call'd  plain 
Kate, 
And  bonny  Kate,  and  sometimes  Kate  the  curst , 
But  Kate,  the  prettiest  Kate  in  Christendom, 
Kate  of  Kate-Uali,  my  super-dainty  Kate, 
For  dainties  are  all  cates ;"  and  therefore  Kate, 
Take  this  of  me,  Kate  of  my  consolation  ; — - 
Hearing  thy  mildness  prais'd  in  every  town. 
Thy  virtues  spoke  of,  and  thy  beauty  sounded, 
(Yet  not  so  deeply  as  to  thee  belongs,) 
Myself  am  mov'd  to  woo  thee  for  my  wife. 

Kalh.  Mov'd !  in  good  time :  let  him  that  moT'd 
you  hither 
Remove  you  hence :  I  knew  you  at  the  first, 
You  were  a  moveable. 

Pet.  Why,  vvhat  's  a  moveable  ? 

Kath.  A  joint-stool. 

Pet.  Thou  hast  hit  it :  come,  sit  on  me. 

Kath.  Asses  are  made  to  bear,  and  so  are  you. 
Pet.   Women  are  made  to  bear,  and  so  are 

you. 
Kath.  No  such  jade  as  you,  if  me  you  mean. 
Pet.    Alas,  good   Kate !     I   will   not  burthen 
thee : 
For,  knowing  thee  to  be  but  young  and  light, — 
Kath.  Too  light  for  Mich  a  swain   as  you  to 
catch ; 
And  yet  as  heavy  as  my  h'cight  should  be. 
Pet.  Should  be  ?  should— buz !" 
Kath.  Well  t.a'en,  and  like  a  buzzard. 

Pet.  O,  slow-wing'd  turtle  !  shall  a  buzzard  tatw 
thee? 

463 


ACT    II. 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


Kath.  Ay,  for  a  turtle ;  as  he  takes  a  buzzard. 
Pet.  Come,  come,  you  wasp ;  i'  faith,  you  are 

too  angiy. 
Kath.  If  I  be  waspish,  best  beware  my  sting. 
Pet.  My  remedy  is  then,  to  pluck  it  out. 
Kath.  Ay,  if  the  fool  coxdd  find  it  where  it  lies. 
Pit.  Who  knows  not  where  a  wasp  does  wear 

his  sting  I 
In  his  tail. 
Kath.  In  his  tongue. 

Pet.  Whose  tongue  ? 

Kath.  Yours,  if   you  talk  of   tales ;''    and  so 

farewell. 
Pet.  What,  with  my  tongue  in  your  tail  ?  nay, 

come  again. 
Good  Kate,  I  am  a  gentleman. 

Kath.  That  I  '11  try.      [Striking  him. 

Pet.    I   swear   I   '11    cuff    you,    if   you    strike 

again. 
Kath.  So  may  you  lose  your  arms  : 
Lf  you  strike  me  you  are  no  gentleman  ; 
And  if  no  gentleman,  why,  then  no  arms. 

Pet.  A  herald,  Kate  ?     0  put  me  in  thy  books. 
Kath.  What  is  your  crest ?  a  coxcomb? 
Pet.  A  combless  cock,  so  Kate  will  be  my  hen. 
Kath.  No  cock  of  mine,  you  crow  too  hke  a 

craven. 
Pet.  Nay,  come,  Kate,  come ;  you  must  not  look 

so  sour. 
Kath.  It  is  my  fashion,  when  I  see  a  crab. 
Pet.  Why,  here  's  no  crab  ;  and  therefore  look 

not  sour. 
Kath.  There  is,  there  is. 
Pet.  Then  show  it  me. 
Kath.  Had  I  a  glass  I  would. 

Pel.  What,  you  mean  my  face  ? 
Kath,  Well  aim'd  of  such  a  young  one. 

Pet.  Now,  by  saint  George,  I  am  too  young  for 

you. 
Kath.  Yet  you  are  wither'd. 

Pet.  'T  is  with  cares. 

Kath.  I  care  not. 

Pet.  Nay,  hear  yon,  Kate  :  in  sooth  you  'scape 

not  so. 
Kath.  T  chafe  you,  if  I  tarry ;  let  me  go. 
Pet.    No,   not   a   whit.      I   find    you    passing 

gentle. 
T  was  told  me,  you  were  rough,  and  coy,  and 

sullen. 
And  now  I  find  report  a  very  liar ; 
For  tliou  art  pleiusaut,  gamesome,  passing  cour- 

tooas. 


But  slow   in   speech,   yet    sweet  a.s  spring-time 

flowers : 
Thou    canst    not    frown,   thou    canst    not    look 

askance. 
Nor  bite  the  lip,  as  angry  wenches  will ; 
Nor  hast  thou  pleasure  to  be  cross  in  talk  ; 
But  thou  with  mildness  entertain'st  thy  wooers. 
With  gentle  conference,  soft  and  affable. 
Why  does  the  world  report  that  Kate  doth  limp  ? 

0  sland'rous  world !  Kate,  like  the  hazel-twig. 
Is  straight,  and  slender ;  and  as  brown  in  hue. 
As  hazel-nuts,  and  sweeter  than  the  kernels. 
O,  let  me  see  thee  walk :  thou  dost  not  halt. 

Kath.  Go,  fool,  and  whom  thou  keep'st  com 
mand. 

Pet.  Did  ever  Dian  so  become  a  grove. 
As  Kate  this  chamber  with  her  princely  gait  ? 
0,  be  thou  Dian,  and  let  her  be  Kate  ; 
And  then  let  Kate  be  chaste,  and  Dian  sportful. 

Kath.  Where   did    you  study  all  this  goodly 
speech  ? 

Pet.  It  is  extempore,  from  my  mother-wit. 

Kath.  A  witty  mother  !  witless  else  her  son. 

Pet.  Am  I  not  wise  ? 

Kath.  Yes;  keep  you  warm." 

Pet.  Marry,  so  I  mean,  sweet  Katharine,  in  thy 
bed: 
And,  therefore,  setting  all  this  chat  aside. 
Thus   in   plain  terms : — Your   father   hath   con- 
sented 
That  you  shall  be  my  wife ;  your  dowry  'greed 

on  ; 
And,  will  you,  nill  you,  I  will  marry  you. 
Now,  Kate,  I  am  a  husband  for  your  turn ; 
For,  by  this  light,  whereby  I  see  thy  beauty, 
(Thy  beauty  that  doth  make  me  like  thee  well,) 
Thou  must  be  married  to  no  man  but  me ; 
For  I  am  he  am  born  to  tame  you,  Kate  ; 
And  bring  you  from  a  vrild  Kate  to  a  Kate 
Conformable,  as  other  household  Kates. 
Here  comes  your  father ;  never  make  denial, 

1  must  and  will  have  Katharine  to  my  wife. 

Pe-enter  Baptista,  Gremio,  and  Tkanio. 

Ba2^.  Now,  signior  Petrucio :  How  speed  you 

with  my  daughter? 
Pet.  How  but  well,  sir  ?  how  but  well  ? 
It  were  impossible  I  should  speed  amiss. 

Bap.  Why,  how  now,  daughter  Katharine  3  in 

your  dumjjs  ? 
Kath.  Call  you  me  daughter !  now  I  promise 

jou, 


1 


ACT    11. 


TIIE  TAMING  OF  THE  SIIKEW. 


I 


You  havo  sbow'd  a  tender  fatlierly  regard, 
To  wish  lue  wed  to  one  half  hiualic ; 
\  madcap  ruffian,  and  a  swearing  Jack, 
Tliat  thiidvs  with  oaths  to  face  the  matter  out. 

Pei.  Father,  't  is  thus, — your.seU',  and  all  the 
world, 
I'hat  talk'd  of  her,  liavc  talk'd  amiss  of  her  : 
tf  she  be  curst,  it  is  for  policy : 
For  she  's  not  froward,  but  modest  as  the  dove ; 
Siie  is  not  hot,  but  temperate  as  the  morn  ; 
For  patience  she  will  prove  a  second  Grissel ;" 
And  Roman  Lucrece  for  her  chastity : 
And  to  conclude, — we  have  'greed  so  well  toge- 
ther, 
That  upon  Sunday  is  the  wedding-day. 

Xnth.  I  '11  see  thee  hang'd  on  Sunday  first. 

Gre.  Ilark,  Petrucio !  she  says  slid  '11  see  thee 
hang'd  first. 

Tra.  Is  this  your  speeding  ?    nay,  then,  good 
night  our  part ! 

Pet.  Be  patient,  gentlemen  ;  I  choose  her  for 
myfclf; 
If  she  and  I  be  pleas'd,  what  's  that  to  you  ? 
'T  is  bargain'd  'twixt  us  twain,  being  alone, 
'1  hat  she  shall  still  be  curst  in  company. 
I  toll  you,  't  is  incredible  to  believe 
How  much  she  loves  me  :  0,  the  kindest  Kate! 
She  hung  about  my  neck ;  and  kiss  on  kiss 
She  vied  so  fast,^'  protesting  oath  on  oath. 
That  in  a  twink  she  won  me  to  her  love. 
0,  you  are  novices  !  't  is  a  world  to  see,''" 
How  tame,  when  men  and  women  are  alone, 
A  meacock  wretch  can  make  the  curstest  shrew. 
Give  me  thy  hand,  Kate :  I  will  unto  Venice, 
To  buy  apparel  'gninst  the  wedding-day : 
Provide  the  feast,  father,  and  bid  the  guests  ; 
I  will  be  sure  my  Katharine  shall  be  fine. 

Jiap.  I  know  not  what  to   say  :  but  give  me 
your  hands ; 
God  send  you  joy,  Peti-ucio  !  't  is  a  match. 

Gre.  Tra.  Amen,  say  we ;  we  will  be  witnesses. 

Pet.  Father,  and  wife,  and  gentlemen,  adieu  ; 
1  will  to  Venice ;  Sunday  comes  apace  : 
We  will  have  rings,  and  things,  and  fine  array  ; 
And  kiss  me,  Kate ;  "  We  mil  be  manied  o'  Sun- 
day!"" 

[Exeunt  Pet.  and  Kath.  severally. 

Gre.  Was  ever  match  clapp'd  up  so  suddenly  ? 

£:tp.  Faith,  gentlemen,  now  I  play  a  merchant's 
part. 
And  veutui-e  madly  on  a  desperate  mart. 

Tra.  'T  was  a  commodity  lay  fretting  by  vou  ; 

59  .    . 


'T  will  bring  you  gain,  or  perish  on  the  seas. 

Jiii]).  The  gain  I  seek  is — quiet  in  the  match. 

Gre.  No  doubt  but  he  hath  got  a  quiet  catch. 
But  now,  Baptista,  to  your  younger  daughter* 
Now  is  the  day  we  long  have  looked  for 
I  am  your  neighbour,  and  was  suitor  first. 

Tra.  And  I  am  one  that  love  Bianca  more 
Thau  words  can  witness,  or    your    thoughts  (^un 
guess. 

Gre.  Youngling!   thou  canst  not  love  so  dear 
as  I. 

Tra.  Grey-beard  !  thy  love  doth  freeze. 

Gre.  But  thine  doth  fiy. 

Skipper,  stand  back ;  't  is  age  that  nourisheth. 

Tra.  But  youth,  in  ladies'  eyes  that  flourisheth. 

Bap.  Content  you,  gentlemen ;  I  will  compound 
this  strife  : 
'T  is  deeds  must  win  the  prize ;  and  he,  of  both, 
That  can  assiu'e  my  daughter  greatest  dower, 
Shall  have  my  Bianca's  love. 
Say,  signior  Gremio,  what  can  you  assure  her  ? 

Gre.  First,  as  you  know,  my  house  within  the 
city 
Is  richly  furnished  with  plate  and  gold ; 
Basins,  and  ewers,  to  lave  her  dainty  hands ; 
My  hangings  all  of  Tvrian  tapestry  : 
In  ivory  cotiers  I  have  stuff 'd  my  crowns , 
In  cypress  chests  my  arras,  counterpoints,''" 
Costly  apparel,  tents,  and  canopies. 
Fine  linen,  Turkey  cushions  boss'd  with  pearl, 
Valance  of  Venice  gold  in  needleworic, 
Pewter  and  brass,  and  all  things  that  belong 
To  house,  or  housekeeping :  then,  at  my  farm, 
I  have  a  lumdred  milch-kine  to  the  pail, 
Six  score  fat  oxen  standing  in  my  stalls, 
And  all  things  answerahle  to  this  portion. 
Myself  am  struck  in  years,  I  must  confess ; 
And,  if  I  die  to-morrow,  this  is  hers. 
If,  whilst  I  live,  she  will  be  only  mine. 

Tra.  That '  only'  came  well  in.     Sir,  list  to  me  ; 
I  am  my  father's  heir,  and  only  son ; 
If  I  may  have  your  daughter  to  my  wife, 
I  '11  leave  her  houses  three  or  four  as  good. 
Within  rich  Pisa  walls,  as  any  one 
Old  signior  Gremio  has  in  Padua ; 
Besides  two  thousand  ducats  by  the  year. 
Of  fruitful  land,  all  which  shall  be  her  jointure. 
What!  have  I  pinch'd  you,  signior  Gremio? 

irre.  Two  thousand  ducats  bv  the  year  of  kind ' 
Mv  land  amounts  not  to  so  much  in  all ; 
That  she  shall  have ;  besides  an  argosy 
That  now  is  lying  in  Marseilles'  road. 

4fa5 


LZI 


ACT  HI. 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


BCESS   I. 


What !  have  I  chok'd  you  with  an  argosy  ? 

Tra  Gremio,  't  is  known  my  father  hath  no  less 
Than  three  great  argosies;  besides  two  galhasses,"" 
And  twelve  tight  galleys  :  these  I  will  assure  her, 
And  twice  as  much,  whatever  thou  ofFer'st  next. 

Gre.  Nay,  I  have  oflfer'd  all ;  I  have  no  more ; 
And  she  can  have  no  more  than  all  I  have. 
K  you  like  me,  she  shall  have  me  and  mine. 

Tra.  Why,  then  the  maid  is  mine  from  all  the 
world. 
By  your  finu  promise.     Gremio  is  outvied. 

Baj).  I  must  confess  your  offer  is  the  best ; 
And,  let  your  father  make  her  the  assurance. 
She  is  your  own ;  else,  you  must  pardon  me : 
If  you  shoidd  die  before  him,  where  's  her  dower  ? 

Tra.  That 's  but  a  cavil ;  he  is  old,  I  young. 

Gre.  And  may  not  young  men  die,  as  well  as  old? 

Bap.  Well,  gentlemen,  I  am  thus  resolv'd : — 
On  Sunday  next  you  know 
My  daughter  Katharine  is  to  be  married : 


Now,  on  the  Sunday  following,  shall  Bianca 
Be  bride  to  you,  if  you  make  this  assurance ; 
If  not,  to  siguior  Gremio : 
And  so  I  take  ray  leave,  and  thank  you  both. 

[Exit. 

Gre.  Adieu,  good  neighbour. — Now  I  fear  thee 
not; 
Sirrah,  young  gamester,  your  father  were  a  fool 
To  give  thee  all,  and,  in  his  waning  age, 
Set  foot  under  thy  table.     Tut !  a  toy  ! 
An  old  Italian  fox  is  not  so  kind,  my  boy.     [Exit, 

Tra.  A  vengeance  on  your  crafty  wither'd  hide! 
Yet  I  have  fac'd  it  with  a  card  of  ten.'''' 
'T  is  in  my  head  to  do  my  master  good : — 
I  see  no  reason,  but  suppos'd  Lucentio 
Must  get  a  father  call'd — suppos'd  Vincentio ; 
And  that  's  a  wonder :  fathers,  commonly. 
Do  get  their  children ;  but,  in  this  case  of  wooing, 
A  child  shall  get  a  sire,  if  I  fail  not  of  my  doing. 

[Exit. 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I. — A  room  in  Baptista'«  house. 
Enter  Lucentio,  Hortensio,  and  Bianca. 

Luc.  Fiddler,  forbear ;  you  grow  too  forward, 
sir: 
Have  you  so  soon  forgot  the  entertainment 
Her  sister  Katharine  welcom'd  you  withal  ? 

Hor.  But,  wrangling  pedant,  this  is 
The  patroness  of  heavenly  harmony : 
Tiien  give  mo  leave  to  have  prerogative  ; 
And  when  in  music  we  have  spent  an  hour, 
Your  lecture  shall  have  leisure  for  as  much. 

Luc.  Preposterous  ass  !  that  never  read  so  far. 
To  know  the  cause  why  music  was  ordain'd ! 
Was  it  not,  to  refresh  the  mind  of  man. 
After  liis  studies,  or  his  usual  pain  ? 
Then  give  mo  leave  to  read  philosophy. 
And,  while  I  pause,  servo  in  your  harmony. 

Hur.  Sirrah,   I  will   not  bear  these   braves  of 
thine.'" 

Bian.    Why,  gentlemen,   you   do   me   double 
wrong. 
To  strive  for  that  which  resteth  in  my  choice  : 
466 


I  am  no  breeching  scholar**  in  the  schools , 
I  '11  not  be  tied  to  hours,  nor  'pointed  times, 
But  learn  my  lessons  as  I  please  myself. 
And,  to  cut  off  all  strife,  here  sit  we  domi : 
Take  you  your  instrument,  pl.ay  you  the  whiles 
His  lecture  will  be  done  ere  you  have  tun'd. 

Hor.  You  '11  leave  his  lecture  when  I  am  \n 
tune  ? 

[To  Bianca. — Hortensio  retires, 

Luc.  That  will  be  never; — tune  ycur  instru- 
ment. 

Bian.  Where  left  we  last  ? 

Imc.  Here,  madam : — 
Ilac  ihat  Simois  ;  hie  est  Sigcia  idlus ,' 
Hie  stetcrat  Priami  rcgia  cclsa  scnis. 

Bian.  Conster^'  them. 

Luc.  Hue  ibat,  as  I  told  you  before, — Htmtn.'!, 
I  am  Lucentio, — hie  est,  son  unto  Vincentio  ol 
Pisa, — Sigcia  tcUus,  disguised  thus  to  get  youi 
love  ; — Hie  stetcrat,  and  that  Lucentio  that  comca 
a  wooing, — Priami,  is  my  man  Tranio, — reyia, 
bearing  my  port, — relsa  senis,  that  we  might  1)6- 
guile  the  old  pantaloon. 


I 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


BUEN'E    n. 


Hor.  Madam,  ray  iDstrument's  iu  tune. 

[Rcturninr/. 
Bian.  Let 's  lioar ;  [IIortensio  plays. 

0  fie !  tbe  troble  jars. 

Luc,  Spit  in  tlie  hole,  man,  and  tune  again. 
Bian.  Now  let  me  see  if  I  can  conster  it :  Hac 
ibat  Simois,  I  know  you  not ; — hie  est  Siycia  tellus, 

1  trust  you  not ; — ffic  steterat  Prianii,  take  heed 
he  hear  us  not ; — rcf/ia,  presume  not ; — celsa  senis, 
despair  not. 

/Irtr.  Madam,  't  is  now  in  tune. 

Luc.  All  but  the  base. 

ffor.  The  base  is  right;  't  is  the  base  knave 
that  jars. 
llow  fiery  and  forward  our  pedant  is ! 
Now,  for  my  life,  the  knave  doth  court  my  love ! 
Fedascule,  I  '11  watch  you  better  yet. 

Biaii.  In  time  I  may  believe,  yet  I  mistrust. 

Luc.  Mistrust  it  not;  for,  sure,  .^acides 
Was  Ajax, — call'd  so  from  his  grandfather. 

Bian.  I  must  believe  my  master ;  else,  I  pro- 
mise you, 
I  should  be  arguing  still  upon  that  doubt : 
But  let  it  rest. — Now,  Licio,  to  you : — 
Good  masters,  take  it  not  unkindly,  pray. 
That  I  have  been  thus  pleasant  with  you  both. 

Jfor.  You  may  go  walk,  [lo  Luc]  and  give  me 
leave  awhile ; 
My  lessons  make  no  music  in  three  parts. 

Luc.   Are   you  so   formal,   sir  ?   well,  I  must 
wait. 
And  watch  withal ;  for,  but  I  be  deceiv'd. 
Our  fine  musician  gi'oweth  amorous.  [Aside. 

Hor.  Madam,  before  you  touch  the  instrument. 
To  leam  the  order  of  my  fingering, 
I  must  begin  with  rudiments  of  art ; 
To  teach  you  gamut  in  a  briefer  sort. 
More  pleasant,  pithy,  and  effectual, 
Than  hath  been  taught  by  any  of  my  trade ; 
And  there  it  is  in  writing,  fairly  drawn. 

Bian.  Why,  I  am  past  my  gamut  long  ago. 

Hor.  Yet  read  the  gamut  of  Hortensio. 

Bian.  [Reads^  Gamut  /  am,  ike  (/round  of  all 
accord, 

A  re,  to  plead  Jlortensio'a  passion  ; 
B  mi,  Bianca,  take  him  for  thy  lord, 

C  fa  ut,  that  loves  with  all  affection : 
D  sol  re,  one  cliff,  two  notes  have  I ; 
E  la  mi,  show  pity,  or  I  die. 
Call  you  this  gamut  ?  tut !  I  like  it  not : 
Old  fij-shions  please  me  best ;  I  am  not  so  nice,'" 
To  change  true  rules  for  odd  inventions. 


Enter  a  Servant. 

Scrv.  Mistress,  your  father  prays  you  leave  your 
books. 
And  help  to  dress  your  sister's  chamber  up; 
You  know,  to-morrow  is  the  wedding-day. 

Bian,  Farewell,  sweet  masters  both  ;  I  must  be 
gone. 

[^Exeunt  Bianca  and  Servant. 
Luc.  'Faith,  mistress,  then  I  have  no  cause  to 
stay.  [Exit. 

Hor.  But  I  have  cause  to  prj'  into  this  pedant; 
Methinks  be  looks  as  though  he  were  in  love : 
Yet,  if  thy  thoughts,  Bianca,  be  so  humble. 
To  cast  thy  wand'ring  eyes  on  every  stale,'" 
Seize  thee  that  list.     If  once  I  find  thee  ranging, 
Hortensio  will  be  quit  with  thee  by  changing. 

[Exit 

SCENE  11. — The  same.     Before  Baptista's  House. 

Enter  Baptista,  Tranio,  Katharina,  Bianca, 
LucENTio,  and  Attendants. 

Bap.   Signior  Lucentio,   [to  Tra.]  this  is  the 
'pointed  day 
That  Katharine  and  Petrucio  should  be  married, 
And  yet  we  hear  not  of  our  son-in-hnv : 
What  will  be  said  ?  what  mockery  will  it  be. 
To  want  the  bridegroom,  when  the  priest  attends 
To  speak  the  ceremonial  rites  of  marriage ! 
What  says  Lucentio  to  this  shame  of  ours  ? 

Kath.  No  shame  but  mine  :  I  must,  forsootlv 
be  forc'd 
To  give  my  hand,  oppos'd  against  my  heart. 
Unto  a  mad-brain  rudesby,'"  full  of  spleen  ; 
Who  woo'd  in  haste,  and  means  to  wed  at  lei- 
sure. 
I  told  you,  I,  he  was  a  frantic  fool. 
Hiding  his  bitter  jests  in  blunt  behaviour : 
And,  to  be  noted  for  a  meiry  man. 
He  '11  woo  a  thousand,  'point  the  day  of  marriage, 
Make  fiiends,  invite,  yes,  and  proclaim  the  banns ; 
Yet  never  means  to  wed  where  he  hath  woo'd. 
Now  must  the  world  point  at  poor  Katharine, 
And  say, — "  Lo,  there  is  mad  Petrucio's  wife. 
If  it  would  please  him  come  and  marry  her." 
Tra.  Patience,  good  Katharine,  and  BajUsts 
too  ; 
Upon  my  life,  Petrucio  means  but  well, 
Whatever  fortune  stays  him  from  his  word : 
Though  he  be  blunt,  I  know  him  passing  wise ; 

467 


THE  TAiONG  OF  THE  SHREW. 


SCENE    II, 


Though  he  be  meny,  yet  withal  he  's  honest. 
Kalh.  'Wui.ld  Katharine  had  never  seen  him, 
though ! 
YExit,  weeping,  followed  hy  Bian.,  and  others. 
Bap.  Go,  girl ;   I  cannot  blame  thee   now  to 
weep ; 
For  such  an  injury  would  vex  a  very  saint," 
Much  more  a  shrew  of  thy  impatient  humour. 

Eater  Biosdello. 

Bion.  Master,  master !  news,  old  news,  and  such 
news  as  you  never  heard  of! 

Bap.  Is  it  new  and  old  too  ?  how  may  that  be  ? 

Bion.  Why,  is  it  not  news  to  hear  of  Petrucio's 
coming  ? 

Bap.  Is  he  come  ? 

Bion.  Why,  no,  sir. 

Bap.  What  then  ? 

Bion.  He  is  coming. 

Bap.  When  will  he  be  here  ? 

Bion.  When  he  stands  where  I  am,  and  sees 
jou  there. 

Tra.  But,  say,  what : — To  thine  old  news. 

Bion.  Why,  Petrucio  is  coming,  in  a  new  bat 
and  an  old  jerkin ;  a  pair  of  old  breeches  thrice 
turn'd ;  a  pair  of  boots  that  have  been  candle- 
cases,  ono  buckled,  another  lac'd ;  an  old  rusty 
sword  ta'en  out  of  the  town  armoury,  with  a  bro- 
ken hilt,  and  chapeless  ;  with  two  broken  points  : 
his  horse  hipp'd  with  an  old  mothy  saddle,  and 
stirrups  of  no  kindred  :  besides,  possessed  with 
the  glandeis,  and  like  to  mose  in  the  chine ; 
troubled  with  the  larapass,  infected  with  the 
fashions,"  full  of  windgalls,  sped  with  spavins, 
raied  with  the  yellows,  past  cure  of  the  fives, 
stark  spoil'd  with  the  staggers,  begnawn  with  the 
bots ;  sway'd  in  the  back,  and  shoulder-shotten  ; 
ne'er  legged  before  ;  and  with  a  half  cheeked  bit, 
rmd  a  head-stall  of  sheep's  leather,  which,  being 
lestrain'd  to  keep  him  from  stumbling,  hath  been 
often  burst,  and  now  repaired  with  knots ;  one 
girth  six  times  piec'd,  and  a  woman's  crupper  of 
vciure,  which  hath  two  letters  for  her  name,  fairly 
set  down  in  studs,  and  here  and  there  piec'd  with 
packthread. 

Bap.  Who  comes  with  him  ? 

Bion.  O,  sir,  his  lackey,  for  all  the  world  capa- 
ri.son'd  like  the  horse ;  with  a  linen  stock  on  ono 
leg,  and  a  kersey  boot-ho.se  on  tlie  other,  gartered 
with  a  red  and  blue  list;  an  old  hat,  and  "The 
humour  of  forty  fancies""  prickeil  in  't  for  a 
feather:  a  monster,  a  very  monster  in  ap})arel ; 

468 


and  not  like  a  christian  footboy,  or  a  gentleman's 
lackey. 

Tra.  'T  is  some  odd  humour  pricks  him  to  this 
fashion  ; 
Yet  oftentimes  he  goes  but  mean  apparell'd. 

Bap.  I  am  glad  he 's  come,  howsoe'er  he  comes, 
Bion.  Why,  sir,  he  comes  not. 
Bap.  Didst  thou  not  say,  he  comes  ? 
Bion.  Who  ?  that  Petrucio  came  ? 
Bap.  Ay,  that  Petrucio  came. 
Bion.  No,  sir ;  I  say,  his  horse  comes  wiiii  'liim 
on  his  back. 

Bap.  Why,  that 's  all  one. 
Bion.  Nay,  by  saint  Jamy, 

I  hold  you  a  penny," 
A  horse  and  a  man 
Is  more  than  one, 
And  yet  not  many. 

Enter  Petrucio  and  Grumio. 

Pet.  Come,  where  be  these  gallants  ?  who  'd  at 
home  ? 

Bap.  You  are  welcome,  sir. 

Pet.  And  yet  I  come  not  well. 

Bap.  And  yet  you  halt  not. 

Tra.  Not  so  well  apparell'd 

As  I  wish  you  were. 

Pel.  Were  it  better  I  should  rush  in  thus. 
But  where  is  Kate  ?  where  is  my  lovely  bride  ? 
How   does   my  father  ? — Gentles,  methiuks   you 

fi'own : 
And  wherefore  gaze  this  goodly  company, 
As  if  they  saw  some  wondrous  monument, 
Some  comet,  or  unusual  prodigy  ? 

Bap.  Why,  sir,  you  know,  this  is  your  wedding 
day: 
First  were  we  sad,  fearing  you  would  not  come  ; 
Now  sadder,  that  you  come  so  unprovided. 
Fie  !  doff  this  habit,  shame  to  yom'  estate, 
An  eyesore  to  our  solemn  festival. 

2"ra.  And  tell  us,  what  occasion  of  import 
Hath  all  so  long  detain'd  you  from  your  wife, 
And  sent  you  hither  so  imlike  yourself? 

Pet.  Tedious  it  were  to  tell,  and  harsh  to  hear 
Sufficeth,  I  am  come  to  keep  my  word. 
Though  in  some  part  enforced  to  digress ; 
Which,  at  more  leisure,  I  will  so  excuse 
As  you  shall  well  be  satisfied  withal. 
But,  where  is  Kate  ?  I  stay  too  long  from  her , 
The  morning  wears,  't  is  time  we  were  at  church, 

Tra.  See  not  your  bride  in  these  unrevercn 
robes ; 


ACT    III. 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


BCENL;   U. 


Go  to  my  t'li;iinl)er,  put  on  clothes  of  mine. 

Pet.  Not  I,  believe  ine  ;  thus  I  '11  visit  her. 

Bap.  But  thus,  I  ti'ust,  y(-iu  will  not  many  her. 

Pel.  Good  hooth,  even  thus;  therefore  ha'  done 
with  words ; 
To  nie  she  's  married,  not  unto  my  clothes : 
Could  I  repair  wluit  she  will  wear  in  me, 
As  I  can  change  these  poor  accoutrements, 
"T  were  well  for  Kate,  and  better  for  myself. 
lUit.  what  a  fool  arr,  I,  to  chat  with  you. 
When  1  should  bid  good-morrow  to  my  bride. 
And  seal  the  title  with  a  ovely  kiss ! 

\Examt  Pet.,  Gku.,  and  Bjon. 

Tra.  He  hath  some  meaning  in  his  mad  attire  : 
We  will  persuade  him,  be  it  possible, 
To  put  on  better  ere  he  go  to  church. 

Bap.  I  '11  after  him,  and  see  the  event  of  this. 

[Exit. 

Tra.  But,  sir^  to  love  concerneth  us  to  add 
Her  father's  liking :  Which  to  bring  to  pass, 
As  I  before  imparted  to  your  worship, 
I  am  to  get  a  man, — whate'er  he  be, 
It  skills  not  much ;  we  '11  fit  him  to  our  turn, — 
And  he  shall  be  Viucentio  of  Pisa ; 
And  make  assurance,  here  in  Padua, 
Of  greater  sums  than  I  have  promised. 
So  shall  you  quietly  enjoy  your  hope, 
And  marry  sweet  Bianca  with  consent. 

Luc.  Were  it  not  that  my  fellow  schoolmaster 
Doth  watch  Bianca's  steps  so  narrowly, 
T  were  good,  methinks,  to  steal  our  marriage ; 
Which  once  perform'd,  let  all  the  world  say- — no, 
I  '11  keep  mine  own,  despite  of  all  the  world. 

Tra.  That  by  degrees  we  mean  to  look  into, 
And  watch  our  vantage  in  this  business : 
We  '11  overreach  the  greybeard,  Gremio, 
The  nan'ow-prying  fjither,  Minola, 
The  quaint  musician,  amorous  Licio; 
All  for  my  master's  sake,  Lucentio. 

Enter  G'liEMio. 

Siguier  Gremio !  came  you  fivm  the  church  ? 
Ore.  As  willingly  as  e'er  I  came  from  school. 
Tra.  And  is  the  bride  and  bridegroom  coming 

home  ? 
Gre.  A  bridegroom,  say  you  ?  't  is  a  groom 

indeed, 
A  grumbling  groom,  and  that  the  girl  shall  find. 
Tra.  Curster  than  she  ?  why  't  is  impossible. 
Gre.  "Why,  he  's  a  devil,  a  devil,  a  very  fiend. 
Tra,  "Why,  she 's  a  devil,  a  devil,  the  devil's  dam. 
Gre.  Tut !  she 's  a  Kmb,  a  dove,  a  fool  to  him. 


I  '11  tell  you,  sir  Lucentio;  When  the  priest 

Should  ask — if  KaHiarino  should  be  his  wife, 

"  A}-,  by  gogs-wouns,"  quoth   he  ;   and  swore  so 

loud 
That,  all  amaz'd,  tlie  priest  let  fall  the  book : 
And,  as  he  stoop'd  again  to  take  it  up. 
This  mad-brain'd  bridegroom   took  him   such   a 

cuf}'. 
That  down  fell  priest  and  book,  and  book  and 

priest ; 
'•Now  take  them  up,"  quoth  he,  "if  any  list." 
Tra.  What  said  the  weuch,  when  he  rose  again  i 
Gre.  Trembled  and  shook  •  for  why,  he  slamp"d 

and  swore. 
As  if  the  vicar  meant  to  cozen  him. 
But  after  many  ceremonies  done, 
He  calls  for  wine : — "  A  health  1"  quoth  be,  as  if 
He  had  been  aboard,  carousing  to  his  mates 
After  a  storm : — QuafF'd  otf  the  muscadel. 
And  threw  the  sops  all  in  the  sexton's  face  ;" 
Having  no  other  reason, — 
But  that  his  beard  grew  thin  and  Imngeriy, 
And  seem'd  to  ask  him  sops  as  he  was  drinking. 
This  done,  he  took  the  biide  about  the  neck, 
And  kiss'd  her  lips  with  such  a  clamorous  smack. 
That,  at  the  parting,  all  the  church  did  echo. 
And  I,  seeing  this,  came  thence  for  very  shame  ; 
And  after  me,  I  know,  the  route  is  coming : 
Such  a  mad  marriage  never  was  before. 
Hark,  hark  !  I  hear  the  minstrels  play.        [Musir 

Enter  Peteucio,  Katharina,  Bia>X'a,  Baptist.v, 
HoRTENSio,  Grumio,  and  Train. 

Pet.  Gentlemen  and  friends,  I  thank  you   fo. 
your  paius : 
I  know,  you  think  to  dine  with  me  to-day. 
And  have  prepar'd  great  store  of  weddi.ig  cheer  ; 
But  so  it  is,  my  haste  doth  call  me  hence, 
An^^.  therefore  here  I  mean  to  take  my  leave. 

Bap.  Is  't  possible  you  will  away  to-night  3 

Pet.  I  must  away  to-day,  before  night  comt ; 
Make  it  no  wonder;  if  you  knew  my  business. 
You  would  entreat  me  rather  go  than  stay. 
And,  honest  company,  I  thank  you  all, 
That  have  beheld  me  give  away  myself 
To  this  most  patient,  sweet,  and  \'irtuous  wife  : 
Dine  with  my  father,  drink  a  health  to  me ; 
For  I  must  hence,  and  farewell  to  you  all. 

Tra.  Let  us  entreat  you  stay  till  after  dinner. 

Pet.  It  may  not  be. 

Gre.  Let  me  entreat  you. 

Pet.  It  cannot  be. 

469 


ACT    III. 


THE  TAJ.IING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


BOENS    II. 


Kath.  Let  me  entreat  you. 

Pet.  I  am  content. 

Kalh.  Are  you  content  to  stay  ? 

Pet.  I  am  content  you  shall  entreat  me  stay ; 
But  yet  not  stay,  entreat  me  how  you  can. 

Kath.  Now,  if  you  love  me,  stay. 

Pet.  Grumio,  my  horse. 

Gru.  Ay,  sir,  they  be  ready ;   the   oats  have 
eaten  the  horses. 

Kath.  Nay,  then. 
Do  what  thou  canst,  I  will  not  go  to-day ; 
No,  nor  to-morrow,  nor  till  I  please  myself. 
The  door  is  open,  sir,  there  lies  your  way. 
You  may  be  jogging  whiles  your  boots  are  green  ; 
For  me,  I  '11  not  begone,  till  I  please  myself: 
'T  is  like  you  '11  prove  a  jolly  sui-ly  groom. 
That  take  it  on  you  at  the  first  so  roundly. 

Bap.  0  Kate,  content   thee ;   prithee  be   not 
angry. 

Kath.  I  will  be  angiy.    "What  hast  thou  to  do  3 
Father,  be  quiet :   he  shall  stay  my  leisure. 

Gre.  Ay,  marrj^,  sir :  now  it  begins  to  work. 

Kath.  Gentlemen,  forward  to  the  bridal  dinner ! 
[  see,  a  woman  may  be  made  a  fool. 
If  she  had  not  a  spirit  to  resist. 

Pet.  They  shall  go  forward,  Kate,  at  thy  com- 
mand : 
Ob<?y  the  bride,  you  that  attend  on  her : 
Go  to  the  feast,  revel  and  domineer. 
Carouse  full  measure  to  her  maidenhead. 
Be  mad  and  merry, — or  go  hang  yourselves  ; 
But  for  my  bonny  Kate,  she  must  with  me. 
Nay,  look  not  big,  nor  stamp,  nor  stare,  nor  fret ; 
470 


I  will  be  master  of  what  is  mine  own : 

She  is  my  goods,  my  chattels ;  she  is  my  house, 

My  household-stuff,  my  field,  my  barn. 

My  horse,  my  ox,  my  ass,  my  anything; 

And  here  she  stands,  touch  her  whoever  dare  ; 

I  '11  bring  mine  action  on  the  proudest  he 

That  stops  my  way  in  Padua.     Grumio, 

Draw  forth  thy  weapon,  we  are  beset  with  thieves 

Rescue  thy  mistress,  if  thou  be  a  man : — 

Fear  not,  sweet  wench,  they  shall  not  touch  thee, 

Kate ; 
I  '11  buckler  thee  against  a  million. 

[Exeunt  Fet.,  Kath.,  and  Gru 
Bap.  Nay,  let  them  go,  a  couple  of  quiet  ones. 
Gre.  Went  they  not  quickly,  I  should  die  with 

laughing. 
Tra.  Of  all  mad  matches,  never  was  the  like  ! 
Luc.  Mistress,   what  's   your   opinion    of  your 

sister  ? 
Bam.  That,  being  mad  herself,  she  's  madly 

mated. 
Gre.  I  warrant  him,  Potrucio  is  Kated. 
Bap.  Neighbours  and  fi-iends,  though  biide  and 
biidegi'oom  wants 
For  to  supply  the  places  at  the  table. 
You  know  there  want  no  junkets*'  at  the  feast; 
Lucentio,  you  sh.all  supply  the  bridegroom's  place 
And  lot  Bianca  take  her  sister's  room. 

Tra.    Shall    sweet    Bianca    practise    liow    to 

bride  it? 
Bap.  She  shall,  Lucentio. — Come,  gsrtlemen, 
let 's  go. 

[Ilzmmi 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SUREW. 


SCENE    L 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I. — A  Hall  in  Petnicio'«  Country  House. 
Enter  Grumio. 

Gru.  Fie,  fie,  on  all  tired  jades!  on  all  mad 
masters  !  and  all  foul  ways  !  Was  ever  man  so 
beaten  ?  was  ever  man  so  ray'd  ?"  was  ever  man 
so  weary  ?  I  am  sent  before  to  make  a  fii'e,  and 
they  are  coming  after  to  warm  them.  Now,  were 
not  I  a  little  pot,  and  soon  hot,  my  very  lips 
might  freeze  to  my  teeth,  my  tongue  to  the  roof 
of  my  iaouth,  my  heart  in  my  belly,  ere  I  should 
come  by  a  fire  to  thaw  me : — But,  I,  with  blowing 
the  fire,  shall  wann  myself;  for,  considering  the 
weather,  a  taller  man  than  I  will  take  cold. 
Holla,  hoa !  Cmtis ! 

Enter  Curtis. 

Curt.  Who  is  that  calls  so  coldly  ? 

Gru.  A  piece  of  ice  1  If  thou  doubt  it,  thou 
mayst  slide  from  my  shoulder  to  my  heel,  with  no 
greater  a  run  but  my  head  and  my  neck.  A  fire, 
good  Curtis. 

Curt.  Is  my  master  and  his  wife  coming, 
Grumio  ? 

Gru.  0,  ay,  Curtis,  ay  :  and  therefore  fire,  fire  ; 
cast  on  no  water. 

Curt.  Is  she  so  hot  a  shrew  as  she  's  reported  ? 

Gru.  She  was,  good  Curtis,  before  this  frost : 
but,  thou  kuow'st,  winter  tames  man,  woman,  and 
boast :  for  it  hath  tam'd  my  old  master  and  my 
new  mistress,  and  myself,  fellow  Curtis. 

Curt.  Away,  you  three-inch  fool  I^'  I  am  no 
beast. 

Gru.  Am  I  but  three  inches  ?  why,  thy  horn  is 
i  fijot ;  and  so  long  am  I,  at  the  least.  B>it  wilt 
thou  make  a  fii-e,  or  shall  I  complain  on  thee  to 
our  mistress,  whose  hand  (she  being  now  at  hand) 
ihou  shalt  soon  feel,  to  thy  cold  comfort,  for  being 
slow  in  thy  hot  office  ? 

Curt.  I  prithee,  good  Grumio,  tell  nw,  how  goes 
tlie  world  ? 

Gru.  A  cold  world,  Curtis,  in  every  office  but 
thine ;    and,  therefore,  fire.     Do  thy  duty,  and 


have  thy  duty  ;  for  my  master  and  mistres.s  are 
almost  frozen  to  death. 

Curt.  There's  fire  ready;  and,  therefore,  g  iod 
Grumio,  the  news  ? 

Gru.  Why,  "  Jack,  boy  !  ho,  boy  !""  and  as 
much  news  as  thou  wilt. 

Curt.  Come,  you  are  so  full  of  conycatching. 

Gru.  Why,  therefore,  fire  ;  for  I  have  caught 
extreme  cold.  Where  's  the  cook  ?  Is  supper 
ready,  the  house  triram'd,  rushes  strew'd,""  cob- 
webs swept ;  the  serving-men  in  their  new  fustian, 
the  white  stockings,  and  every  officer  his  wedding- 
garment  on  ?  Be  the  jacks  fair  within,  the  jills 
fair  without,"  the  caipets  laid,  and  everything  in 
order  ? 

Curt.  All  ready  ;  and,  therefore,  I  pray  thee, 
what  news  ? 

Gru.  First,  know,  my  horse  is  tired  ;  my  mastei 
and  mistress  fallen  out. 

Curt.  Ho^v? 

Gru.  Out  of  their  saddles  into  the  dirt.  And 
thereby  hangs  a  tale. 

Curt.  Let 's  ha  't,  good  Grumio. 

Gru.  Lend  thine  ear. 

Curt,  llere. 

Gru.  There.  YStrikinrj  Mm. 

Curt.  This  't  is  to  feel  a  tide,  not  to  hear  a 
tale. 

Gru.  Ajnd  therefore  't  is  call'd  a  sensible  tale  : 
and  this  cuff  was  but  to  knock  at  your  ear,  and 
beseech  list'uing.  Now  I  begin :  Imprimis,  we 
came  down  a  foul  hill,  my  master  riding  behind 
my  mbtress : — 

Cicrt.  Both  of  one  horse  ? 

Gru.  What  's  that  to  thee  ? 

Curt.  Why,  a  horse. 

Gru.  Tell  thou  the  tale  : — But  hadst  thou  not 
crossed  me,  thou  shouldst  have  heard  how  her 
horse  fell,  and  she  under  her  horse  ;  thou  shouldst 
have  heard,  in  how  miry  a  place  :  how  she  was 
bemoil'd ;  how  he  left  her  with  the  horse  upon 
her ;  how  he  beat  me  because  her  horse  stumbled ; 
how  she  waded  through  the  dirt  to  pluck  him  ofT 

«1 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW 


SCENE    1. 


me ;  how  lie  swore ;  how  she  pray'd,  that  never 
pray'd  before  ;  how  I  cried  ;  how  the  horses  ran 
away  ;  how  her  bridle  was  burst;  how  I  lost  my 
crupper ;  with  many  things  of  worthy  memory, 
which  new  shall  die  in  oblivion,  and  thou  return 
unexperienc'd  to  thy  grave. 

Cart.  By  this  reckoning,  he  is  more  shrew  than 
she. 

Gru.  Ay ;  and  that  thou  and  the  proudest  of  you 
all  shall  find,  when  he  comes  home.  But  what  talk 
I  of  this? — Call  forth  Nathaniel,  Joseph,  Nicholas, 
Philip,  W^alter,  Siigarsop,  and  the  rest.  Let  their 
heads  be  sleekly  comb'd,  their  blue  coats  brush'd, 
and  their  garters  of  an  indifferent  kuit :"  let  them 
curtsey  with  their  left  legs ;  and  not  presume  to 
touch  a  hair  of  my  master's  horse-tail,  till  they  kiss 
their  hands.     Are  they  all  ready  2 

Curt.  They  are. 

Crru.  Call  them  forth. 

Curt.  Do  you  hear,  ho  ?  you  must  meet  my 
master  to  countenance  my  mistress. 

Gru.  Why,  she  hath  a  face  of  her  own. 

Curt.  Who  knows  not  that  ? 

ffrw.  Thou,  it  seems,  that  calFst  for  company  to 
oountenance  her. 

Curt.  I  call  them  forth  to  credit  her. 

Gru.  Why,  she  comes  to  borrov.'  nothing  of 
them. 

Enter  several  Servants. 

Katli.  Welcome  home,  Grumio. 

Phil.  How  now,  Grmuio? 

Jos.  What  Grumio ! 

N'tch:  Fellow  Grumio? 

Kath.  How  now,  oil  If.d  ? 

Gru.  Welcome,  y^u;  how  now,  you;  what  you; 
— fellow  you, — acd  '.bu^  rcuch  for  greeting !  Now, 
my  spruce  coir.i/.Mjns,  is  all  ready,  and  all  things 
neat  ? 

Nath.  All  .'-I'r.gs  is  ready !  how  near  is  our 
roaster  ? 

Gru.  E'c'i  'it  hand,  alighted  by  this :  and  there- 
fore bo  ro\-  Cock's  passion,  silence! — I  hear  my 
master. 

ErM  r  Petrucio  and  Katharina. 

PU.  Where  bo  tliese  knaves  ?     What,  no  man 
at  the  door, 
To  lioli'.  my  stirrup  nor  to  take  my  horse  ? 
Where  is  Nathaniel,  Gregory,  Philip  ? 
All  Scrv.  Hero,  here,  sir;  here,  sir. 
Pel   Here,  sir !  Ijere,  sir  !  here,  sir !  here,  sir ! 
*7a 


You  loggerheaded  and  unpohsh  i  grooms  1 
What,  no  attendance  ?  no  regard  ?  no  duty  ? 
Where  is  the  foolish  knave  I  sent  before  ? 
Gru.  Here,  sir ;  as  foolish  as  I  was  before. 
Pet.  You  peasant  swain !  you  whoreson  malt- 
horse  drudge ! 
Did  I  not  bid  thee  meet  me  in  the  park, 
And  bring  along  these  rascal  knaves  with  thee  ? 

Gru.  Nathaniel's  coat,  sir,  was  not  fully  made. 
And  Gabriel's   pumps  were    all    unpink'd   i'  the 

heel ; 
There  was  no  link  to  colour  Peter's  hat," 
And  Walter's  dagger  was  not  come  from  sheathing : 
There  were  none  fine  but  Adam,  Kalph,  and  Greg- 
ory ; 
The  rest  were  ragged,  old,  and  beggarly  ; 
Yet,  as  they  are,  here  are  they  come  to  meet  you. 
Pet.  Go,  rascals,  go,  and  fetch  my  supper  in, — 
^Exeunt  some  of  the  Servant.Sv 
"  Where  is  the  life  that  late  I  led."—"        [Siiiffs. 

W^hsre  are  those Sit  down,  Kate,  and  welcome. 

Soud,  soud,  soud,  soud  1 

Re-enter  Servants  xcith  Supjyer, 

Why,  when,  I  say  ?^Nay,  good  sweet  Kate,  bi? 

merry. 
Off   with    my  boots,  you    rogues,    you    villains ; 
When  ? 
"  It  was  the  friar  of  orders  grey,  [Sinffs. 

As  he  forth  walked  on  his  way  :" — 
Out,  you  rogue  ?  you  pluck  my  foot  awry  : 
Take  that,  and  mend  the  plucking  of  the  other. — 

[Strikes  him. 
Be  merry,  Kate : — Some  water  here ;  wliat,  ho ! 

E7iier  Servant,  with  water. 

Where  's  my  spaniel  Troilus  ? — Sirrah,  get  you 

hence, 
And  bid  my  cousin  Ferdinand  come  hither : 

[Exit  Serv, 
One,  Kate,  that  you  must  kiss,  and  be  acquiiinted 

with. 
W^here   are   my   slippers? — Shall   I   have   some 
water?        [^1  bason  is  presented  to  him. 
Come,  Kate,  and  wash,  and  welcome  heartily : — 

[Servant  lets  the  bason  fall. 
You  whoreson  vil.ain !  ■will  you  let  it  fall  ? 

[Strikes  him. 
Kath.  Patience,  I  pray  you  ;  't  w;is  a  fault  un- 
willing. 
Pet.     A    whoreson,    beetle-headed,    flajxiar'd 
knave  I 


ACT  rv. 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


BCENE   II. 


Come,    K;iti',    sit    down ;    I    know    you    Lavo    a 

stomach. 
Will  you  give  thanks,  sweet  Kate,  or  else  shall  I  ? 
What 's  this  ?  mutton  ? 

1  Seru.  Ay. 

Fet.  Who  brought  it? 

1  Sen:  I. 

Pet.  'T  is  burnt ;  and  so  is  all  the  meat : 
WLat  dogs  are  these ! — Where  is  the  rascal  cook  ? 
How  durst  you,  villains,  bring  it  from  the  dresser, 
And  serve  it  thus  to  me  that  love  it  not  ? 
There,  take  it  to  you,  trenchers,  cups,  and  all : 

[Thi-ows  tli£  meat,  d-c,  at  the  servants. 
You  heedless  joltheads,  and  unmanner'd  slaves! 
What,  do  you  grumble  ?  I  '11  be  with  you  straight. 

Kath.  I  pray  you,  husband,  be  not  so  disquiet; 
The  meat  was  well,  if  you  were  so  contented. 

Pet.  I  tell  thee,  Kate,  't  was  burnt  and  dried 
,    away; 
And  I  expressly  am  forbid  to  touch  it, 
For  it  engenders  choler,  plantcth  anger  ; 
And  better  't  were  that  both  of  us  did  fast, 
Since  of  ourselves,  ourselves  are  choleric. 
Than  feed  it  with  such  over-roasted  flesh. 
Be  patient ;  to-morrow  it  shall  be  mended. 
And,  for  this  niglit,  we  '11  fast  for  company : 
Come,  I  will  bring  thee  to  thy  bridal  chamber. 

\Exeunt  Pet.,  Kath.,  and  Curt. 

Nath.  \^Advanci7ig!\  Peter,  didst  ever  see  the 
like? 

Peter.  He  kills  her  in  her  own  humour. 

Re-enter  Curtis. 

Oru.  Where  is  he  ? 

Curt.  In  her  chamber. 
Making  a  sermon  of  continency  to  her ; 
And  rails,  and  swears,  and  rates  ;  that  she,  poor 

soul. 
Knows  not  which  way  to  stand,  to  look,  to  speak  ; 
And  sits  as  one  new-risen  from  a  dream. 
Away,  away    for  he  is  coming  hither.       \Exeiint. 

Re-enter  PETRncio. 

Pet.  Thus  have  I  politicly  begun  my  reign. 
And  't  is  my  hope  to  end  successfully : 
My  falcon  now  is  sharp,  and  pa.ssing  empty ; 
And,  till  she  stoop^  she  must  not  be  fuU-gorg'd, 
For  then  she  never  looks  upon  her  lure. 
Another  way  I  have  to  man  my  haggard," 
To  make  her  come,  and  know  her  keeper's  call. 
That  is,  to  watch  her,  as  we  watch  these  kites. 
That  bate,  and  beat,  and  will  not  be  obedient. 

60 


She  eat  no  meat  to-day,  nor  none  shall  eat ; 

Last  night  she  slept  not,  nor  to-night  she  sIkiU 

not; 
As  with  the  meat,  some  undeseiTed  fault 
I  '11  find  about  the  making  of  the  bed  : 
And  here  I  '11  fling  the  pillow,  there  the  bolster, 
This  way  the  coverlet,  another  way  the  sheets : — 
Ay,  and  amid  this  hurly,  I  intend. 
That  all  is  done  in  reverend  care  of  her ; 
And,  in  conclusion,  she  shall  watch  all  night : 
And,  if  she  chance  to  nod,  I  '11  rail  and  brawl, 
And  with  the  clamour  keep  her  still  awake. 
This  is  a  way  to  kill  a  wife  with  kindness ; 
And   thus  I  '11  cuib   her    mad    and   headstrong 

humour  r 
He  that  knows  better  how  to  tame  a  shrow,'' 
Now  let  him  speak;  't  is  charity  to  show.       \Exii, 

SCENE  n.— Padua.     Before  Baptista's  House. 
Enter  Teanio  and  Horteksio. 

Tra.    Is  't  possible,  friend  Licio,  that  mistress 
Bianca 
Doth  fancy  any  other  but  Lucentio  ? 
I  tell  you,  sir,  she  bears  me  fair  in  hand. 

Ilor.  Sir,  to  satisfy  you  in  what  I  have  said, 
Stand  by,  and  mark  the  manner  of  his  teaching. 

\They  stand  aside. 

Enter  Bianca'  and  Lucejjtio. 

Luc.    Now,  mistress,  profit   you  in  what    you 

read  ? 
Bian.    What,  master,  read  you  ?    first  resolve 

me  that. 
Luc.  I  read  that  I  profess,  the  art  to  love. 
Bian.  And  may  you  prove,  sir,  master  of  your 

art ! 
Luc.  While  you,  sweet  dear,  prove  mistress  of 
my  heart  1  [  Thetj  retire. 

Hor.  Quick  proceeders,  marry  !     Now,  tell  me. 
I  pray. 
You  that  durst  swear  that  your  mistress  Bianca 
Lov'd  none  in  the  world  so  well  as  Lucentio. 
Tra.    0  despiteful   love !    unconstant  woman- 
Mndl 
I  tell  thee,  Licio,  this  is  wonderful. 

Hor.  Mistake  no  more  :  I  am  not  Licio, 
Nor  a  musician,  as  I  seem  to  be ; 
But  one  that  scorns  to  live  in  this  disguise, 
For  such  a  one  as  leaves  a  gentleman, 
And  makes  a  god  of  such  a  cullion :'' 
Know,  sir,  that  I  am  call'd  Hortensio. 

4'73 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


SCENIi    II. 


Tra.  SigTiior  Hortensio,  I  have  often  heard 
Of  yoiir  entire  affection  to  Bianca  ; 
And  since  mine  e}"es  are  •witness  of  her  lightness, 
Iwll  with  you, — if  you  be  so  contented, — 
Forswear  Bianca,  and  her  love  for  ever. 

Hor.  See,  how  tlie/  kiss  and  court  1     Signior 
Lucentio, 
Here  is  my  hand,  avij  here  I  firmly  vow 
Never  to  woo  her  more ;  but  do  forswear  her. 
As  one  unworthy  dl  the  former  favoure 
That  I  have  f-jr-diy  flatter'd  her  withal. 

Tra.  Ac  J  here  I  take  the  like  unfeigned  oath, 
Never  to  ujurry  with  her  though  she  would  en- 
treat : 
Fie  on  her !  see,  how  beastly  she  doth  court  him. 

Hor.  'Would  all  the  world,  but  he,  had  quite 
forsworn ! 
For  me,  that  I  may  surely  keep  mine  oath, 
I  will  be  married  to  a  wealthy  widow 
Ere  three  days  pass ;  which  hath  as  long  lov'd  me, 
As  I  have  1-ov'd  this  proud  disdainfid  haggard : 
And  so  farewell,  siguior  Lucentio. 
Kindness  in  women,  not  their  beauteous  looks. 
Shall  win  my  love :  and  so  I  take  my  leave, 
In  resolution  as  I  swore  before. 

YExit  lion. — Luc.  and  Bian.  advance. 

Tra.    Mistress    Bianca,    bless    you    with    such 
grace 
.\s  'longeth  to  a  lover's  blessed  case  ! 
Nay,  I  have  ta'en  you  napping,  gentle  love  ; 
And  have  forsworn  you  with  Hortensio. 

Bian.  Tranio,  you  jest.     But  have  you  both  for- 
sworn me  ? 

Tra.  Mistress,  we  have. 

Lite.  Then  we  are  rid  of  Licio. 

Tra.  r  faith,  he  '11  have  a  lusty  widow  now. 
That  shall  be  woo'd  and  wedded  in  a  day. 

Bian.  God  give  him  joy ! 

Tra.  Ay,  and  he  '11  tame  her. 

Biayi.  He  says  so,  Tranio. 

Tra.    'Faith,   he    is   gone    unto   the    taming- 
school. 

Bian.  The  taming-school !  what,  is  there  such 
a  place  ? 

Tra.  Ay,  mistress,  and  Petrucio  is  the  master ; 
That  Icacheth  tricks  eleven  and  twenty  long, 
To   tamo    a   shrew,  and    charm    her    chattering 
tongue. 

Untcr  Bi  5NDELL0,  running. 

Bion.  0  master,    master    ".    Lave  watch'd    so 
long 
474 


That  I  am  dog-weary ;  but  at  last  I  spied 
An  ancient  angle*'  coming  down  the  hill 
Will  sen-e  the  turn. 

Tra.  Was  it  he,  Biondello  ? 

Bion.  Master,  a  mercatante,  or  a  pedant, 
I  know  not  what ;  but  formal  in  apparel. 
In  gait  and  countenance  surely  like  a  father. 

Zuc.  And  what  of  him,  Tranio  ? 

Tra.  If  he  be  credulous,  and  trust  my  tale, 
I  '11  make  him  glad  to  seem  Vincentio ; 
And  give  assurance  to  Baptista  Minola, 
As  if  he  were  the  right  Vincentio ; 
Take  in  your  love,*'  and  then  let  me  alone. 

[£xevnt  Luc.  and  Bian 

Unkr  a  Pedant. 

Fed.  God  save  you,  sir  ! 

Tra.  And  you,  sir !  you  are  welcome 

Travel  you  far  on,  or  are  you  at  the  farthest  ? 

Fed.  Sir,  at  the  farthest  for  a  week  or  two ; 
But  then  up  farther ;  and  as  far  as  Rome ; 
And  so  to  Tripoli,  if  God  lend  me  life. 

Tra.  What  countryman,  I  pray  ? 

Fed.  Of  Mantua. 

Tra.  Of  Mantua,  sir  ? — marry,  God  forbid  ! 
And  come  to  Padua,  careless  of  your  life  ? 

Fed.  My  life,  sir !  how,  I  pray  ?  for  that  goes 
hard. 

Tra.  'T  is  death  for  any  one  in  Mantua 
To  come  to  Padua.     Know  you  not  the  cause  ? 
Your  ships  are  stay'd  at  Venice ;  and  the  duke 
(For  private  quarrel  'twixt  your  duke  and  him) 
Hath  publish'd  and  proclaim'd  it  openly : 
'T  is  marvel ;  but  that  you  are  but  newly  come, 
You  might  have  heard  it  else  proclaim'd  about. 

Fed.  Alas,  sir,  it  is  worse  for  me  than  so ; 
For  I  have  bills  for  money  by  exchange 
From  Florence,  and  must  here  deliver  them. 

Tra.  Well,  sir,  to  do  you  courtesy. 
This  will  I  do,  and  this  I  will  advise  you  ; 
First,  tell  me,  have  you  ever  been  at  Pisa  3 

Fed.  Ay,  sir,  in  Pisa  have  I  often  been ; 
Pisa,  renowned  for  grave  citizens. 

Tra.  Among  them,  know  you  one  Vincentio  ? 

Fed.  I  know  him  not,  but  I  have  heard  of  him 
A  merchant  of  incomparable  wealth. 

Tra.  He  is  my  father,  sir;  and,  sooth  to  say, 
In  count'nance  somewhat  doth  resemble  you. 

Bion.  Aa  much  as  an  apple  doth  an  cyster,  and 
all  one.  [Aside 

Tra.  To  save  your  life  in  this  extremity, 
This  favour  will  I  do  you  for  his  sake 


THE  TAMING  OF  TUli  SllliEW. 


SCENa    lU. 


Aud  think  it  not  tbe  worst  of  all  your  fortunes, 
riiat  3-ou  are  like  to  sir  Vincentio. 
His  iiamo  and  credit  shall  you  '■.ndertake, 
And  ill  my  house  you  shall  be  friendly  lodg'd. 
Lixik,  that  you  take  upon  you  as  you  should  ; 
\'ou  understand  me,  sii' ; — so  shall  you  stay 
Till  you  have  done  vour  business  in  the  city  : 
It'  this  be  court'sy,  sii,  accept  of  it. 

Fed.  O,  sir,  I  do  ;  and  will  repute  you  ever 
The  patron  of  my  life  and  liberty. 

Tra.  Then  go  with  me,  to  make  the  matter  good. 
This,  by  the  way,  I  let  you  understand ; 
ily  father  is  here  look'd  for  every  day. 
To  pass  assurance  of  a  dower™  m  marriage 
'Twixt  me  and  one  Baptista's  daughter  here : 
In  all  these  circumstjinces  T  '11  instruct  you : 
lie  with  me,  to  clothe  you  as  becomes  you. 

\^Exeuni. 

SCENE  m.—A  Rooyn  in  retruclo's  House. 
Enter  Katharina  and  Grumio. 

Gru.  No,  no  ;  forsooth,  I  dare  not,  for  my  life. 

Kalh.  The  more  my  wi-oug,  the  more  his  spite 
appears : 
What,  did  he  marry  me  to  famisli  me  ? 
Beggars  tliat  come  unto  my  father's  door, 
Cpon  entreaty,  have  a  present  alms  ; 
If  not,  elsewhere  they  meet  with  charity : 
But  I,  who  never  knew  how  to  entreat, 
Nor  never  needed  that  I  should  entreat. 
Am  starv'd  for  meat,  giddy  for  lack  of  sleep; 
With  oaths  kept  waking,  and  with  brawling  fed : 
And  that  which  spites  me  more   than  all   these 

wants. 
He  does  it  under  name  of  perfect  love ; 
As  who  should  say,  if  I  should  sleep,  or  eat, 
'T  were  deadly  sickness,  or  else  present  death. 
I  prithee  go,  and  get  me  some  repast ; 
I  care  not  what,  so  it  be  wholesome  food. 

Gru.  What  say  you  to  a  neat's  foot  ? 

Kath.    'T  is  passing  good ;   I  prithee   let   me 
have  it. 

Gru.  I  fear  it  is  too  choleric  a  meat : 
ITow  say  you  to  a  fat  tripe,  finely  broil'd  : 

Kalh.  I  like  it  well :  good  Grumio,  fetch  it  me. 

Gru.  I  cannot  tell ;  I  fear  't  is  choleric. 
What  say  you  to  a  piece  of  beef,  and  mustard  ? 

Kalh.  A  dish  that  I  do  love  to  feed  upon. 

Gru.  Ay,  but  the  mustard  is  too  hot  a  little. 

Kalh.  W^liy,  then  the  beef,  and  let  the  mustard 
rest. 


Gru.  Nay,  then  I  will  not;  you  shall  have  tha 
iimstard, 
Or  else  you  get  no  beef  of  Grumio. 

Kalh.  Then    both,    or   one,  or  anything  thou 

ivilt. 
Gru.  Why,  then  the  mustard  without  the  beef. 
Kalh.  Go,  get  thee  gone,  thou  false  deluding 
slave,  [jBcn/.s  hvii 

That  feed'st  me  with  the  very  name  of  meat : 
Sorrow  on  thee,  and  all  the  pack  of  you. 
That  triumph  thus  upon  my  misery ! 
Go,  get  thee  gone,  I  say. 

Enter  Petrucio,  with  a  dish  of  meat;  and  EloR- 

TEXSIO. 

Pet.  How  fares  my  Kate  ?  Wliat,  sweeting,  all 
amort  ?" 

Jfor.  Mistress,  what  cheer  ? 

Kalh.  'Faith,  as  cold  as  can  be. 

Pet.  rinek  up  thy  spirits,  look  cheerfully  upon 
me. 
Here,  love  ;  thou  see'st  how  diligent  I  am. 
To  dress  thy  meat  myself,  and  bring  it  thee  : 

[Sets  the  dish  on  a  table. 
I  am  sure,  sweet  Kate,  this  kindness  merits  thanks. 
What,  not  a  word  ?     Nay,  then  thou  lov'st  it  not, 
And  all  my  pains  are  sorted  to  no  proof:" 
Here,  take  away  this  dish. 

Kath.  I  pray  you,  let  it  stand. 

Pet.  The  poorest  service  is  repaid  with  thanks  ; 
And  so  shall  mine,  before  you  touch  the  meat. 

Kath.  I  thank  you,  sir. 

Hor.  Signior  Petrucio,  fie !  you  are  to  blame  : 
Come,  mistress  Kate,  I  '11  bear  you  company. 

Pet.  Eat  it  up  all,  Hortensio,  if  thou  lov'st  me. 

[Aside. 
Much  good  do  it  unto  thy  gentle  heart ! 
Kate,  eat  apace  ; — And  now,  my  honey  love, 
Will  we  return  unto  thy  father's  house ; 
And  revel  it  as  bravely  as  the  best. 
With  silken  coats,  and  caps,  and  golden  rings. 
With  ruSs,  and  cufis,  and  farthingales,  and  things; 
With   scarfs,    and   fans,    and   double    change    of 

brav'ry. 
With  amber  bracelets,  beads,  and  all  this  knav'ry 
What,   hast  thou   din'd?     The  tailor,  stays  thy 

leisure. 
To  deck  thy  body  with  his  niffling  treasure. 

Enter  Tailor. 

Come,  tailor,  let  us  see  these  ornaments ; 

476 


ACT  IV. 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


SCENE  ra. 


Enter  Haberdasher. 

Lay  forth  the  gown, — What  news  with  you,  sir 

Hab.  Here  is  the  cap  your  worship  did  bespeak. 

Pet.  Why,  this  was  moulded  on  a  porringer ; 
A  velvet  dish ; — fie,  fie  1  't  is  lewd  and  filthy ; 
\\Tiy,  't  is  a  cockle,  or  a  walnut-shell,'^ 
A  knack,  a  toy,  a  trick,  a  baby's  cap ; 
Away  with  it ;  come,  let  me  have  a  bigger. 

Kath.  I  '11  have  no  bigger ;  this   doth   fit  the 
time. 
And  gentlewomen  wear  such  caps  as  these. 

Pet.  When  you  are  gentle,  you  shall  have  one 
too. 
And  not  till  then. 

Hoi:  That  will  not  be  in  haste. 

[Aside. 

Kath.  Why,  sir,  I  trust,  I  may  have  leave  to 
speak ; 
And  speak  I  will.     I  am  no  child,  no  babe : 
Vour  betters  have  endur'd  me  say  my  mind ; 
.\nd,  if  you  cannot,  best  you  stop  your  ears. 
My  tongue  will  tell  the  anger  of  my  heart ; 
Or  else  my  heart,  concealing  it,  will  break; 
And  rather  thau  it  shall,  I  will  be  free, 
Even  to  the  uttennost,  as  I  ulease,  in  words. 

Pec.  Why  thou  say'st  true;  it  is  a  paliry  cap, 
A  custard-coffin,'''  a  bauble,  a  silken  pie  : 
I  love  thee  well,  in  that  thou  lik'st  it  not. 

Kath.  Love  me,  or   love   me   not,  I  like    the 
cap; 
And  it  I  will  have,  or  I  will  have  none. 

Pet.  Thy  gown?    wh}',  ay. — Come,  tailor,   let 
us  see 't. 

0  mercy,  God  !  what  masking  stuft'  is  here  ! 
What 's  this  ?  a  sleeve  1  't  is  like  a  demi-cannou : 
What !  up  and  down,  carv'd  like  an  apple-tart  ? 
Here 's  snip,   and  nip,  and    cut,    and    slish,    and 

slash. 
Like  to  a  censer  in  a  barber's  shop :" 
Wh}',   what,  o'  devil's   name,  tailor,  call'st   thou 
this  ? 
Hor.  I  see,  she  's  like  to  have  neither  cap  nor 
gown.  [Aside. 

Tai.  You  bid  me  make  it  orderly  and  well. 
According  to  the  fashion  and  the  tim.'. 
Pet.  Marry,  and  did ;  but  if  you  be  remember'd, 

1  did  not  bid  you  mar  it  to  the  time. 
Go,  hop  mo  over  eveiy  kennel  home. 

For  you  shall  hop  without  my  custom,  sir: 
[  "11  none  of  it;  hence,  make  your  best  of  it. 
Kath.  I  never  saw  a  better  fashiou'd  gown, 
470 


More  quaint,  more  pleasing,  nor  more  commend 

able  : 
Belike,  3-ou  mean  to  make  a  puppet  of  me. 

Pet.  Vi'hy,  true  ;  he  means  to  make  a  puppet  oi 
thee. 

Tai.  She  says,  your  worship  means  to  make  a 
puppet  of  her. 

Pet.  0  monstrous  an'ogance !  Thou  liest,  thou 
thread, 
Thou  thimble, 

Thou  yard,  three  quarters,  half-yard,  quarter,  nail. 
Thou  flea,  thou  nit,  thou  winter  cricket  thou  : 
Brav'd  in  mine  own  house  with  a  skein  of  thread  I 
Away,  thou  rag,  thou  quantity,  thou  remnant, 
Or  I  shall  so  be-mete'^  thee  with  thy  yard. 
As  thou  slialt  think  on  prating  whilst  thou  liv'st! 
I  tell  thee,  I,  that  thou  hast  marr'd  her  gown. 

Tai.  Yom'  worship  is  deceiv'd ;   the   gow  n   is 
made 
Just  as  my  master  had  direction  : 
Grumio  gave  order  how  it  should  be  done. 

Gru.  I  gave  him  no  order :  I  gave  him  the  stuff. 

Tai.  But  how  did  you  desire  it  should  be  made  \ 

Gru.  Many,  sir,  with  needle  and  thread. 

Tai.  But  did  you  not  request  to  have  it  cut  ? 

Gru.  Thou  hast  fac'd  many  things. 

Tai.  I  have. 

Gru.  Face  not  me.  Thou  hast  brav'd  many 
men ;  brave  not  me.  I  will  neither  be  fac'd  nor 
brav'd.  I  say  unto  thee — I  bid  thy  master  cut 
out  the  gown ;  but  I  did  not  bid  him  cut  it  to 
pieces : — ergo,  thou  liest. 

Tai.  Why,  here  is  the  note  of  the  fashion  to 
testif)'. 

Pet.  Read  it. 

Gru.    The   note  lies  in  's  throat,  if  he  say  1 
said  so. 

Tai.  Imprimis,  "  a  loose-bodied  gown  :" 

Gru.  Master,  if  ever  I  said  loose-bodied  gown, 
sew  me  in  the  skirts  of  it,  and  beat  me  to  death 
with  a  bottom  of  brown  thread  :  I  said,  a  gown. 

Pet.  proceed. 

Tai.  "  \Vith  a  small  compassed  cape  ;"" 

Gru.  1  confess  the  caoe. 

Tai.  "  With  a  trunk  sleeve ;" 

Gru.  I  confess  two  sleeves. 

Tai.  "  The  sleeves  curiously  ( jt." 

Pet.  Ay,  there  '.s  the  villauy. 

Gru.  Error  i'  th'i  bill,  sir ;  error  i'  the  bill !  i 
commanded  the  sleerea  should  be  cut  out,  and 
sew'd  u])  again  :  and  that  I  '11  prove  upon  thee 
though  thy  little  finger  l>e  :iv:i\cJ  iu  a  thimble. 


ACT    IV. 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SUEEW. 


SCENE    17 


Tai.  This  is  true,  that  I  say !  an  I  had  thee  in 
place  where,  thou  shouklst  kinjw  it. 

Gru.  I  am  tor  thee  .straight :  take  thou  the  bill, 
fjivc  me.  thy  mete-yard,  and  spare  not  me. 

Jlor.  God-a-mercy,  Grumio !  then  he  shall  have 
110  odds. 

Pet.  Well,  sir,  in  brief,  the  gown  is  not  for  me. 

Gru.  You  are  i'  the  right,  sir  ;  't  is  for  my 
mistress. 

Pet.  Go  take  it  up  unto  thy  master's  use. 

Gru.  Villain,  not  for  thy  life  !     Take   up  my 
mistress'  gown  for  thy  master's  use  ! 

Pet.  Why,  sir,  what's  your  conceit  in  that  J 

Gru.  0,  sir,  the  conceit  is  deeper  than  you 
think  for  : 
Take  up  my  mistress'  gown  tc  hLs  master's  use  ! 
0,  fie,  fie,  fie  I 

Fct.  Hortensio,  say  thou  wilt  see   the   tailor 
paid : — 

[Aside. 
Go  take  it  hence ;  begone,  and  say  no  more. 

Ifor.  Tailor,  I  '11  pay  tliee  for  thy  gown   to- 
morrow. 
Take  no  unkindness  of  his  hasty  words : 
Away,  I  say ;  commend  me  to  thy  master. 

[JSxcir.t  T?i'.or  and  Haberdasher. 

Pel.  Well,  come,  my  Kate ;  we  will  unto  your 
father's, 
Even  in  these  honest  mean  habiliments ; 
Our  purses  shall  be  proud,  om'  garments  poor : 
For  't  is  the  mind  that  makes  the  body  rich. 
And  as  the  sun  breaks  through  the  darkest  clouds. 
So  honour  peereth  in  the  meanest  habit. 
What,  is  the  jay  more  precious  than  the  lark. 
Because  his  feathers  are  more  beautiful  3 
Or  is  the  adder  better  than  the  eel. 
Because  his  painted  skin  contents  the  eye  ? 
0,  no,  good  Kate ;  neither  art  thou  the  worse 
For  this  poor  furniture  and  mean  array. 
If  thou  account'st  it  shame,  lay  it  on  me : 
And  therefore  frolic ;  we  will  hence  forthwith. 
To  feast  and  sport  us  at  thy  father's  house. 
Go,  call  my  men,  and  let  us  straight  to  him; 
And  bring  our  horees  unto  Long-lane  end. 
There  will  we  mount,  and  thither  walk  on  foot. 
Let 's  see ;  I  think  't  is  now  some  seven  o'clock. 
And  well  we  may  come  there  by  dinner-time. 

Kath.  I  dare  assure  you,  sir,  't  is  almost  two ; 
And  't  will  be  supper-time  ere  you  come  there. 

Pet.  It  shall  be  seven,  ere  I  go  to  horse : 
Look,  what  I  speak,  or  do,  or  think  to  do, 
Vou  are  still  crossing  it. — Sire,  let 't  alone : 


I  will  not  go  to-day ;  and  ere  I  do, 
It  sliall  bo  what  o'clock  I  s.ay  it  is. 

Ilur.  Why,  so!  this  gallant  will  command  the 
sun.  [Exeunt, 

SCENE  IV.— Padua.     Before  Baptista's  Houge. 
Enter  Tranio,  and  the  Pedant  dressed  like 

ViNCENTIO. 

Tra.  Sir,  this  is  the  house.     Please  it  you  that 

I  call  ? 
Ped.  Ay,  what  else  ?  and,  but  I  be  deceiv'd, 
Signior  Baptista  may  remember  me. 
Near  twenty  years  ago,  in  Genoa, 
Vt'here  we  were  lodgers  at  the  Peg.-wus. 

Tra.  'T  is  well ;  and  hold  your  own,  in  any 
case, 
With  such  austerity  as  'longeth  to  a  father. 

Enter  Biondello. 

Ped.  I  warrant  you :  But,  sir,  here  comes  your 
boy; 
'T  were  good  he  were  school'd. 

Tra.  Fear  you  not  him.     Sirr.ah  Biondello, 
Now  do  your  duty  throughly,  I  advise  yoa" 
Imagine  't  were  the  right  Vincentic. 
Bion.  Tut !  fear  not  me. 

Tra.  But  hast  thou  done  thy  errand  to  Baptista  f 
Bion.   I   told   him   that   your    father   was   at 
Venice, 
And  that  you  iook'd  for  him  this  day  in  Padua. 
Tra.  Thou  'rt  a  tall  fellow ;  hold  thee  that  to 
drink. 
Here  comes  Baptista : — set  your  countenance,  fir. 

Enter  Baptista  and  Lucextio. 

Signior  Baptista,  you  are  happily  met : — 

Sir,  [to  the  Pedant]  this  is  the  gentleman  I  told 

you  of: 
I  pray  you,  stand  good  father  to  me  now, 
Give  me  Bianca  for  my  patrimony. 

Ped.  Soft,  son ! 
Sir,  by  your  leave,  having  come  to  Padua 
To  gather  in  some  debts,  my  son  Lucentio 
Made  me  acquainted  with  a  weighty  cause 
Of  love  between  your  daughter  and  himselt : 
And, — for  the  good  report  I  hear  of  you  ; 
And  for  the  love  he  beareth  to  your  daughter, 
And  she  to  him, — to  stay  him  not  too  long, 
I  am  content,  in  a  good  fother's  care, 
To  have  him  matoh'd ;  and, — if  you  please  to  like 
No  worse  than  I, — upon  some  agreement, 

477 


- 

1 

ACT  v..                                    THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW.                                  scenji:  v. 

Me  shall  you  find  ready  and  willing 

Bion.  Then  thus.     Baptista  is  safe,  talking  with 

With  one  consent  to  have  hor  so  bestowed ; 

the  deceiving  father  of  a  deceitful  son. 

For  curious  I  cannot  be  with  you,™ 

Luc.  And  what  of  him  ? 

Signior  Baptista,  of  whom  I  hear  so  well. 

Bion.  His  daughter  is  to  be  brought  by  you  to 

Bap.  Sir,  pardon  uie  in  what  I  have  to  say ; — 

the  supper. 

Vour  plainness  and  your  shortness  please  me  well. 

Luc.  And  then  ? 

Right  true  it  is,  your  son  Lucentio  here 

Bion.  The  old  priest  at  saint  Luke's  chui'cli  is 

Doth  love  my  daughter,  and  she  loveth  him, 

at  your  command  at  all  hours. 

Or  both  dissemble  deeply  their  afl'ectious  ; 

Luc.  And  what  of  all  this  ? 

And,  therefore,  if  you  say  no  more  than  this, 

Bion.  I  cannot  tell,  except  they  are  busied  about 

That  like  a  father  you  will  deal  with  him. 

a  counterfeit  assurance.     Take  you  assurance  of 

And  pass  my  daughter  a  sufficient  dower, 

her  cum  privilegio  ad  imprimendum  solum :  to 

The  match  is  made,  and  all  is  done  : 

the  church; — take  the  priest,  clerk,  and  some  suffi- 

Vour son  shall  have  my  daughter  with  consent. 

cient  honest  witnesses : 

Tra.  I  thank  you,  sir.     Where   then   do  you 

If  this  be  not  that  you  look  for,  I  have  no  more 

hold  best. 

to  say, 

We  be  affied,  and  such  assurance  ta'en. 

But  bid  Bianca  farewell  for  ever  and  a  day. 

As  shall  with  either  part's  agreement  stand  ? 

[Going. 

Bap.  Not  in  my  house,  Lucentio ;  for,  you  know. 

Luc.  Hear'st  thou,  Biondello  ? 

Pitchers  have  ears,  and  I  have  many  servants : 

Bion.  I  cannot  tarry.    I  knew  a  wench  married 

Besides,  old  Gremio  is  heark'ning  still ; 

in  an  afternoon,  as  she  went  to  the  garden  for 

And,  happily,'^  we  might  be  interrupted. 

parsley  to  stuff  a  rabbit ;  and  so  may  you,  sir ;  anc 

Tra.  Then  at  my  lodging,  an  it  like  you  : 

so  adieu,  sir.    ]\Iy  master  hath  appointed  me  to  g( 

There  doth  my  father  lie ;  and  there,  this  night. 

to  saint  Luke's,  to  bid  the  priest  be  ready  to  come 

We  '11  pass  the  business  privately  and  well : 

against  you  come  with  your  appendix. 

Send  for  your  daughter  by  your  servant  here, 

[Exit. 

My  boy  shall  fetch  the  scrivener  presently. 

Luc.  I  may,  and  will,  if  she  be  so  contented : 

The  worst  is  this,  that,  at  so  slender  warning. 

She   will   be    pleas'd,   then   wherefore    should    I 

You  are  like  to  have  a  thin  and  slender  pittance. 

doubt  ? 

Bap.  It  likes  me  well :  Cambio,  hie  you  home. 

'Hap  what  hap  may,  I  '11  roundly  go  about  her ; 

And  bid  Bianca  make  her  ready  straight ; 

It  shall  go  hard,  if  Cambio  go  without  her.     [Exit 

And,  if  you  will,  tell  what  hath  happen'd, — 

Lucentio's  father  is  arriv'd  in  Padua, 

SCENE  Y.—A  2>Mic  Road. 

And  how  she  's  like  to  be  Lucentio's  wife ! 

Luc.  1  pray  the  gods  she  may,  with  all  my 

Enter  Petuucio,  Katharina,  and  Hortensio. 

heart ! 

Pet.  Come  on,  o'  God's  name;  once  more  toward 

Tra.  Dally  not  with  the  gods,  but  get  thee 

our  father's. 

gone. 

Good  Lord,  how  bright  and  goodly  shines  the  moon ; 

Signior  Baptista,  shall  I  lead  the  way  ? 

Kath.  The  moon  !  the  sun ;  it  is  not  moonlight 

Welcome !  one  mess  is  like  to  be  your  cheer ; 

now. 

Come,  sir ;  we  will  better  it  in  Pisa. 

Pet.  I  say  it  is  the  moon  that  shines  so  briglit. 

Bap.                 1  follow  you. 

Kath.  I  know  it  is  tlie  sun  that  shines  so  bright 

[Exeunt  Tra.,  Ped.,  and  Bap. 

Pet.  Now,  by  my   mother's   son,   and   that  's 

Bion.  Cambio. 

myself. 

Zuc.                Wliat  say'st  thou,  Biondello  ?. 

It  shall  be  moon,  or  star,  or  what  I  list, 

Bimi.  You   saw  my  master  wink   and  laugh 

Or  ere  I  journey  to  your  father's  house : 

upon  you  5 

Go  on,  and  fetch  our  horses  back  again. 

Luc.  Biondello,  wiiat  of  tliat? 

Evermore  cross'd  and  cross'd :  nothing  but  cross'd 

Bion.  'Faith,  nothing;  but  he  lias  left  nie  here 

Hor.  Say  as  he  says,  or  wo  shall  never  go. 

behind,  to  expound  the  meaning  or  moral  of  his 

Kath.  Forward,  1  pray,  since  we  have  come  so 

Eigns  and  tokens. 

far. 

Lric.  I  pray  thee,  lioralizo  them. 
478 

And  bo  it  moon,  or  sun,  or  what  you  plea.se : 

ACT    IV. 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


6C.KWS   V 


And  if  you  please  to  call  it  a  rush  candle, 
nenpefbrth  I  vow  it  shall  be  so  for  me. 

J'et.  I  say  it  is  the  moou. 

A'd^A.  I  know  it  is  the  moon. 

Pit.  Nay,  then  you  lie ;  it  is  tlie  blessed  sun. 

Knih.  Then,  God  be  bless'd,  it  is  the   blessed 
sun : 
But  sun  it  is  not,  when  you  say  it  is  not; 
And  the  moon  changes  even  as  your  mind. 
What  you  will  have  it  nam'd  even  that  it  is ; 
And  so  it  shall  be  so  for  Katharine. 

Ifor.  Petrucio,  go  thy  ways ;  the  field  is  won. 

I'ct.  Well,  forward,  forward :   tlius   the   bowl 
should  run. 
And  not  unluckily  against  the  bias. 
But  soft !    Company  is  coming  here ! 

Unter  Vincentio,  in  a  travelling  dress. 

Good  morrow,  gentle  mistress :  Where  away  3 

\To  Vincentio. 
Tell  rae,  sweet  Kate,'°  and  tell  mo  truly  too, 
Hast  thou  beheld  a  fresher  gentlewoman  ? 
Such  war  of  white  and  red  within  her  cheeks  ? 
What  stare  do  spangle  heaven  with  such  beauty, 
As  those  two  eyes  become  that  heavenly  face  ? 
Fair  lovely  maid,  once  more  good  day  to  thee : 
Sweet  Kate,  embrace  her  for  her  beauty's  sake. 

Hor.  'A  will  make  the  man  mad,  to  make  a 
woman  of  him. 

Kath.  Young  budding  virgin,  fair,  and  fresh, 
and  sweet. 
Whither  away  ?  or  where  is  thy  abode  ? 
Happy  the  parents  of  so  fair  a  child ; 
Happier  the  man,  whom  favourable  stars 
Allot  thee  for  his  lovely  bedfellow  1 

Pet.  Why,  how  now,  Kate  ?     I  hope  thou  art 
not  mad : 
This  is  a  man,  old,  wrinkled,  faded,  wither'd. 
And  not  a  maiden,  as  thou  say'st  he  is. 

Kath.  Pardon,  old  father,  my  mistaking  eyes. 


Tluit  have  been  so  bedazzled  with  the  sun, 
That  everything  I  look  on  seemeth  gieen : 
Now  I  perceive  thou  art  a  reverend  father ; 
Pardon,  I  pray  thee,  for  my  mad  mistaking. 

Pet.  Uo,  good  old  grandsire ;  and,  withal,  niaki 
known 
Whicli  way  thou  travellest :  if  along  with  us, 
W^e  shall  be  joyful  of  thy  comjiauy. 

Vin.  Fair  sir,  and  you  my  merry  mistress, 
That  with  your  strange  encounter  nmch  amazM 

me. 
My  name  is  call'd  Vincentio :  my  dwelling  Pisa  ; 
And  bound  I  am  to  Padua,  there  to  visit 
A  son  of  mine,  which  long  I  have  not  seen. 

Pet.  What  is  his  name  I 

Vin.  Lucentio,  gentle  sir. 

Pet.  Happily  met;  the  happier  for  thy  son. 
And  now  by  law,  as  well  as  reverend  age, 
I  may  entitle  thee  my  loving  father ; 
The  sister  to  my  wife,  this  gentlewoman. 
Thy  son  by  this  hath  married :  wonder  not. 
Nor  be  not  griev'd  ;  she  is  of  good  esteem, 
Her  dowry  wealthy,  and  of  worthy  birth  • 
Beside,  so  qualified  as  may  beseem 
The  spouse  of  any  noble  gentleman. 
Let  me  embrace  with  old  Vincentio; 
And  wander  we  to  see  thy  honest  son. 
Who  will  of  thy  arrival  be  full  joyous. 

Vin.   But  is   this    true  ?    or   is  it   else    youi 
pleasure, 
Like  pleasant  travellers,  to  break  a  jest 
Upou  the  company  you  overtake  ? 

Hor.  I  do  assure  thee,  father,  so  it  is. 

Pet.  Come,  go  along,  and  see  the  truth  hereof. 
For  our  first  merriment  hath  made  thee  jealous.*' 
\Exeunt  Pet.,  Kath.,  and  Vix, 

Hor.  Well,  Petrucio,  this  has  put  me  in  heart 
Have  to  my  widow ;  and  if  she  be  fi'oward. 
Then  hast  tliou  taught  Hortensio  to  be  untoward. 

[Exit 
479 


ACT    V 


THE  TMIING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


ACT    V 


SCEXE  I.— Padua.     Befool  Lucentio's  Eou?t. 

Elder  on  one  side  Biondello,  Ldcentio,  and  Bi- 
ANCA ;  Gremio  walking  on  the  other  side. 

Bion.  Softly  and  swiftly,  sir;  for  the  priest  is 

ready. 
Luc.  I  fly,  Biondello :  but  they  may  chance  to 
need  thee  at  home  ;  therefore  leave  us. 

Bion.  Nay,  faith,  I  '11  see  the  church  o'  your 
back,  and  then  come  back  to  my  master  as  soon 
as  I  can. 

\Exeunt  Luc,  Bian.,  and  Bion. 
Crre.  I  marvel  Cambio  comes  not  all  this  while. 

Enter  Petrucio,  Katharina,  Vincentio,  and 
Attendants. 

Pet.  Sir,  here  's  the   door,  this  is  Lucentio's 
house. 
My  father's  bears  more  toward  the  market-place ; 
Thither  must  I,  and  here  I  leave  you,  sir. 

Yin.  You   shall  not   choose  but  drink  before 
you  go ; 
I  think  I  shall  command  your  welcome  here. 
And  by  all  likelihood,  some  cheer  is  toward. 

YKnocki. 
Gre.  They  're  busy  within,  you  were  best  knock 
louder. 

Enter  Pedant  above  at  a  window. 

Fed.  What 's  he  that  knocks  as  he  would  beat 
down  the  gate  ? 

Vin.  Is  signior  Lucentio  within,  sir  ? 

Ped.  He  's  within,  sir,  but  not  to  be  spoken 
withal. 

Fin.  Wliat  if  a  man  bring  liim  a  hundred 
poimd  or  two,  to  maKe  merry  withal  ? 

Ped.  Keep  your  hundred  pounds  to  yourself; 
he  f.liall  need  none,  so  long  as  I  live. 

Pel.  Nay,  I  told  you  your  son  was  well  beloved 
in  Tadua. — Do  you  lie.ar,  sir? — to  leave  frivolous 
circumstancics, — I  pray  you,  tell  sigiiior  Lucentio 
that  }iis  father  is  come  from  Pisa,  and  is  here  at 
the  door  to  speak  with  him. 
4sn 


Ped.  Thou  liest ;  his  father  is  come  fi-om  Piss, 
and  here  looking  out  at  the  window. 

Vi7i.  Art  thou  his  father  ? 

Ped.  Ay,  sir ;  so  his  mother  says,  if  I  may 
believe  her. 

Pet.  Why,  how  now,  gentleman !  [to  Vincen.] 
why,  this  is  flat  knaveg^to  take  upon  you  anotJiei 
man's  name. 

Ped.  Lay  hands  on  the  villain.  I  believe  a' 
means  to  cozen  somebody  in  this  city  under  my 
countenance. 

Ec-enler  Biosdello. 

Bion.  I  have  seen  them  in  the  church  together , 
God  send  'em  good  shipping ! — But  who  is  here  ? 
mine  old  master,  Vincentio  ?  Now  we  are  undone, 
and  brought  to  nothing. 

Vin.  Come  hither,  crack-hemp.*^   [^Seeing  Bion. 

Bion.  I  hope  I  may  choose,  sir. 

Vin.  Come  hither,  you  rogue.  What,  have  you 
forgot  me  ? 

Bion.  Forgot  you  ?  no,  sir :  I  could  not  forget 
you,  for  I  never  saw  you  before  in  all  my  life. 

Vin.  What,  you  notorious  villain,  didst  thou 
never  see  thy  master's  father,  Vincentio  ? 

Bion.  What,  my  old,  worehipful  old  master ' 
Yes,  many,  sir;  see  where  he  looks  out  of  the 
window. 

Vin.  Is 't  so,  indeed  ?  [Beats  Bion. 

Bion.  Help,  help,  help !  here  's  a  madman  will 
murder  me.  [Esit. 

Ped.  Help,  son !  help,  signior  Baptista  1 

\Exit  from  the  window. 

Pet.  Prithee,  Kate,  let 's  stand  aside,  and  see 
the  end  of  this  coutrovei'sy.  YThcij  retire. 

Re-enter  Pedant  below  ;  Baptista,  Tranio,  and 
Servants. 

Tra.  Sir,  what  are  you  that  offer  to  beat  my 
servant  ? 

Vin.  What  am  I,  sir?  nay,  what  are  you,  sir! 
— 0  immortal  gods  !  0  fine  villain  1  A  silken 
doublet !  a  velvet  hose  1  a  scarlet  cloak !  and  a 


ACT   IV. 


THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHliEW. 


SCENE    I. 


lopatain  hat !  *' — 0,  I  :iin  umlone.  I  .-1111  uiulone! 
While  I  play  the  good  Imsband  at  lujine,  my  son 
and  my  servant  spend  all  at  tlie  university. 

Tra.  How  now  ?  wliat  '3  the  matter  ? 

Bap.  What,  is  the  man  hmatic  ? 

Tra.  Sir,  you  seem  a  sober  ancient  gentleman 
by  your  habit,  but  your  words  show  you  a  mad- 
man. Why,  sir,  what  concerns"  it  you,  if  I  wear 
pearl  and  gold  ?  I  thank  my  good  father,  I  am 
able  to  maintain  it. 

Vin.  Thy  ftither  ?  O  villain !  he  is  a  sailmaker 
in  Bergamo. 

Bap.  You  mistake,  sir ;  you  mistake,  sir.  Pray, 
what  do  you  think  is  his  name  ? 

Vin.  His  name  ?  as  if  I  knew  not  his  name  !  I 
have  brought  him  up  ever  since  he  was  three 
years  old,  and  his  name  is  Tranio. 

Fed.  Away,  away,  mad  ass !  His  name  is  Lu- 
centio;  .and  he  is  mine  only  son,  and  heir  to  the 
lands  of  me,  signior  Vincentio. 

Vin.  Lucentio !  0,  he  hath  ninrder'd  his  mas- 
ter !  lay  hold  on  him,  I  charge  you,  in  the  duke's 
name  :  O,  my  son,  my  sou  ! — tell  me,  thou  villain, 
wiiere  is  my  son,  Lucentio. 

Tra.  Call  forth  an  officer  :  \Enhr  one  loith  an 
Officer.]  Carry  this  mad  knave  to  the  gaol : — 
P'ather  Baptista,  I  charge  you  see  that  he  be 
foithcoming. 

Vin.  Carry  me  to  the  gaol ! 

Grc.  Stay,  officer  ;  he  shall  not  go  to  prison. 

Bap.  Talk  not,  signior  Gremio.  I  say  he  shall 
go  to  prison. 

Gre.  Take  heed,  signior  Baptista,  lost  you  be 
coneycatched  in  this  business.  I  dare  swear  this 
is  the  right  Vincentio. 

Fed.  Swear,  if  thou  dar'st. 

Gre.  Nay,  I  dare  not  swear  it. 

Tra.  Then   thou  wert  best  say  that  I  am  not 
Lucentio. 

Gre.    Yes,   I  know   thee    to    be   signior   Lu- 
centio. 

Bap.  Away  with  the  dotard :  to  the  gaol  with 
him. 

Vin.  Thus  strangers  may  be  haled  and  abiis'd. 
0  mon.strous  villain  ! 

Re-enter  Biondello,  with  Lucentio  and  Bianca. 

Dion.  0   we  are  spoil'd,  and — yonder   he   is ; 
deny  him,  forswear  him,  or  else  we  are  all  undone. 
Luc.  Pardon,  swaet  father.  [^Kneeling. 

Vin.  Lives  my  sweet  son  ? 

[Bio;f.,  Tra.,  and  Ped.  run  out  quickly. 

61 


Bian.  Pardon,  dear  father.  [Kneeling 

Ba2>.  How  hast  tliou  offended  ? 

Wliere  is  Lucentio  ? 

Luc.  Here  's  Lucentio, 

Right  son  to  the  right  Vincentio, 
That  have  by  marriage  made  thy  daughter  mine, 
Wliile  counterfeit  suiijioses  blear'd  thine  eyne. 

Gre.  Here 's  packing  with  a  witness,  to  deceive 
us  all  I 

Vin.  Where  is  that  damned  villain,  Tranio, 
That  fac'd  and  brav'd  mo  in  this  matter  so? 

Bajh  Why,  tell  me,  is  not  this  my  Cambio  ? 

Bian.  Cambio  is  chang'd  into  Lucentio. 

Luc,  Love  wrought  these   miracles.    Bianca's 
love 
Made  me  exchange  my  state  with  Tranio, 
While  he  did  bear  my  countenance  in  the  town ; 
And  happily  I  have  arriv'd  at  the  last 
Unto  the  wished  haven  of  my  bliss-; 
What  Tranio  did,  myself  enforc'd  him  to ; 
Then  piardon  him,  sweet  father,  for  my  sake. 

Vin.  I  '11  slit  the  villain's'  nose,  that  would 
have  sent  me  to  the  gaol. 

Bap.  But  do  j-our  hear,  sir?  [To  Luc]  Have 
you  married  my  daughter  without  asking  mv 
good-will  ? 

Vin.  Fear  not,  Baptista ;  we  will  content  you 
go  to  :    But  I   will    in,    to  be   reveng'd   for  this 
villainy.  \Exit. 

Bap.  And  I,  to  sound  the  depth  of  this  knavei-y. 

[Exit. 

Luc.  Look  not   pale,   Bianca ;    thy  father  will 
not  frown.         [Exetint  Luc.  and  Bian. 

Gre.   !My  cake  is  dough :   but  I  '11  in  among 
tlie  rest ; 
Out  of  hope  of  all, — but  my  share  of  the  feast. 

[Exit. 

pETra'cio  and  Katiiarina  advance, 

Kalh.  Husband,  let's  follow,  to  see  the  end  of 

this  ado. 
Fet.  First  kiss  me,  Kate,  and  we  will. 
Kalh.  What,  in  the  midst  of  the  street? 
Fel.  What,  art  thou  asham'd  of  me  ? 
Kaih.  No, .sir;  God  forbid:  but  asham'd  to  kiss. 
Pet.   Why,  then,  let 's  home   again  : — Come, 

sirrah,  .et  's  away. 
Kalh.  Nav  I  will  give  thee  a  kiss :   now  pray 

thee,  love,  stay. 
Fet.  Is  not  this  well  ? — Come,  my  sweet  Kate  ; 
Better  once  than  never,  for  never  too  late. 

[Exeunt. 
481 


ACT  V.                                      THE  TAMlNCx  OF  THE  SHREW.                                 bckne  ii. 

. 1 

SCENE  n.— ^  Boom  ii.  Lucentio's  House. 

A  banquet  set  out.     Enter  Baptista,  Vincentio, 
Gremio,  the  Pedant,  Lucentio,  Bianca,  Petru- 

Pet.  To  her,  Kate ! 
Hor.  To  her,  widow  ! 

Pet.  A  hundred  marks,  my  Kate  does  put  liei 
down. 

cio,  Katharisa,  Hortensio,  and  Widow.  Tra- 
Kio,  BioNDELLO,  GfiirMio,  and  others,  attending. 

Hor.  That 's  my  ofBce. 

Pet.  Spoke  like  an  officei : — Ha'  to  th.ee,  lal 

Luc.    At   last,  though  long,  our  jarring  notes 
agree; 

[Drinks  to  HoK. 
Bap.    How   likes    Gremio   these    quick-witted 

And  time  it  is,  when  raging  war  is  done, 

To  smile  at  'scapes  and  perils  o^  erblown. 

My  fiiir  Bianca,  bid  my  father  welcome, 

While  I  with  self-same  kindness  welcome  thine : 

folks  ? 
Gre.  Believe  me,  sir,  they  butt  together  well. 
Bian.  Head,  and  butt  ?  an  hasty-wtted  body 
Would   say  your  head  and  butt  were  head  and 

Brother  Petrucio, — sister  Katharina, — 

And  thou,  Hortensio,  with  thy  loving  widow, — 

horn. 
Vin.    Ay,  mistress  bride,  hath  that  awaken'd 

Feast  with  the  best,  and  welcome  to  my  house. 
My  banquet  is  to  close  our  stomachs  up. 
After  our  great  good  cheer.     Pray  you,  sit  down ; 
For  now  we  sit  to  chat,  as  well  as  eat. 

you? 
Bian.  kj,  but  not  frighted  me  ;  therefore  I  '11 

sleep  again. 
Pet.  Nay,  that  you  shall  not ;   since  you  have 

\They  sit  at  table. 
Pet.  Nothing  but  sit  and  sit,  and  eat  and  eat. 
Bap.    Padua    affords   this   kindness,    son    Pe- 
trucio. 

begun, 
Have  at  you  for  a  bitter  jest  or  two  ! 

Bian.  Am  I  your  bird  ?    I  mean  to  shift   my 
bush, 

Pet.  Padua  affords  nothing  but  what  is  kind. 
Uor.  For  both  our   sakes,  I  would  that  word 

were  tnie. 
Pet.    Now,    for   my    life,    Hortensio    fears   his 

And  then  pursue  me  as  you  draw  your  bow : 
You  are  welcome  all. 

[Exit  Bian.,  Kath.,  and  Wid. 
Pet.   She  hath  prevented   me. — Here,   si'jniiii 

widow.'^ 

Tranio, 

Wid.  Then  never  trust  me  if  I  be  afeard. 
Pet.  You  are  very  sensible,  and  yet  you  miss 
my  sense ; 
I  mean,  Hortensio  is  afeard  of  you. 

Wid.  He  that  is  giddy  thinks  the  world  turns 
round. 

This  bird  you  aim'd  at,  thougli  you  hit  hor  not ; 
Therefore,  a  health  to  all  that  shot  and  miss'd. 

Tra.  0,  sir,  Lucentio  slipp'd  me  like  his  grey- 
hound, 
Wliich  runs  himself^  and  catches  for  his  master. 

Pet.  A  good  swift  simile,  but  something   cur 

Pet.  Roundly  replied. 

Kath.                 Mistress,  how  mean  you  that  ? 

rish. 
Tra.  'T  is  well,  sir,  that  tou  hunted  for  your- 

Wid. Thus  I  conceive  by  hira. 

Pet.   Conceives  by  me  ! — how  Lkes  Hortensio 

that  ? 
Hor.    Afy  widow  says,  thus  she  conceives  her 

tale. 

self; 
'T  is  thought,  your  deer  does  hold  you  at  a  bay. 
Bap.  0  Ijo,  Petrucio,  Tranio  hits  you  uovc. 
Luc.  I  thank  thee  for  that  gird,""  good  Tranio. 
Hor.    Confess,   confess,   hath   he   not  liit  yoi 

Pet.  Very  well  mended :    Kiss    him  for    that, 
good  widow. 

here  ? 
Pet.  'A  lias  a  little  gall'd  me,  I  confess ; 

Kath.  He  tluit  is  giddy  thinks  the  world  turns 

round : — 
I  pray  you,  tell  mo  what  you  meant  by  that. 
Wid.    Your   liusband,   being   troubled  with  a 

slirow. 

And,  as  the  jest  did  glance  away  fi'om  me, 
Tis  ten  to  one  it  m aim'd  you  two  outright. 

Ba]^.  Now,  in  gCKjd  sadness,  son  Petrucio, 
I  think  thou  hast  the  veriest  shrew  of  all. 

Pet.  Well,  I  say — no :    and,  therefore,  foi   rn 

Measures  my  husband's  sorrow  by  his  woe : 
And  now  you  know  my  meaning. 

Kath.  A  veiy  mean  meaning. 

Wid.                 Right,  I  mean  you. 

surance, 
Let 's  each  one  send  unto  his  wife ; 
And  he,  whoso  wife  is  most  obedient 
To  come  at  first,  when  he  doth  send  for  her. 

Kolh.  And  I  am  mean,  indeed,  respecting  you. 
482 

Shall  win  the  wager  which  we  will  propose. 

ACT  V.                                      THE  TAMING  OF  TUF,  SHREW.                                  scenk  ii 

Hoi:  Content :  What 's  the  wager  ? 

1 
Kath.  What  is  your  will,  sir,   that  you  send 

Lite.                 Twenty  crowns. 

for  me  ? 

Pet.  Twenty  crowns ! 

Pet.    Where   is   your  sister,   and    Uortcnsio'." 

r  11  venture  so  much  of  my  Lawk,  or  hound, 

wife  ? 

!5ut  twenty  times  so  much  upon  my  wife. 

Kalh.  They  sit  coufemng  by  the  parlour  fire. 

Luc.  A  hundred  then. 

Pet.  Go,  fetch  them  hither;   if  they  deny  to 

Hor.                  Content. 

come, 

Pet.                            A  matcli ;  't  is  done. 

Swinge  me  them  soundly  forth  unto    their  hus 

ffor.  Who  shall  begin  ? 

bands : 

Luc.  That  will  I. 

Away,  I  say,  and  bring  them  hither  straight. 

fio,  Biondello,  bid  your  mistress  come  to  me. 

[E.tit  Kath. 

Bion.  I  go.                                                    [^Exit. 

Luc.  Here  is  a  wonder,  if  you  talk  of  a  wonder 

Bap.  Son,  1  '11  be  your  half,  Bianca  comes. 

Hor.  And  so  it  is;  I  wonder  what  it  bodes. 

Luc.    I  '11   have   no  lialves ;   I  '11   bear   it  all 

Pet.  Marry,  peace  it  bodes,  and  love,  and  quiet 

myself. 

lifj. 

An  awful  rule,  and  right  supremacy  ; 

Re-enter  Biondello. 

And,  to   be  short,  what  not,  that  's   sweet   and 

How  now  !  what  news  ? 

happy. 

Bion.                 Sir,  my  mistress  sends  you  word 

Bap.  Now  fair  befall  thee,  good  Petrucio  ! 

That  she  is  busy,  and  she  cannot  come. 

The  wager  thou  hast  won ;  and  I  will  add 

Pet.  How  !  she 's  busy,  and  she  cannot  come  ! 

Unto  their  losses  twenty  thousand  crowns ! 

Is  that  an  answer  ? 

Another  dowiy  to  another  daughter. 

Gre.                  Ay,  and  a  kind  one  too  : 

For  she  is  chang'd,  as  she  had  never  been. 

Pray  God,  sir,  your  wife  send  you  not  a  worse. 

Pet.  Nay,  I  will  win  my  wager  better  yet, 

Pet.  I  hope  better. 

And  show  more  sign  of  her  obedience, 

llor.    Sirrah   Biondello,   go,   and   entreat  my 

Her  new-built  virtue  and  obedience. 

wife 
To  come  to  me  forthwith.                      \_Exil  Bion. 

Re-enter  Katharina,  with  Bianca  and  Widow. 

Pet.                 0,  ho  !  entreat  her ! 

See,  where  she  comes ;  and  brings  your  froward 

Nay,  then  she  must  needs  come. 

wives 

Hor.                  I  am  afraid,  sir, 

As  prisoners  to  her  womanly  persuasion. 

Do  what  you  can,  yours  will  not  be  entreated. 

Katharine,  that  cap  of  yours  becomes  you  not ; 

Off  with  that  bauble,  throw  it  under  foot. 

Re-enter  Bioxdello. 

[Kath.  pulls  off  her  cap,  and  throws  it  doiim 

Now,  where  's  my  wife  ? 

Wid,  Lord,  let  me  never  have  a  cause  to  sigh, 

Bion.    She  says,  you    have    some    goodly  jest 

Till  I  he  brought  to  such  a  silly  pass ! 

in  hand ; 

Bian.  Fie !  what  a  foolish  duty  call  you  this  ? 

She  will  not  come ;  she  bids  you  come  to  her. 

Luc.  I  would  your  duty  were  as  foolish  loo : 

Pet.  Worse  and  worse ;  she  will  not  come  !     0 

The  wisdom  of  your  duty,  fair  Bianca, 

vild. 

Hath  cost  me  an  hundred  crowns  since  supper- 

Intolerable,  not  to  be  endur'd  ! 

time. 

SiiTah  Grumio,  go  to  your  mistress ; 

Bian.    The  more   fool  you,  for  laying  on  my 

B.xy  I  command  her  come  to  me.           [Exit  Gru. 

duty. 

Hor.  I  know  her  answer. 

Pet.  Katharine,  I  charge  thee,  tell  these  head- 

Pet.                What? 

strong  women 

Hor.                                      She  will  not. 

What  duty  they  do  owe  their  lords  and  husbands. 

Pet    The  fouler  fortune  mine;   and   there  an 

Wid.  Come,  come,  you  're  mocking;  we  will 

end. 

have  no  telling. 

Pet.  Come  on,  I  say ;  and  first  begin  with  her 

Enter  Katharina. 

Wid.  She  shall  not. 

Bap.  Now,  by  my  holidame,  here  comes  Ka- 

Pet.   I  say,  she  shall ; — and    first  begin    with 

tharina  ! 

her. 

4!I8 

1 

THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


SCENE   n. 


Kath.  Fie,  fie !  unknit  that  theat'niDg,  unkind 

brow; 
And  dart  not  scornful  glances  from  those  eyes, 
To  wouud  thy  lord,  thy  king,  thv  governor : 
It  blots  thy  beauty,  as  frosts  do  bite  the  meads ; 
Confounds   thy   fame,    as   whirlwinds   shake   fair 

buds; 
And  in  no  sense  is  meet  or  amiable. 
A  woman  mov'd  is  like  a  ftjuntain  troubled, 
Muddy,  ill-seeming,  thick,  bereft  of  beauty ; 
And,  while  it  is  so,  none  so  dry  or  thirsty 
Will  deign  to  sip,  or  touch  one  drop  of  it. 
Thy  husband  is  thy  lord,  thy  life,  thy  keeper. 
Thy  head,  thy  sovereign ;  one  that  cares  for  thee. 
And  for  thy  maintenance  ;  commits  his  body 
To  painful  labour,  both  by  sea  and  land ; 
To  watch  the  night  in  storms,  the  day  iu  cold. 
While  thou  li'st  warm  at  home,  secure  and  safe ; 
And  craves  no  other  tribute  at  thy  hands, 
But  love,  fair  looks,  and  true  obedience, — 
Too  little  payment  for  so  great  a  debt. 
Such  duty  as  the  subject  owes  the  prince. 
Even  such  a  woman  oweth  to  her  husband : 
And  when  she  is  froward,  peevisli,  sullen,  sour, 
And  not  obedient  to  his  honest  will. 
What  is  she,  but  a  foul  contending  rebel. 
And  graceless  traitor  to  her  loving  lord  ? 
I  am  asham'd,  that  women  are  so  simple 
To  otfer  war,  where  they  should  kneel  for  peace ; 
Or  seek  for  rule,  supremacy,  and  sway, 
When  they  are  bound  to  serve,  love,  and  obey. 
Why  are  our  bodies  soft,  and  weak,  and  smooth, 
napt  to  t^al,  and  trouble  in  the  world, 
484 


But  that  our  soft  conditions,  and  our  hearts, 
Should  well  agree  with  our  external  parts  ? 
Come,  come,  you  froward  and  unable  worms ' 
My  mind  hath  been  as  big  as  one  of  yours. 
My  heart  as  great ;  my  reason,  haply,  more. 
To  bandy  word  for  word,  and  frown  for  frown ; 
But  now,  I  see  our  lances  are  but  straws : 
Our  strength   as  weak,  our  weakness   past  com- 
pare,— 
That  seeming  to  be  most,  which  we  indeed  least 

are. 
Then  vail  your  stomachs,  for  it  is  no  boot. 
And  place  your  hands  below  your  husbands'  foot; 
Iu  token  of  which  duty,  if  he  please. 
My  hand  is  ready,  may  it  do  him  ease ! 

Pet.  Why,  there  's  a  wench  ! — Come  on,  and 

kiss  me,  Kate. 
Liic.    Well,  go  thy  ways,  old   lad  ;   for  thou 

shalt  ha 't. 
Vin.  'T  is  a  good  heaiing,  when  children  are 

toward. 
Luc.  But  a  harsh  hearing,  when  women  are 

froward. 
Pet.  Come,  Kate,  we  '11  to  bed  : 
W^e  three  are  married,  but  you  two  are  sped. 
'T  was  I  won   the   wager,  though   you  hit   the 
white;"  [To  Luc. 

And,  being  a  winner,  God  give  you  good  night ! 
\Excunt  Pet.  and  Kaih. 
Hor.  Now  go  thy  ways,  thou  hast  tam'd  a  curst 

shrow.^ 
Luc.  'T  is  a  wonder  by  your  leave,  she  will  b< 
tam'd  so.  [Exeunt 


lOTES  TO  THE  TAMING  OE  THE  SHREAV, 


'  /  'llpheese  you,  i%  faith, 

Theete,  beat,  chastise.  A  MS.  Devonshire  glossary  in 
my  possession  e.xplains  it,  "  to  pay  a  person  off  for  an  in- 
jary,"  which  is  probably  the  exact  meaning  here  intended 
by  Shakespeare.  The  word  was  used  in  several  signi- 
fications. 


«  Faueas  PaUahris ;  let  the  world  slide. 

Paueas  palUhris,  few  words ;  fVom  the  Spanish.  The 
expression  was  proverbial,  but  generally  found  used  by 
low  characters.  '*  Let  the  world  slide,"  was  also  a  com- 
mon proverbial  phrase,  equivalent  to,  take  no  thought. 
So,  in  an  old  ballad, — 

Let  the  world  slide,  let  the  world  go : 
A  fig  for  care,  and  a  fig  for  woe  I 
If  I  cant  pay,  why,  I  can  owe; 
And  death  makes  equall  the  high  and  low. 
Be  merry,  friends  I 

Bursty  broken.  Burst  and  ircak  are  still  synonymous 
in  some  of  the  provinces.  "  How  her  bridle  was  burst," 
act  iv.  sc.  1. 


'  Go  hy,  St.  Jeronimy. 

A  common  phrase,  implying  contempt  for  the  person  to 
whom  it  is  addressed. 

When  thou  hast  money,  then  friends  thou  hast  many ; 

When  it  is  wasted,  their  frieudsliip  is  cold  : 
Go  hyy  Jeronirao  !   No  man  then  will  thee  know. 

Knowing  thou  hast  neither  silver  nor  gold. 

Dehney^s  Strange  Mistcries,  1607. 

Sal  can  by  silence  deep  profundity; 
Force  you  cry,  Fough  I  Jsronimo,  go  ly. 

Wits  Jit-creations,  1640. 


*  /  mvsi  go/etch  the  ihirdborough. 

The  thirdhoroiigfi,  was  a  constable.  The  old  copies  erro- 
jeously  read,  headborovgh. 

'  I'll  not  hidge  an  inch,  loy. 

Sly  was  intoxicated,  hut  Shakespeare  was  probably 
thinking  of  the  old  play,  where  a  tapster  instead  of  the 
hoa  ess  is  iitroduced,  when  he  made  him  address  her  as. 


•  The  poor  cur  it  emboss'' d. 

Bmhoss'd,  applied  to  a  deer  when  foaming  at  the  mouth 
after  hard  running.  It  seems  to  be  here  improperly  ap- 
plied to  a  dog.  Merriman  and  Echo  are  still  common 
names  for  hounds.  Brach  was  a  generic  term  for  afer^.ali 
hound,  and  should  not  be  applied  to  Merriman.  It  seems 
clear  to  me  after  a  careful  examination  of  this  scene,  that 
Shakespeare  was  evidently  little  acquainted  with  the 
"noble  art  of  venerie,"  at  least  with  the  technicalities  cl 
'.Ae  sport. 

Look  how  the  stricken  hart  that  wounded  flies 

O'er  hill  and  dales,  and  seeks  the  lower  grounds 
For  running  streams,  the  whil'st  his  weeping  eyes 

Beg  silent  mercy  from  the  foll'wing  hounds  ; 
At  length,  embost,  he  droops,  drops  down,  and  lies 
Beneath  the  burthen  of  ixis  bleeding  wounds; 
Ev'n  so  my  gasping  soul,  dissolv'd  in  tears, 
Doth  search  for  thee,  my  God,  whose  deafen'd  ears 
Leave  me  th'  unrausom'd  prisoner  to  my  panick  fears. 

Quarks''  Emblems. 


'  And  when  he  says  he  is — . 

And  when  he  says  he  is  so  and  so,  tell  him  he  dreams. 
The  hiatus  is  certainly  intentional.     Kindly,  naturaUy. 

'We  may  take  the  opportimity  of  inserting  in  this  place 
the  pleasant  old  ballad,  the  Frolicksome  Duke,  which  is 
printed  by  Percy  from  a  black-letter  copy  in  the  Pepysian 
Library  at  Cambridge.  It  is  founded  on  the  same  subject 
as  the  present  induction. 

Now  as  fame  does  report  a  young  duke  keeps  a  court. 

One  that  pleases  his  fancy  with  frolicksome  sport : 

But  amonsst  all  the  rest,  here  is  one  I  protest, 

Which  will  make  you  to  smile  when  you  hear  the  true  jest : 

A  poor  tinker  he  found,  lying  drunk  on  the  ground, 

As  seciue  in  a  sleep  as  if  laid  in  a  swound. 

The  duke  said  to  his  men,  William,  Eichard  and  Ben, 
Take  him  home  to  my  palace,  we  'U  sport  with  him  then. 
O'er  a  horse  he  was  laid,  and  with  care  soon  convey'd 
To  the  palace,  altho'  he  was  poorly  arrai'd : 
Then  they  stript  otf  his  cloathes,  both  his  shirt,  shoes  and 

hose, 
And  they  put;  him  to  bed  for  to  take  his  repose. 

Having  pull'd  off  his  shirt,  which  was  all  over  durt. 
They  di<.l  give  him  clean  holland,  this  was  no  great  hurt; 
On  a  bed  of  soft  down,  like  a  lord  of  renown, 
They  did  lay  him  to  sleep  the  drink  out  of  his  crown- 
In  tiie  morning  when  day,  then  admiring  he  lay. 
For  to  see  the  rich  chamber  both  gaudy  and  gay. 

483 


NOTES  TO  THE  T.UIIXG  OF  THE  SHREW. 


Now  he  lay  something  late,  in  his  rich  bed  of  state, 
Till  at  last  knigjits  and  squires  they  on  him  did  wait: 
And  the  chamberlain  bare,  then  did  likewise  declare, 
He  desired  to  know  what  apparel  he  'd  ware  : 
The  poor  tinker  amaz'd,  on  the  gentleman  gaz'd, 
And  admired  how  he  to  this  honour  was  rais'd. 

Tho'  he  seem'd  something  mute,  yet  he  chose  a  rich  suit, 
Which  he  straightways  put  on  without  longer  dispute  : 
With  a  star  on  hi3  siie,  which  the  tinker  oll't  ey'd, 
And  it  seem'd  for  to  swell  him  '  no '  little  with  pride  ; 
For  he  said  to  himself,  Where  is  Joan  mv  sweet  wife  ? 
Sure  she  never  did  see  me  so  fine  in  her  life. 

From  a  convenient  place  the  right  duke  his  good  grace 
Did  observe  his  behaviour  in  every  case. 
To  a  garden  of  state,  on  the  tinker  they  wait, 
Trumpets  sounding  before  him  :  thought  he,  this  is  great: 
Where  an  hour  or  two,  pleasant  walks  he  did  view. 
With  commanders  and  squires  in  scarlet  and  blev/. 

A  flue  diuncr  was  drest,  both  for  him  and  his  guests, 

lie  was  plac'd  at  t!ie  table  above  all  the  rest, 

In  a  rich  chair  'or  bed,'  lin'd  with  fine  crimson  red, 

With  a  rich  golden  canopy  over  his  head  : 

As  he  sat  at  his  meat,  the  musiok  play'd  sweet, 

With  the  choicest  of  singing  his  joys  to  compleat. 

While  the  tinker  did  dine,  he  had  plenty  of  wine, 

Rich  canary  with  sherry  and  tent  supertine. 

Like  a  right  honest  soul,  faith,  he  took  olf  his  bowl. 

Till  at  last  he  began  for  to  tumble  and  roul 

From  his  chair  to  the  floor,  "where  he  sleeping  did  snore, 

Being  seven  times  drunker  than  ever  before. 

Then  the  duke  did  ordain,  they  should  strip  him  amain. 
And  restore  him  his  old  leather  garments  again  : 
'T  was  a  point  next  the  worst,  yet  perform  it  they  must, 
And  they  carry'd  him  strait,  where  they  f  jund  hiiu  at  flr=t ; 
Then  he  slept  all  the  night,  as  indeed  well  he  might : 
But  when  he  did  waken,  his  joys  took  their  flight. 

For  his  glory  '  to  him'  so  pleasant  did  seem, 

Th.at  he  thought  it  to  be  but  a  racer  golden  dream  ; 

Till  at  length  he  was  brought  to  the  duke,  where  he  sought 

For  a  pardon,  as  fearing  he  had  set  him  at  nought : 

But  his  highness  he  said,  Thou  'rt  a  jolly  bold  blade. 

Such  a  froliek  before  1  think  never  was  plaid. 

Then  his  highness  bespoke  him  a  new  suit  and  cloak. 
Which  he  gave  for  the  sake  of  his  frolicksome  joak  ; 
Nay,  and  flve  hundred  pound,  with  ten  acres  of  ground, 
Thou  shalt  never,  said  he,  range  the  counteries  round. 
Crying  old  brass  to  mend,  for  I  '11  be  thy  good  friend, 
J>'ay,  and  Joan  thy  sweet  wife  shall  my  duchess  attend. 

Then  the  tinker  reply'd.  What!  nnist  Joan  my  sweet  bride 

Be  ft  lady  in  chariots  of  pleasure  to  ride  i 

ilust  we  have  gold  and  land  ev'ry  day  at  command  \ 

Then  I  shall  be  a  squire  I  well  understand : 

Well  1  thank  your  good  grace,  and  your  love  I  embrace, 

I  was  never  before  in  so  Iiappy  a  case. 


*  For  GocCa  sake,  a  pot  of  small  ale. 

Sly  is  represented  on  the  stage  as  not  having  recovered 
from  his  into.vication,  but  this  must  surely  be  an  error. 
When  he  wakes,  he  is  no  longer  tipsy,  but  only  sutTcring 
under  tho  effects  of  tho  debauch.  Small  ale  was  used  in 
the  place  of  tlie  modern  soda-water. 


»  Ask  Marian  Jlacktt,  the  fat  ale-wife  of  U'incot. 

Wineot  wns  the  usual  pronunciation  of  Wilmccote,  a 
village  near  Stratford-on-Avon,  tho  residerce  of  Shnkes- 
peare's  maternal  grandfather.    It  is  spelt  Ji'i/nmte  in  tho 
486 


will  of  William  Clapton,  May  9th,  1521.  There  is  a  very 
curious  allusion  to  this  scene  in  Sir  A.  Cockayn's  Poems, 
1659,  in  an  epigram  addressed  to  Clement  Fishei  of 
Wineot, — 

Shakspeare  your  Wincot-ale  hath  much  renown'd. 
That  tox'd  a  beggar  so  (by  chance  was  found 
Sleeping)  that  there  needed  not  many  a  word 
To  make  him  to  believe  he  was  a  loril : 
But  you  affirm  (and  in  it  seem  most  eager) 
'T  will  make  a  lord  as  drunk  as  any  beggar. 
Bid  Norton  brew  such  ale  as  Shakspeare  fancies 
Did  put  Kit  Sly  into  such  lordly  trances  : 
And  let  us  meet  there  (for  a  fit  of  gladness) 
And  drink  ourselves  merry  in  sober  sadness. 

The  notes  of  the  commentators  on  sTieer  ale,  are  nnusually 
absurd,  as  if  the  epithet  sheer  was  anything  more  than  an 
augmentative.  The  expression  occurs  in  one  of  Sir  W. 
Scott's  talcs,  and  some  wag,  endeavouring  to  prove  the 
Waverley  novels  were  originally  written  in  verse,  thus 
made  rhyme  of  the  passage  (I  quote  from  memory) — 

— ^Sheer  ale  supports  him  under  every  thing : 
It  is  his  meat,  food,  drink,  clothing  auci  washing. 

Bentra-ught,  mad,  distracted. 


'*•  And  no  seaVd  quarts. 

Tho  following  is  one  of  the  articles  of  the  Wardmot*! 
Inquests,  printed  in  Calthrop's  Keports,  1670: — "AnJ 
also  that  ye  see  all  tiplers  and  other  cellars  of  ale  or  beer, 
as  well  as  of  privy  osteries,  as  brewers  and  inholders  with- 
in your  ward,  not  selling  by  lawful  measures  sealed  and 
marked  with  the  city  arms  or  dagger,  be  presented,  and 
their  names  in  your  said  indentures  be  expressed  with  de- 
faults, so  that  the  chamberlain  m.iy  be  lawfully  answered 
of  their  amerciaments." 


^'^  Is  not  a  C07iimonty  a  Christmas  gambol. 

Commonly  is  Sly's  error  for  comedy.  In  the  old  play, 
observes  Blackstone,  the  players  themselves  nse  the  word 
commodity  corruptly  for  a  comedy. 


'2  lam  arrived  for  fruitful  Lomiardy. 

For,  from.     So  in  Pasquil's  Night  Cap,  1612, — 

To  put  her  quite  away^or  this  her  claime. 

In  law  and  conscience  you  can  have  no  reason. 

^3  Balk  logic  with  acquaintance  tluit  you  have. 

Balk,  argue.  Boswell  has  pointed  out  the  following  verj 
apposite  passage  from  Spenser, — 

But  to  occasion  him  to  further  talk. 

To  feed  her  humour  with  his  pleasing  style, 

Her  list  in  stryfull  tcrmes  with  him  to  balke. 

"  To  cart  her  rather. 

Carting,  as  Mr.  Kelly  observes,  consisted  in  tho  offendorB 
(of  both  sexes)  subjected  to  it  being  drawn  through  the 
town  with  a  horse  and  cart,  attended  by  n  man  ringing  o 
bell,  and  frequently,  if  not  invariably,  having  a  paper 
placed  upon  their  heads,  setting  forth  tho  nature  of  theit 
offence  for  which  they  were  jiunished.  The  following 
entries  from  tho  original  borough  accounts  of  Leicestoi 
illustrate  this  practice ; — 


NOTES  TO  THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


1598.  Item  pel.  to  WliiUell  for  his  liorso  and 
carte,  and  one  tliat  led  the  horse  aud  cart  abowte 
tlio  town,  to  cart  Maryo  Smjthe,  and  one  John 
Wylkynson,  Glover,        xiiiZ. 

!*em  pd.  to  George  Loiigley  for  paynctingo  of 
1.1.  papers  sett  on  Marye  Smitho's  head  and 
Wylkynson's  (and  other  work) iij». 

1613.  Item  paid  for  a  horsso  and  carte,  thro-3 
holberde  men,  and  one  other  man  to  ring  the 
hull,  when  John  Camden  and  [a  woman]  and 
allso  Kobert  Webster  were  by  order  of  the  ses- 
sions carted  aboat  the  town, iijs.  y'id. 

1614.  Item  paid  to  the  Eurneman  for  his  horse 
and  cart  to  cart  a  knave  and  a  queyne,  wch. 

came  from  Coventrie, xijd. 

Stale,  a  common  object  for  affection.    The  term  is  not 

here  used  in  its  grossest  sense. 

'=  A  pretty  peat ! 

Equivalent  to,  a  pretty  pet  or  darling  I 

Another  groweth  earelesse  of  his  health. 
Neglects  his  credit,  aud  consumes  his  wealth ; 
Hath  found  a. pretti/ 2>eat,  procur'd  her  favour, 
Aud  sweares  tliat  ho,  in  spight  of  all,  will  h.ave  her. 

Withcr's  Aliuses  Slript  aixd  Whipt,  1622. 

Gifts,  qualities,  endowments. 


"  IwiU  with  him  ioher  father. 

M'ish,  recommend.     "He  says  he  was  wished  to  a  very 
wealthy  widow,"  Match  at  Midnight. 


"  Happy  man  he  his  dele. 

See  note  148  to  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 
Longly,  longingly, 

"  Masta;  content  thee. 

JSasta,  enough.  (Ital.)  This  expression  is  of  constant 
occurrence  in  our  old  plays.     Port,  show,  appcarauce. 

'^  Knock  me  here  soundly. 

The  objective  pronoun  was  frequently  used  after  the 
verb  redundantly.  Grumio  does  not  understand  the  idiom. 
"  Touch  me  his  iiat,  it  was  given  him  by  Henry  the  Second 
of  Fraunee,  when  bee  kist  the  Keintgraves  wife  at  his  going 
into  Almaiue." — Lodge's  Wits  Misery,  1596,  p.  4. 

'"  Two  and  thirty,  a  pip  out. 

The  allusion  is  to  tlie  game  of  one  and  thirty.  "  'T  is 
more  honourable  to  be  a  pip  out,  than  stand  at  a  single 
game,"  Shirley's  Love's  Cruelty,  act  i.  sc.  2. 


2-  In  a  few. 

That  is,  in  a  few  words,  in  short, 
prossion  in  the  Tempest,  i.  2. 


We  have  had  the  ex- 


»  He  she  as  foul  as  was  Flcrentius'  love. 

"The  allusion,"  as  Steevens  observes,  "is  to  n  story 
told  by  Gower  in  the  first  Book  De  Confessionc  Amantis. 
Floreut  is  the  name  of  a  knight  who  had  bound  himself  to 


marry  a  deformed  hag,  provided  she  taught  him  the  solu- 
tion of  a  riddle  on  which  his  life  depended."  The  follow- 
ing is  tho  description  of  her:— 

riorent  his  wofull  heed  up-Iifte, 
And  saw  this  vccke,  where  that  she  sit, 
Wliich  was  tho  lothest  wighte 
That  evct*  man  caste  on  his  eye : 
Ilir  nose  baas,  hir  browes  hie", 
llir  eyes  small,  and  depe  sotte, 
Her  clickfs  ben  with  teres  wette, 
And  rivclyn  as  an  empty  skyii, 
Hangyng  downe  unto  the  chyn; 
Ilerlippes  shronken  ben  for  ago, 
There  was  no  grace  in  liir  visage. 
Hir  Iront  was  narrowe,  hir  lockes  horo. 
She  lokc'.h  foortli  as  doth  a  More : 
Hir  necke  is  shorte,  hir  ehulders  courbe. 
That  might  a  mans  luste  distourbe  : 
Hir  bodie  great,  and  no  thyng  small, 
And  sliortly  to  descrivo  hir  all. 
She  h;ith  no  lith  without  a  lacke, 
But  like  unto  the  woU  sacke :  &c. — 
Though  she  be  thufouleste  of  all,  &o. 

An  aglet-lahy,  according  to  Malone,  was  a  small  image 
or  head  cut  on  the  t.ig  of  a  point  or  lace. 


-'  He  HI  rail  in  his  rope-tricts. 

Hope-tricl-s,  roguish  tricks.  liopery  for  roguery,  that 
which  deserves  a  rope  or  halter,  Beaumont  and  Fletclier's 
Chances,  act  iii.  sc.  1.  The  term  may,  however,  in  this 
place,  be  merely  Grumio's  blunder  for  rlntorichs.  A  curious 
parallel  passage  occurs  in  R.  B.  's  translation  of  Terence, 
4to.  1614,— "Did  not  I  tell  you  that  you  should  findo  in 
this  man  the  most  pure  eloquence  that  is,  such  as  is  usde 
in  Athens,  that  hee  can  roll  in  his  r/ietoiique." 

So  young  men  forsake 

The  rope-ripe  tricks  tluit  their  first  age  did  take 
C'liiefe  pleasure  in ;  not  c.-iuse  tliey  wicked  deem  them, 
But  being  men,  they  thinke  'twill  not  beseem  them. 

Wither''a  Abuses  Stript  arid  Whipt,  1622. 

Stand,  withstand,  resist. 


='  We 


'  seen  m  Tnusic. 


Seen,  skilled.  "  A  Travailer  used  to  tell  monstrous  Kes 
of  his  journeye,  and  of  the  places  and  things  he  had  see'ne. 
And  being  one  day  in  conversation  with  many  Gent,  and 
bosting  th.at  he  had  scene  these  and  tliese  places:  one  of 
them  said  unto  him.  Belike  you  are  scene  in  Cosmography : 
No  (he  answered)  I  never  was  in  that  city  yet,  but  indeed 
I  remember  I  once  travailed  in  sight  of  it,  leaving  it  some- 
wli.it  on  the  left  hand,  but  such  was  my  hast,  that  I  over- 
past it,  as  I  have  done  many  a  faire  citie  more  in  my  dales," 
— Copley's  Wits,  Fits,  and  Fancies,  1614. 

"  See  that  at  any  hand. 

At  any  hand,  at  any  rate.  "Thou  must  noe  secrets 
blabbe  at  any  hande,"  Newe  Metamorphosis,  1600.  Tha 
expression  again  occurs  in  the  same  scene. 

'«  0  this  woodcock!  what  an  ass  it  is.' 

Wocdcocl,  a  silly  fellow,  a  fool. 

And  is  not  tliis  a  very  purgatory. 

To  se  iblks  ete  and  may  not  ete'a  byt? 

By  kokkis  soule,  I  am  a  very  wo<hok. 

J/eywood's  Mery  p'ay  <f  Johan  Jokan,  1S33. 
48- 


NOTES  TO  THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


""  Fear  loijs  with  lugs. 

Fear,  frighten.  Bugs,  bugbears,  gcblins.  "  My  lord, 
there  be  shrewd  bugs  iu  the  borders  for  the  Earle  of  Kil- 
dare  to  fcare,"  Holinshcd,  Chrou.  Ireland,  p.  85. 


2"  We  may  contrive  this  afttrnoon,. 

Contrive,  spend.    So  in  Damon  and  Pithias, — 

In  travelyng  countreyes,  we  three  have  contrived 
Full  many  a  yeare. 

■'  Thou  hilding  of  a  devilish  spirit. 

EiUing,  wretch,  a  term  of  reproach. 

Yet  all  the  while  he  lives  but  like  a  hilding  ; 
llis  hair  grows  gray  with  long  vexatious  toyling. 

Coigrave's  Wits  Interpreter,  1671,  p.  285. 

30  To  dance  barefoot,  an  old  proverbial  phrase  for  being 
an  old  maid.  An  instance  of  it  occurs  in  Rochester's 
Poems,  ed.  1739,  ii.  1S5,  in  a  poem  not  capable  of  being 
quoted.  Old  maids  were  said  to  have  the  task  of  leading 
epes  iu  a  future  state. 

But  Kate  ha<l  vow'd  that  sickuesse  to  prevent, 
And  not  to  lead  old  grinning  apes  in  hell. 

Fasquirs  A'ight-Cap,  1612. 

•'  Baccare  ! 

An  old  proverbial  term,  equivalent  to,  go  back,  retire. 
*'  Ah,  sir,  backare,  quoth  Mortimer  to  his  sowe,"  Kalph 
Bolster  Bolster,  ed.  Cooper,  p.  8. 

32  Ajid  every  day  I  cannot  coine  to  woo. 

This  is  the  burden  of  several  old  ballads.  So  in  Eavens- 
csrcft's  Melismata,  1611, — 

I  have  house  and  land  in  Kent, 
And  if  you  'II  love  me,  love  me  now; 

Two-pence  half-penny  is  my  rent, 
I  cannot  come  every  day  to  woo ; 

which  may  be  the  original  of  a  well-known  Scottish  song, — 

I  hae  laid  a  herring  in  saut; 

I-ass,  gin  ye  lo'e  me,  tell  me  now  1 
I  hae  brew'd  a  forpet  o'  maut. 

An'  I  canna  come  ilka  day  to  woo ! 


53  iShe  mistooh  her  frets. 

"A  fret,"  says  Dr.  Johnson,  "is  that  stop  of  a  musical 
instrument  which  causes  or  regulates  the  vibration  of  the 
string." 

My  brother  Fiddle  is  so  hollow-hearted, 
Tliat  ore  't  be  long,  we  must  needs  bo  parted; 
And  with  so  many  frets  he  dotli  abound. 
That  I  can  never  touch  him  but  he  'I  sound. 

Wits  Recreations,  lOiO. 

3<  For  dainties  all  are  cates. 

Cales,  provisions.  "  The  hermet  expected  some  delicate 
checro,  ho  onely  was  fed  with  bread,  which  was  served  up 
in  a  stately  manner  by  divers  gentlemen  that  did  attend 
him :  likewise  when  ho  called  for  drink,  they  gave  him 
"wholesome  water  to  coole  hi.s  bote  desires:  no  other  cates 
got  hoc,  yet  was  it  no  worse  then  the  queeut  herselfo  ate 
ef  " — Westward  for  SineUt,  1020. 
48S 


«  S!could  be  ?  S/tould  bm .' 

Buz  was  a  term  of  the  greatest  contempt.  It  occurs  in 
Ben  Jonson's  Silent  Woman,  and  in  many  old  ]>Ia\s 
Selden  mentions  it  as  a  sort  of  eabalistical  word.  B\iz:  n"i 
was  a  contemptuous  appellation. 

If  his  wickednesse  thrives  well,  hee  proves  a  terrible  ,■^■»^•c 
in  a  lion's  skin ;  but  whilst  he  out-dares  any  man,  and  t.ir- 
gets  liimselfe  to  be  a  buzzard,  his  confidence  deceives  hini 
— Stephens^  Essayes,  1615. 

3«  Yours,  if  you  talk  of  tales. 

Modern  editors  read,  tails,  which  renders  the  quibbling 
unnecessarily  obscene. 

3'  Keep  you  warm. 

That  is,  take  care  of  yourself.  This  proverbial  phrase 
is  not  uncommon.  So,  in  the  Wise  Woman  of  Ilogsden,— 
"  You  are  the  wise  woman,  are  you  ?  you  have  wit  to  keep 
yourself  warm  enough,  I  warrant  you." 


38  She  will  prove  a  second  G-rissel. 

The  story  of  Patient  Grissel,  how  a  noble  lord  married  » 
maiden  of  low  degree,  and  tried  her  patience  in  an  uiiprc- 
oedented  manner,  has  been  related  in  prose  and  verae,  in 
many  languages. 

3»  She  vi^  so  fast. 

Vied,  hazarded.  Metaphorically  from  vie,  to  stake  a  ^  iin 
upon  a  hand  at  cards. 

Then  will  they  vaunt  and  graunt,  and  for  aflinitie 
At  cardes  they  will  vye  and  revye  each  their  virginitic. 
Grange's  Garden,  4to.  l.'.T' 

«°  'Tisa  world  to  sec. 

That  is,  't  is  wonderful  to  see.  So  Kemp  says,  in  his 
Nine  Dales  Wonder,  ICOO, — 

O  't  is  a  world  the  world  to  see ! 

But 't  will  not  mend  for  thee  nor  mee. 

Meacoci,  a  coward  or  timid  wretch. 


<'  We  will  be  married  o'  Sunday. 

An  old  ballad  with  this  burden  has  recently  been  dis- 
covered, and  it  is  not  unlikely  Petrucio  may  intend  a 
quotation.  Under  this  impression,  I  give  a  copy  of  it,  and 
it  seems,  indeed,  worth  preservation  for  its  own  sake. 

As  I  walk'd  forth  one  May  morning, 
I  heard  a  fair  maid  sweetly  sing, 
As  sho  sat  under  her  cow  milking. 

We  will  be  married  o'  Sunday. 

I  said.  Pretty  maiden,  sing  not  so. 
For  you  nnist  tarry  seven  years  or  mo. 
And  then  to  church  you  may  chance  to  go 
All  to  bo  married  o'  Sunday. 

Kind  sir,  quoth  she,  you  have  uo  skill ; 
I  've  tarried  two  year.s  against  my  will. 
And  1  've  made  a  promise,  will  1,  or  nill. 

That  I  '11  be  married  o'  Sunday. 

Next  Saturday  night 't  will  be  my  caro 

To  trim  and  curl  my  maiden  hair. 

And  all  the  people  shall  say,  Look  there  I 

When  1  come  to  bo  mariiej  V  Sunday 


NOTES  TO  THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SLIREVV. 


Then  to  tlio  cluirch  I  sliiiU  bo  led 

Bv  sister  Nun  and  brotlicr  Ned, 

Vl'ith  iigurlund  of  flowers  upon  my  head, 

I'or  1  'm  to  bo  married  o'  Sunday. 

Then  on  my  finger  I  '11  have  a  rinfr. 
Not  one  of  rush,  but  a  golden  thing ; 
And  I  shall  bo  glad  as  a  bird  in  spring, 

Because  I  am  married  o'  Sunday. 

And  li  the  church  I  must  kneel  down 
Before  tho  parson  of  our  good  town; 
But  I  ^iU  not  soil  my  kirtlu  and  gown, 

When  1  am  married  o'  Sunday. 

Then  the  bells  shall  ring  so  merry  and  loud. 
And  Kobin  shall  go  before  with  his  crowd. 
But  no  one  shall  say  I  was  silly  or  proud. 

Though  I  was  nuirried  o'  Sunday 

"When  I  como  home  we  shall  go  to  meat : 
I  will  sit  by  my  husband  so  line  and  feat, 
Though  it  is  but  a  little  that  I  shall  eat 

After  I  've  been  married  o'  Sunday. 

Then  we  shall  laugh,  and  dance,  and  sing, 
And  the  men  shall  not  kiss  mo  in  the  ring, 
But  wish  't  was  their  chance  at  this  merry-making, 
■  To  have  been  married  o'  Sunday. 

At  night  betimes  we  shall  go  to  bed, 
I  with  my  husband  that  hath  me  wed  ; 
And  then  thei'c  is  uo  more  to  be  said 

But  that  I  was  married  o'  Sunday. 


"  Counterpoints. 

That  is,  counterpanes.  They  were  often  very  costly, 
and  Stowe  mentions  one  worth  a  thousand  marks. 

<3  J^esldes  two  galllasscs. 

Gallias,  a  large  kind  of  galley.  Malone  explains  it,  "a 
heavy  low  built  vessel  of  burthen,  with  both  sails  and  oars, 
partaking  at  once  of  the  nature  of  a  ship  and  a  galley." 

<*  Yet  I  have  faced  it  with  a  card  of  ten. 

Warburton's  explanation  of  this  phrase  is  altogether 
erroneous.  Malone  says  it  was  "  applied  to  those  persons 
who  gained  their  ends  by  impudence,  and  bold  confident 
assertion."    Its  origin  has  not  been  satisfactorily  explained. 

■"  I  will  not  hear  these  braves  of  thine. 

"  If  not,  't  is  not  your  iraves  nor  your  affecting  lookes 
can  ciurie  it,"  Chapman's  Widdowes  Teares,  1612.  "His 
looks  are  full  of  darings ;  his  voyce  thunders  out  Iraves," 
Decker's  Strange  Horse-Kace,  1613. 


"  lam  no  Tirceching  scholar. 

That  is,  scholar  liable  to  be  breeclied  or  flogged.    So  in 
Marlowe's  Edward  II. 

I  view  the  prince  with  Aristarchus'  eyes, 
Whose  looks  -were  as  a  breeching  to  a  boy. 

"  Avoir  ta  salle,  to  be  whipt  in  pulilicke,  as  breeching 
boyes  are  aometimes  in  tlie  lialls  of  collcdges."    Cotgrave. 


*'  Conster  them. 

OonsicTy  construe.    Modern  editors  sometimes  retain. 
Piid  Boraotimos  modernize,  tliis  archaism. 
62 


*"  I  am  not  so  nice. 

Tho  word  nife  appesirs  in  this,  and  in  a  few  other  in- 
stances, to  bo  synonymous  viitbfastidious. 


<"  To  cast  thy  wandering  eyes  on  every  stale. 

Stale  appears  to  be  employed  in  this  place  as  a  generic 
term  of  contempt.  Its  usual  application  was  to  a  woman 
of  bad  character. 


'"  Unto  a  mad-lrainrudesby,  fall  of  spleen. 

Jiudesly,  a  rude  rough  fellow.  Several  compounds  of 
this  kind  occur  in  contemporary  works.  SpUen,  humour, 
caprice. 

"  Would  vex  a  very  saint. 

Very  is  omitted  by  Stoevena  as  redundant,  and  also  by 
Mr.  Knight.    It  is  properly  restored  by  Mr.  Collier. 

"  Inficted  icith  the  fashions. 

Fashions,  a  provincialism  for  t\i<s  farcy.  "  On  S.  Stevct;s 
Day,  it  is  the  custome  all  horses  to  be  let  blond  and 
drench'd :  A  gentleman  being  (that  morning)  demaunded 
whether  it  pleased  him  to  have  his  horse  let  blond  and 
drencht  according  to  the  fiishion  ?  He  answer'd, — No, 
Sirra,  my  horse  is  not  diseas'd  of  i\w  fashions.'''' — Cojdefs 
Wits,  Fits,  and  Fancies,  1614,  p.  22. 

The  fves,  says  Markham,  Mai.«ter-Peece,  lG-13,  p.  2?o. 
"  are  certaine  great  kirnels  wliich  grow  from  the  roote  of 
the  horses  eare,  down  to  the  lower  part  of  his  neathcr  jaw  " 
Velnre,  velvet.     Stock,  stocking. 

*3  The  humour  of  forty  fancies. 

"  The  Humour  of  Forty  Fancies,"  says  Steevens,  "  was 
probably  a  collection  of  those  short  poems  which  are  calK-d 
Fancies,  by  Falstaff,  in  the  Second  Part  of  Kin//  ITenry  I\'. : 
"  —  sung  those  tunes  which  he  heard  the  carmen  whistle, 
and  swore  they  were  his  Fancies,  his  good-nights."  Nor 
is  the  JIumour  of  Forty  Fancies  a  more  extraordinary  title 
to  a  collection  of  poems,  than  tlie  well-known  Hundred 
suudrie  Flowers  bounde  up  in  one  small  Poesie. — .\  Para.- 
dise  of  Dainty  Devises. — The  Arbor  of  Amorous  Conceits. 
— The  Gorgeous  Gallery  of  Gallant  Inventions. — The  Forest 
of  Histories. — The  Ordinary  of  Humors,  &c.  Chance,  at 
some  future  period,  may  establish  as  a  certainty  what  is 
now  ofl'ered  as  a  conjecture.  A  penny  book,  containing 
forty  short  poems,  would,  properly  managed,  furnish  no 
unapt  imitation  of  "  a  plume  of  feathers  for  the  hat  of  a 
humourist's  servant." 

•*  I  hold  you  a  penny. 

I  follow  Mr.  Collier's  method  in  printing  these  lines. 
Mr.  Knight,  however,  doubts  the  propriety  of  this  arrange- 
ment ;  but  I  think  the  jingle  "was  intentional,  although  tho 
words  are  not  necessarily  derived  from  *'  an  old  tnllad." 
Jiol-d  is  equivalent  to,  bet.  So  in  tho  Disobedient  Child 
written  about  1560, — 

Nay,  by  the  masse,  I  hohle  ye  a  grote 
Those  cruell  tyrauntes  cut  not  my  throte. 

"  Arid  threw  the  sops  all  in  the  sexton's  face. 

It  was  formerly  the  custom  to  drink  wine  in  tho  churcb 
fiftcr  the  marriage  ceremony  was  completed,     i'he  Samin 

489 


NOTES  TO  THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHKEW. 


MiBsal  directs  that  the  wine,  and  the  Bops  immersed  in  it, 
should  be  blessed  by  the  priest ;  the  sops  being  pieces  of 
oake  or  wafers.  The  custom  is  thus  alluded  to  iu  an  old 
poem, — 

AVhat  priest  can  join  two  lovers  hands, 
But  wine  must  seal  tlie  marriage  bauds. 

Wiscadet  was  a  ricli  sweet-smelling  wine.  It  was  also 
te/tned  muscadine.  "  Besides,  the  drink  was  as  different, 
the  one  being  beer  or  mcand,  the  others,  alligant,  sacke, 
and  mubkadell,"  Sir  T.  Smith's  Voiage  in  Jiiissia,  1605. 
"  Soppes  and  muscadine"  are  mentioned  together  in  Deck- 
er's Wonderful!  Yeare,  1603. 


60  You  JcnotD  fh^re  want  nojunhets  at  tne feast. 

Junlets,  sweetmeats,  dainties. 

Here  thou  may'st  finde  some  good  and  solid  fare; 
It' thou  lov'bt  pl(:iisanX,  junkets,  here  tliey  are. 

M'its  Eecrt:ation$,  1640. 


"  Was  ever  man  so  rayed. 

Bayed,  bewrayed,  made  dirty.  "  FouUy  rav'd  with  filthy 
soil,"  Spenser. 

68  Aicay,  you  three-incli  fool ! 

Alluding,  of  course,  to  Grumio's  diminutive  height. 
Warburton  oddly  explains  it,  "witli  a  skull  three  inches 
tlick,  a  phrase  tKken  from  the  thicker  sort  of  planks." 


6«  .hA  loy!  ho  hoy!  are  the  first  words  of  an  old  round, 
printed  in  Eavenscroft'a  Pammelia.  A  MS.  copy  of  it 
occurs  in  MS.  Addit.  5337,  in  the  British  Museum. 


"0  The  house  trimmtd,  rushes  strewed. 

Our  ancestors  were  net  very  cleanly  in  their  habits,  and 
fresh  rushes  concealed  many  impurities.  ''  Their  honours 
are  upon  comming,  and  the  roome  not  readie :  rushes  and 
geates  instantly,"  Chapman's  WiddowesTeares,  1612.  One 
of  the  ancient  regulations  for  the  royal  household  pro- 
vides,— "  Firste,  to  bee  there  att  a  convenyente  bower  in 
the  morninge,  to  see  thee  groomes  strowe  the  chambers 
that  arc  to  be  strowed,  sweep  those  that  are  matted,  to 
make  ifyers  in  all  those  chambers  wliere  tlie  K.  ilatye 
repeyrethe,  and  the  chambers  to  bee  dressed  upp  in  all 
other  things,  and  made  as  sweete  as  may  bee ;  viz.  palliats 
to  be  avoyeded,  the  clothe  of  estate  and  chayres  to  be  sett 
in  order,  the  windowes  and  the  cupboards  to  be  furnished 
with  coshcns." 

Carpets,  i.  e.,  table-covers,  which  were  often  ornamental 
pieces  of  tapestry.  Carpets  were  not  formerly  used  fur 
covering  floors,  except  on  state  occasions. 


"  £e  tlte  jacks  fair  within,  the  jills  fair  without. 

According  to  Stoevcna,  Grumio  quibbles  on  the  mean- 
ings 0^  jacks  and  jUU,  which,  he  says,  signified  drinking 
measures  as  well  aa  the  names  of  servants.  "  The  dis- 
tinction," ho  Buys,  "  made  in  the  questions  concerning 
them,  wa.s  owing  to  this :  T!ic  Jacks  being  of  leather,  could 
not  he  made  to  appear  beautiful  on  the  outside,  but  were 
Fory  apt  to  conlract  foulness  within;  whereas  the  Jills, 


being  of  metal,  were  expected  to  be  kept  bright  externally, 
and  were  not  liable  to  dirt  on  the  inside,  like  tlie  leather.'' 
Jiemoiled,  bedraggled,  bemired. 

»2  Garters  of  an  indifferent  knit. 
That  is,  of  only  a  tolerable  quality. 

«=  'Titers  was  no  link  to  colour  Peter's  hat. 

Steevens  quotes  the  following  very  apposite  passage 
from  Mihil  Mumchance,  an  old  tract  ascribed  to  Koberl 
Greene : — "  This  cozenage  is  used  likewise  in  selling  old 
hats  found  upon  dung-hills,  instead  of  newe,  blackt  over 
with  the  smoake  of  an  old  linke."  A  link  is  a  torch  oi 
pitch. 

6*  Where  is  the  life  that  late  lied. 

This  is  the  first  line  of  an  old  ballad,  which  described 
the  state  of  a  lover  newly  enchained  in  love's  bonds. 

Soud,  says  Malone,  is  "a  word  coined  by  our  poet  to  ex- 
pres^s  the  noise  made  by  a  person  heated  and  fiitigued." 

'6  Another  way  Ihave  to  man  my  liaggard. 

That  is,  to  tame  my  wild  hawk.  "He  that  professeth 
vertuous  love  to  a  woman,  and  gives  ground  when  hia 
vanitie  is  rejected,  shall  have  his  belles  cut  off,  and  fly  for 
a  haggard." — Uceriury's  New  and  Choise  Cfuzractera. 

Bate,  flutter.     A  hawking  term. 

»«  Eoiv  to  tame  a  throw. 
Shrow,  for  the  sake  of  the  rhyme.    See  Note  88. 

"  And  makes  a  god  of  such  a  cuUlon. 

Cullicn,  a  stupid  or  despicable  fellow.  "  Alexander  waa 
an  asse  to  spenke  so  well  of  a  filthy  cullion,"  Marston's 
Malcontent,  1604. 

"  An  ancient  angel  coming  down  the  hill. 

The  use  of  the  term  angd  in  this  line  seems  best  illns- 
trated  by  Cotgrave, — ^^  Angelot  n  let  grosse  escaille,  an  old 
angell ;  and,  by  metaphor,  a  fellow  of  th'  old,  sound,  hon- 
est, and  worthie  stampc."  Before  I  met  with  this  passage, 
I  was  inclined  to  accept  Gifford's  suggestion,  enghk.  [Since 
writing  the  above,  I  find  I  have  been  anticipated  by  Mr 
Singer,  wlio  quoted  the  passage  from  Cotgrave  in  his  edi- 
tion of  Shakespeare  published  in  1826.  It  is  very  difficult 
to  be  certain  of  originality  in  such  matters,  but  it  appears 
strange  that  recent  editors  should  not  liave  availed  tliom- 
sclves  of  Mr.  Singer's  discovery.] 

""  Take  in  your  love. 

Tlie  first  folio  reads,  "  Par.  Take  me  your  love,"  as  if 
we  were  to  read,  "  Partake  mo  your  love."  Tliis  is  not 
noticed  by  former  editors,  but  the  reading  is  possible,  mt 
being  the  redundant  olijective  pronoun.  I  prefer,  how- 
ever, Tlieobald's  emendation. 

'»  To  pass  assurance  of  a  dower 
To  pass  assurance,  sn\s  Malone,  means  to  mftke  a  con- 


NOTES  TO  THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


vcynncG  or  deed.     An  assurance  was  a  deed.     "  And  pass 
my  daughter  a  »utBcicnt  dower,"  act  iv.  bc.  4. 


"  IVIiat,  swectiny,  all  amort  f 

AH  amort,  quite  dispirited.     Tlie  old  ballad  of  ' 
Uobiu's  Dream"  commences  aa  foUowy: — 


Toor 


llow  now,  {rood  fellow^  what,  all  amort  ' 

I  pray  tell  mo  what  is  the  news  ? 
Traciin;:;  is  dead  and  I  'ni  sorry  for  't, 

Which  makea  mo  look  worse  than  I  use  ; 
If  a  man  hath  no  employment  where  by  to  get  a 

penny, 
lie  hath  no  enjoyment  if  he  wanteth  money, 
And  charity  ia  not  used  by  any. 


'^  And  all  my  faint  are  sorted  to  no  pronf. 

Tho  old  copies  read,  is  sorted,  but  the  grammatical  phra- 
seology of  Shukespearo  is  not  generally  .idhered  to  in  tho 
cases  of  plural  and  singular.  Douce  explains  this,  "all  my 
liibonr  is  adapted  to  no  approof,"  or,  *'  I  have  taken  all 
this  pains  without  approbation." 

T3  ^Tis  a  cocJ:U,  or  a  walnut  shell. 

Sm.all  velvet  caps  were  in  fashion  amongst  the  city  ladies 
about  tho  year  1600.  Ben  Jonson  alludes  to  them  in  Keery 
Man  in  his  Humour, — 

-Our  great  heads 


"Within  this  city  never  were  in  safety, 
Since  our  wives  wore  these  little  caps. 


'*  A  custard^co£in. 

Tlie  \  repared  crust  of  a  pio  or  custard  was  called  a  coffin. 
"Than  take  thin  cofyns,  and  put  in  tho  ovynue  lerc,  and 
iat  hem  ben  hardyd,"  MS.  Harl.  279. 


'^  Lilu  to  a  censer  in  a  Ijarler's  shop. 

A  censer  was  a  perfuming-pan.  Steevens  says, — "  I 
learn  from  an  ancient  print,  that  these  censers  resembled 
in  shape  our  modern  brasieres.  They  had  pierced  convex 
covers,  and  stood  on  feet.  They  not  only  served  to  sweeten 
a  barber's  shop,  but  to  keep  his  water  warm,  and  dry  his 
clothes  on." 


'"  Be-Tnete,  he-measure.  Braved,  made  brave  or  fine. 
Finery  was  called  bravery. 

'7  With  a  small  cnmpassed  cape. 

That  is,  a  round  capo.  In  another  place,  a  bow  wnnaow 
is  called  a  compassed  window.  A  trunk  sleeve  was  one 
made  very  full  and  large.     Mete-yard,  measuring  yard. 

's  Fur  curious  I  cannot  be  with  you. 

C'-irious,  scrupulous,  ceremonious.  "  Lady,  our  fashion 
ia  not  curious,"  Antonio  and  Mellida. 

"  And,  happily,  we  might  be  inien-upted. 

Happily,  for  haply,  by  chance,  is  not  unasual  in  old  works. 
The  commentators  are  a  littlo  confused  on  this  poiut. 


•°  Tell  me,  sweet  Kate. 

The  corresponding  passage  in  the  old  Taming  of  a  fihrea 
offers  a  favourable  example  of  the  original  play  on  which 
Shakespeare's  was  founded. 

Pulce.    Thus  al  alone  from  ("estus  am  I  come, 
And  left  my  princely  court  and  noble  traine, 
To  come  to  Athens,  and  in  tliis  disguise, 
To  see  what  course  rny  son  Aurelius  takes. 
But  stay,  hercs  some  it  may  be  travels  thither; 
Good  sir,  can  you  direct  me  the  way  to  Atliens. 

[Ferando  speaks  to  the  old  man. 
Faire  lovely  maido,  yong  and  affable, 
More  cleere  of  licw  and  far  more  beautiful! 
Tlien  protious  Sardonix  or  purple  rockes 
Of  Amitliests,  or  glistering  lliasinth. 
More  amiable  far  then  is  the  plain. 
Where  glistering  Cepherus  in  silver  boures, 
Gascth  upon  the  Giant  Andromede; 
Sweet  Kate,  enterUiinc  tliis  lovely  woman. 

JJuh.  I  thinke  the  man  is  maa ;  he  cals  me  a  woman 

Kate.  Faire  lovely  lady,  bright  and  Christaline, 
Bowtcous  and  stately  as  the  eic-train'd  bird, 
As  glorious  as  the  morning  washt  with  dew, 
"Witiiin  whose  eies  she  takes  her  dawning  beames, 
And  golden  somnicr  sleepcs  upon  thy  cheekes, 
Wrapt  up  thy  radiations  in  some  cloud,  . 
Lest  that  tliv  bewty  make  this  stately  towne 
Inhabitable  like  the  burning  Zone, 
Witli  sweet  reflections  of  thy  lovely  face. 

I'uie.  What,  is  she  mad  too?  or  Is  my  shape  transformd, 
That  both  of  them  persuade  me  I  am  a  woman  ; 
But  they  are  mad  sure,  and  therefore  ile  be  gone, 
And  leave  their  companies  for  feare  of  harme, 
And  unto  Atliens  haste  to  seek  my  son.  [Kcit  Dukk 

FeranuO.  Why  so,  Kate,  this  was  friendly  done  of  tnoe. 
And  kindly  too :  why  thus  must  we  two  live, 
One  minde,  one  heart,  and  one  content  for  both ; 
This  good  old  man  dos  thinke  that  we  are  mad, 
And  glad  is  he  I  am  sure,  that  he  is  gone ; 
But  come,  sweet  Kute,  for  we  will  after  him, 
And  now  persuade  him  tn  his  shape  againe.      [  Kic.  mnwH. 


salous.  i.  e..  Suspicioua. 


'2  Come  hither,  crack-hemp. 

Crack-hemp,  a  rascal.  This  cant  term  oecurs  cndT 
various  forms,  crack-halter,  crack-rope,  &c.  It  litorally 
means,  a  fellow  likely  to  be  hung.    So  Middlcton, — 

If  I  a  gipsie  be, 

A  crack-rope  1  am  for  tliee. 


"  And  a  copatain  hau 

This  was  a  high  conical  hat,  in  the  form  of  &  sugar  loaf 
Keunet  says  that,  in  his  time,  a  hat  witli  a  hig:.  .jrown  wafi 
called  a  copped-crovm  hat. 

Than  cam  the  skippyng  sort, 

In  daunce  disguised  shakyng  sbanlc^  ; 

Tlie  Saiii  praunsiiig  priests. 

With  mitred  crowues  and  coppid  tuncks. 

Virgil,  translated  by  Phaer,  4to.,  1578 


•*  Viliat  concerns  it  you, 

Mr.  Knight  follows  the  first  folio,  which  reads  cerns, 
which  may,  by  bare  possibility,  be  a  contracted  form  of 
concerns.  I  think  it,  however,  a  misprint,  and  it  is  cor- 
rected in  the  second  folio. 

491 


NOTES  TO  THE  TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. 


s»  HorUmio  feat  n  hia  widow. 

Fsar  was  used  in  two  senses,  to  dread,  and  to  frigliteu. 
Tlu>  widow  r.nderstauds  it  in  the  sense  not  intended  by 
petrucio. 

6s  I  thank  thee  for  that  gird. 

Gird,  a  jest  or  sarcasm.  So  Falstaff  says, — "  every  man 
tfts  ^gird  at  me." 

*'  ITiough  you  hit  the  white. 

Alluding  to  archery,  the  marli  having  been  generally 
white    "I  believe  that  neither  one  or  the  other  hit  the 
1»2 


whiti,  yet  I  believe  the  papist's  arrows  fall  the  nearest  to 

it  in  this  particular." — The  JSloudt/  Tenent  of  Pencivtvn^ 
1644. 

88  Thou  hast  tam^d  a  curst  shroiv. 

I  retain  the  old  reading,  skrow,  and  in  two  other  places, 
on  account  of  the  rhyme.  The  pronunciation  was  certainly 
intended  to  be  shroe. 

An  empty  vessel  gives  a  mighty  sound. 
When  least  or  nothing  can  therein  be  found. 
Many  can  tell  the  way  to  tame  a  ehro-w, 
But  thcj'  wliich  have  the  woman  doe  not  know. 

raagvU'e  Nighi.  Gap,  1612 


Ill's  imi  tjint  Cnk  iM 


'PUE  stoiy  of  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well  is  to  be  found  in  Boccaccio,  but  Shakespeare  derived  it  fi'om 
a  translation  in  Painter's  "Palace  of  Pleasure,"  156G,  where  it  is  thus  described — "Giletta,  a  phy- 
sician's doughter  of  Narbon,  healed  the  Frencho  kyng  of  a  fistula,  for  reward  wherof  she  demaunded  Bel- 
tramo,  counte  of  Eossiglione,  to  husbande.  The  counte,  beyng  maried  againste  his  will,  for  despite  fled 
to  Florence,  and  loved  another.  Giletta,  his  wife,  by  pollicie  founde  meanes  to  lye  with  her  husbande, 
in  place  of  his  lover,  and  was  begotten  with  child  of  two  soonnes :  whiche,  knowen  to  her  husbande,  he 
received  her  againe,  and  afterwardes  he  lived  in  gi-eate  honor  and  felicitie."  The  leading  features  of 
this  tale  have  been  adopted  by  Shakespeare,  with  scarcely  any  variations ;  but  the  comic  scenes  in 
the  play  are  original. 

All's  Well  that  Ends  Well  relates  the  conquest  of  a  passionate,  resistless  affection,  over  the  difficul- 
ties caused  by  a  great  disparity  of  station,  difficulties  which  were  greatly  augme^ated  by  the  family  pride 
of  the  person  beloved.  The  baneful  feeling  of  contempt  arising  from  this  source  is  confessed  by 
Bertram  to  have  been  the  reason  why  Helena's  love  was  not  returned  ;  and  his  subdued  nfiection  was 
converted  into  scorn  by  a  compelled  marriage.  His  pride  is  offended  by  compulsion,  and  he  becomes 
the  victim  of  caprice,  seeking  to  heal  his  wounded  self-esteem  by  change  of  scene  and  action.  There 
is  much  of  the  mixture  of  character  in  this  play.  To  use  the  words  of  the  poet  himself — "  The  web 
of  our  life  is  of  a  mingled  yam,  good  and  ill  together :  our  virtues  would  be  proud,  if  our  faults  whipp'd 
them  not ;  and  our  crimes  would  despair,  if  they  were  not  cherish'd  by  our  virtues."  Dr.  Johnson 
would  censure  Berti'am  as  of  imperfect  virtue  ;  but  his  character  is  not  imaginary — it  is  taken  from  life 
Excuses  can  be  adduced  for  his  errors,  and  even  those  are  doubtlessly  redeemed. 

We  learn  on  the  clearest  evidence  that  among  the  comedies  of  Shakespeare  exisiting  in  1508,  was 
a  companion  play  to  Loves  Labour 's  Lost,  called  Lovers  Labour 's  Won.  It  is  so  mentioned  in  tlie 
Palladis  Tamia  of  Francis  Meres,  published  in  London  in  that  year  ;  and,  as  Malone  observes,  speak- 
ing of  tlie  present  drama,  no  other  of  our  author's  plays  could  have  borne  the  title  of  Love's  Labour's 
Won  with  so  much  propriety.  Remembering  that  the  argument  is  restricted  to  the  comedies,  there 
really  appears  neither  doubt  nor  difficulty  in  deciding  on  the  identification.  Mr.  Knight  has  put  the 
argument  in  a  very  clear  and  forcible  manner.  What,  he  says,  would  naturally  be  the  counterpart  oi 
such  a  story  as  Love's  Labour 's  Lost  ?  "  One  of  passionate,  enduring,  all-pervading  love — of  a  love 
that  shrinks  from  no  difficulty,  resents  no  imkinjuess,  fears  no  disgrace,  but  perseveres,  under  the  most 
adverse  circumstances,  to  vindicate  its  own  claims  by  its  own  energy,  and  to  achieve  success  by  the 
strength  of  its  own  will.  This  is  the  Labour  of  Love  which  is  won."  The  story  of  All 's  Well  that 
Ends  Well  is,  therefore,  the  companion  tale  to  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  and  we  maybe  tolerably  sure  that 
Love's  Labour's  Won  was  iis  original  significant  title. 

493 


PERSONS    REPRESEI^TED 


Kino  of  France. 
AffMr^,  Act  I.  sc.  2.    Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3.    Act  V.  sc.  3. 

Dl'ke  of  Florence. 
Appears,  Act  III.  so.  1 ;  sc.  8. 

Bertram,  Count  of  Rousillon. 

Appears,  Act  I.  so.  1 ;  so.  2.    Act  II.  so.  1 ;  so.  3;  so.  5. 

Act  III.  sc.  3 ;  sc.  5 ;  so.  6.    Act  IV.  so.  2 ;  .sc.  3. 

Act  V.  so.  3. 

Lafeu,  an  old  Lord. 

Appears,  .\ct  I.  so.  1 ;  so.  2.    Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  so.  3 ;  so.  5. 
Act  IV.  60.  5.    Act  V.  60.  2;  so.  3. 

Parolles,  a  follower  q/"  Bertram. 

Appears,  Act  I.  so.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  so.  3;  sc.  4; 

sc.  5.     Act  HI.  sc.  5 ;  so.  6.    Act  IV.  sc.  1 ; 

so.  3.    Act  V.  sc.  2;  so.  3. 

Several  yoxing  French  Lords  that  serve  with  Ber- 
tram in  the  Floraitine  war. 

Appear,  Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3.    Act  III.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  6. 
Act  IV.  sc.  1;  so.  3. 

Steward,  servant  to  the  Countess  of  Rousillon. 
Appears,  Act  I.  so.  8.     Act  III.  so.  4. 

Clown,  in  the  service  of  the  Counl/ess  of  Rousillon. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  8.     Act  II.  sc.  2;  sc.  4.    Act  III.  sc.  2. 
Act  IV.  BC.  E.    Act  V.  80.  2. 
494 


An  Astringer,  or  Falooricr. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  8.  ' 

A  Page. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1. 

Countess  of  Rousillon,  mother  to  Bortr.im. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  so.  8.    Act  II.  so.  2.    Act  III.  so.  2 
so.  4.     Act  IV.  sc.  5.    Act  V.  sc.  3. 

Helena,  a  gentlewoman,  protected  bij  the  Countess. 

Appears,  Act  I.  so.  1 ;  so.  8.    Act  II.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3  ;  sc.  1 ; 

sc.  5.    Act  III.  sc.  2 ;  sc.  5 ;  sc.  7.    Act  IV.  sc.  4. 

Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3. 

An  old  Widow  of  Florence. 

Appears,  Act  III.  so.  5  ;  so.  7.     Act  IV.  so.  4. 
Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  30.  3. 

Diana,  daughter  to  the  Wiilow. 

Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  5.     Act  IV.  sc.  2  ;  sc.  4. 
Act  V.  so.  1 ;  so.  3. 

VI0LE.^rA,  neighbour  and  friend  to  the  Widow 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  5. 

Mariana,  neighbour  avid  friend  to  iiic  Widow. 
Appears,  Act  III.  so.  5. 

Lords  attending  on  the  King;    Ojjicas,  Soldia's^ 
dr.,  French  ar.d  Flarcnline. 

SCENE, — Is  FKy.scE  and  in  Ti..«ica>"t. 


ail's  m\\  tiint  ciife  mil 


ACT    I, 


BCENE  .. — Eousillou.    A  Room  in  the  Countess's 
Palace. 

Enter  Bertram,  the  Countess  of  Eousillon, 
Helena,  and  Lafetj,  in  mourning. 

Count.  In  dolivenng  my  sou  from  me,  I  bury  a 
second  husband. 

Ber.  And  I,  in  going,  madam,  weep  o'er  my 
father's  deatli  anew :  but  I  must  attend  his  majes- 
ty's command,  to  whom  I  am  now  in  ward,  ever- 
more in  subjection. 

Laf.  You  shall  find  of  the  king  a  husband, 
madam ; — you,  sir,  a  father.  He  that  so  generally 
is  at  all  times  good,  must  of  necessity  hold  his 
virtue  to  you  ;  whose  worthiness  would  stir  it  up 
where  it  wanted,  rather  than  lack  it  where  there 
IS  such  abundance. 

Count.  What  hope  is  there  of  his  majesty's 
amendment  ? 

Laf.  He  hath  abandon'd  his  physicians,  madam ; 
under  whose  practices  he  hath  persecuted  time 
with  hope,  and  finds  no  other  advantage  in  the 
process  but  only  the  losing  of  hope  by  time. 

Count.  This  young  gentlewoman  had  a  father, 
(0,  that  had!  how  sad  a  passage'  'tis!)  whose 
skill  was  almost  as  great  as  his  honesty ;  had  it 
stretch'd  so  far,  would  have  made  nature  immor- 
tal, and  death  should  have  play  for  lack  of  v.-ork. 
'Would,  for  the  king's  sake,  he  were  living!  I 
think  it  wouia  be  the  death  of  the  king's  disease. 


Laf.  How  call'd  you  the  man  you  sjK'ak  of, 
madam  ? 

Count.  He  was  famous,  sir,  in  his  profession, 
and  it  was  his  great  right  to  be  so :  Gerard  de 
Narbon. 

Laf.  He  was  excellent,  indeed,  madam ;  the 
king  very  lately  spoke  of  him  admiringly  and 
mourningly :  he  was  skilful  enough  to  have  liv'd 
still,  if  knowledge  could  be  set  up  against  mor- 
tality. 

Ber.  What  is  it,  my  good  lord,  me  king  lan- 
guishes of? 

Laf.  A  fistula,  my  lord. 

Ber.  I  heard  not  of  it  before. 

Laf.  I  would  it  were  not  notorious. — Was  this 
gentlewoman  the  daughter  of  Gerard  de  Narbon  \ 

Count.  His  sole  child,  my  lord  ;  and  bequeathed 
to  my  overlooking.  I  have  those  hopes  of  her 
good  that  her  education  promises :  her  dispositions 
she  inherits,  which  make  fair  gifts  fiiirer ;  for 
where  an  unclean  mind'  carries  virtuous  qualities, 
there  commendations  go  with  pity, — they  are 
\'irtues  and  traitors  too :  in  her  they  are  the  better 
for  their  simpleness ;  she  derives  her  honesty,  and 
achieves  her  goodness. 

Laf.  Your  commendations,  madam,  get  from 
her  teais. 

Count.  'T  is  the  best  brine  a  maiden  can  season 
her  praise  in.  The  remembrance  of  her  father 
never  approaches  her  heart  but  the  tyranny  of  hei 

495 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


SCENE    I. 


sorrows  takes  all  livelihood  fi-om  her  clieek.  No 
more  of  this,  Helena — go  to,  no  more ;  lest  it  be 
rather  thought  you  affect  a  sorrow,  than  to  have. 

Hel.  I  do  aflect  a  sorrow,  indeed,  but  I  have 
it  too. 

Laf.  Moderate  lamentation  is  the  right  of  the 
dead ;  excessive  giief  the  enemy  to  the  living. 

Sel.  If  the  living  bo  enemy  to  the  grief,  the 
excess  makes  it  soon  mortal. 

Ber.  Madam,  I  desire  your  holy  wishes. 

Laf.  How  understand  we  that  ? 

Count.  Be  thou   blest,  Bertram  1    and  succeed 
thy  father 
In  manners,  as  in  shape !  thy  blood,  ajd  virtue, 
Contend  for  empire  in  thee ;  and  thy  goodness 
Share  with  thy  birthright!    Love  all,  trust  a  few. 
Do  wi'ong  to  none :  be  able  for  thine  enemy 
Rather  in  power  than  use ;  and  keep  thy  friend 
Under  thy  own  life's  key :  be  check'd  for  silence. 
But  never  tax'd  for  speech.     What  Heaven  more 

will, 
That  thee  may  furnish,  and  my  prayers  pluck  down. 
Fall  on  thy  head !     Farewell. — My  lord, 
'T  is  an  unseason'd  courtier ;  good  my  lord. 
Advise  him. 

Laf.  He  cannot  want  the  best 

That  shall  attend  his  love. 

Coiinl.  Heaven  bless  him  ! — Farewell,  Bertram. 

[Fxit. 

Bcr.  The  best  wishes  that  can  be  forg'd  in  your 
thoughts  \to  Helena]  be  servants  to  you !  Be 
comfortable  to  my  mother,  your  mistress,  and  make 
much  of  her. 

Laf.  Farewell,  pretty  lady  :  You  must  hold  the 
credit  of  your  father. 

[Exeunt  Bertram  and  Lafeu. 

Hel   O,  were  that  all ! — I  think   not  on   my 
father ; 
And  these  great  tears  grace  his  rememorance  more 
Than  those  I  shed  for  him.    "WHiat  was  he  like  ? 
I  have  forgot  him :  my  imagination 
Carries  no  favour  in 't  but  Bertram's. 
I  am  undone ;  there  is  no  living,  none, 
If  Bertram  be  away.    It  were  all  one 
That  I  should  love  a  bright  particular  star. 
And  think  to  wed  it,  he  is  so  above  mo : 
In  his  bright  radiance  and  collateral  light 
Must  I  be  comforted,  not  in  his  sphere. 
Th'  ambition  in  my  love  thus  plagues  itself; 
The  hind  that  would  be  mated  by  the  lion 
Must   die    for   love.      'T   was    pretty,   though   a 
plague, 

496 


To  see  him  every  hour ;  to  sit  and  draw 
His  arched  brows,  his  hawking  eye,  his  curls. 
In  our  heart's  table ;'  heart  too  capable 
Of  every  line  and  trick  of  his  sweet  favour : 
But  now  he  's  gone,  and  my  idolatrous  fancy 
Must  sanctify  his  relics.     Who  comes  here  ? 
* 

Enter  Parolles. 

One  that  goes  with  him  :  I  love  him  for  his  sake ; 

And  yet  I  know  him  t  notorious  liar, 

Think  him  a  great  way  fool,  solely  a  coward; 

Yet  these  fix'd  evils  sit  so  fit  in  him. 

That  they  take  place,  when  vu'tue's  steely  bonos 

Look  bleak  i'  the  cold  wind :  withal,  fuU  oft  we 

see 
Cold  wisdom  waiting  on  superfluous  folly- 
Par.  Save  you,  fair  queen. 

Hel.  And  you,  monarch. 

Par.  No. 

Hel.  And  no. 

Par.  Are  you  meditating  on  virginity  ? 

Hd.  A.J.  You  have  some  stain  of  soldier  in 
you ;  let  me  ask  you  a  question.  Man  is  enemy 
to  virginity;  how  may  we  barricade  it  against 
him? 

Par.  Keep  him  out, 

Hel.  But  ho  assails ;  and  our  virginity,  though 
valiant  in  the  defence,  yet  is  weak :  unfold  to  us 
some  warlike  resistance. 

Par.  There  is  none :  man,  sitting  down  before 
you,  will  undermine  you,  and  blow  you  up. 

Hel.  Bless  our  poor  virginity  from  underminors 
and  blowers  up ! — Is  there  no  military  policy  how 
virgins  might  blow  up  men  ? 

Par.  Vii-giuity,  being  blown  down,  man  will 
quicklier  be  blown  up :  marry,  in  blowing  him 
down  again,  with  the  breach  yourselves  made,  you 
lose  your  city.  It  is  not  politic  in  the  common- 
wealth of  nature  to  preserve  \'irginity.  Loss  of 
virginity  is  rational  increase ;  and  there  was  never 
virgin  got,  till  virginity  was  first  lost.  That  you 
were  made  of  is  metal  to  make  virgins.  Virgi- 
nity, by  being  once  lost,  may  be  ten  times  found ; 
by  being  ever  kept,  it  is  ever  lost :  't  is  too  cold  s 
companion ;  away  with  't, 

Hel.  I  will  stand  for 't  a  little,  though  therefore 
I  die  a  virgin. 

Par.  There 's  little  can  be  said  in 't ;  't  is  agamst 
the  rule  of  nature.  To  speak  on  tlu^  jiart  of  vir- 
ginitv  is  to  accuse  your  mothers;  which  is  most 
infallible  disobedience.  He  that  hangs  himself  is 
a  virgin :  virginity  murthers  itself,  and  should  bo 


ALL'S  WELL  'IHAl'  KNM)S  WELL. 


SCENE    TL 


I 


ImrieJ  in  higliways,  out  of  all  sanctified  limit,  as 
!i  ilesperate  oft'endress  against  nature.  Virginity 
breeds  inites,  nui^li  like  a  cheese;  consumes  itself 
to  llio  very  paring,  and  so  dies  with  feeding  his 
o\\  n  stomach.  Besides,  virginity  is  peevish,  proud, 
■''ie,  made  of  self-love,  which  is  the  most  inhibited^ 
•in  in  the  canon.  Keep  it  not;  you  cannot  choose 
bui  lose  by 't:  out  with 't:  within  ten  years  it  will 
make  itself  ten,  which  is  a  goodly  increase ;  and  the 
principal  itself  not  much  the  worse :  Away  with  't. 
IIcl.  How  might  cne  do,  sir,  to  lose  it  to  her 
own  liking? 

Par.  Let  me  see :  Marry,  ill,  to  like  him  that 
ne'er  it  likes.  'T  is  a  commodity  will  lose  the 
gloss  with  lying ;  the  longer  kept,  the  less  worth : 
off  with  't,  while  't  is  vendible :  answer  the  time 
of  request.  Virginity,  hke  an  old  courtier,  wears 
her  cap  out  of  fashion ;  richly  suited,  but  unsuit- 
able ;  just  like  the  brooch  and  the  toothpick,  which 
wear  not  now.  Your  date*  is  better  in  your  pie 
and  your  porridge,  than  in  your  cheek ;  and  your 
vir<rini(y,  your  old  virginit)',  is  like  one  of  our 
French  wither'd  pears;  it  looks  ill,  it  eats  drily; 
ma  riy,  't  is  a  wither'd  pear ;  it  was  formerly  better ; 
many,  yet,  't  is  a  wither'd  pear.  Will  you  any- 
iliin^  with  it? 

/III.  Not  my  \'irginily  yet. 
There  shall  your  master  have  a  thousand  loves, 
A  mother,  and  a  mistress,  and  a  friend, 
A  phcBuix,  captain,  and  an  enemy, 
A  guide,  a  goddess,  and  a  sovereign, 
A  counsellor,  a  traitoress,  and  a  dear, 
Llis  humble  ambition,  proud  humility. 
His  jarring  concord,  and  his  discord  dulcet, 
His  faith,  his  sweet  disaster :  with  a  world 
Of  pretty,  fond,  adoptions  Christendoms, 
That  blinking  Cupid  gossips.     Now  shall  he — 
I  know  not  what  he  shall : — God  send  him  well ! — 
The  court's  a  learning-place; — and  he  is  one- 
Par.  Wl..it  one,  i'laith? 
Hd.  Thut  I  wish  well.— 'T  is  pity- 
Pan  What 's  pity  ? 

ffel.  That  wishing  well  had  not  a  body  in  't. 
Which  might  be  felt :  that  we,  the  poorer  born, 
WhobC  baser  stare  do  shut  us  up  in  wishes, 
Might  with  effects  of  them  follow  our  fiiends. 
And  show  what  we  alone  must  think  ;  which  never 
Returns  us  thanks. 

£nter  a  Page. 

Page.  Monsieur  PmoIIcs,  my  lord  calls  for  you. 

[Exit. 


Par.  Little  Helen,  farewell :  if  I  can  remember 
thee,  I  will  lliink  of  thee  at  court. 

JIi/.  Monsieur  Parolles,  you  were  born  under  a 
charitable  star. 

Par.  Under  Mars,  L 

//(-'/.  I  es]iecially.t!iitik,  under  Mars. 

J'iir.  AVhy  undi.'r  Mars? 

Hel.  The  wars  have  so  kept  you  under,  that  yoo 
must  needs  be  born  under  Mare. 

Par.  When  he  was  predominant. 

//(■/.  When  he  was  retrogi'ade,  I  think,  rather. 

Par.  Why  think  you  so  * 

IIcl.  You  go  so  much  backward  when  you  fight. 

Par.  That 's  for  advantage. 

IIcL  So  is  running  away,  when  fear  j)roposes 
the  safety :  but  the  composition  that  your  valour 
and  fear  makes  in  you  is  a  virtue  of  a  good  wing, 
and  I  like  the  wear  well. 

Par.  I  am  so  full  of  businesses,  I  cannot  answer 
thee  acutely:  I  will  return  perfect  courtier;  in 
the  which,  my  instruction  shall  serve  to  naturalize 
thee,  so  thou  wilt  be  capable  of  a  courtier's  coun- 
sel, and  understand  what  advice  shall  thrust  upon 
thee ;  else  thou  diest  in  thine  unthankfnlness,  and 
thine  ignorance  makes  thee  away :  farewell.  When 
thou  hast  leisure,  say  thy  prayers;  when  thou 
hast  none,  remember  thy  friends :  get  thee  a  good 
husband,  and  use  him  as  he  uses  thee :  so  fare- 
well. [E-cit. 

Hel.  Our  remedies  oft  in  oureelves  do  lie. 
Which  we  ascribe  to  heaven ;  the  fated  sky 
Gives  us  free  scope ;  only,  doth  backward  pull 
Our  slow  designs,  when  we  ourselves  are  dull. 
What  power  is  it  which  mounts  my  love  so  high, 
That  makes  me  see,  and  cannot  feed  mine  eye ! 
The  mightiest  space  in  fortune  nature  brings 
To  join  like  likes,  and  kiss  like  native  things. 
Impossible  be  strange  attempts  to  those 
That  weigh  their  j)ains  in  sense;  and  do  suppose 
What  hath  been  cannot  be.     W'ho  ever  strove 
To  show  her  merit,  that  did  miss  her  love  ? 
The  king's  disease — my  project  may  deceive  me, 
But  mv  intents  are  fi.x'd,  and  will  not  leave  me. 

[Exit. 

SCENE    n  —Paris.      A   Room    in    the   King's 
Palace. 

Flourish  of  cornets.     Enter  the  King  of  France, 
with  letters;  Lords  ami  others  attending. 

King.  The  Florentines  and  Senoys  are  by  th'  cars 
Have  fought  with  equal  fortune,  and  continue 
A  braving  war. 

407 


r' 


A  01     1 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


scENB  m 


1  Lord.  So  't  is  reported,  sir. 

King.  Nay,  't  is  most   credible ;   we   here   re- 
ceive it 
A  certainty,  voucli'd  from  our  cousin  Austria, 
With  caution,  that  the  Florentine  will  move  us 
For  speedy  aid ;  wherein  our  dearest  friend 
Prejudicates  the  business,  and  would  seem 
To  have  us  make  denial. 

1  Lord.  His  love  and  wisdom, 
A.pprov'd  so  to  your  majesty,  may  plead 
For  amplest  credence. 

King.  He  hath  arm'd  our  answer. 

And  Florence  is  denied  before  he  comes ; 
Yet,  for  our  gentlemen  that  mean  to  see 
The  Tuscan  service,  freely  have  they  leave 
To  stand  on  either  part. 

2  Lord.  It  may  well  serve 
A  nureeiy  to  our  gentry,  who  are  sick 
For  breathing  and  exploit. 

King.  What 's  he  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Bertram,  Lafeu,  and  Parolles. 

1   Lord.   It  is  the    count    Rousillon,   my  good 
lord, 
V.:ung  Bertram. 


King. 


face; 


Youth,  thou  bear'st  thy  father's 


Frank  Nature,  rather  curious  than  in  haste. 

Hath  well   composed  thee.     Thy   father's   moral 

paits 
May'st  thou  inherit  too !    Welcome  to  Paris. 

Ber.  My  thanks  and  duty  are  your  majesty's. 

King.  I  would  I  had  that  corporal  soundness 
now, 
As  when  thy  father  and  myself,  in  friendship. 
First  tried  our  soldiership  !     Ho  did  look  far 
Into  the  service  of  the  time,  and  was 
Discipled  of  the  bravest :  he  lasted  long ; 
But  on  us  both  did  haggish  age  steal  on, 
And  wore  us  out  of  act.     It  much  repairs  me 
To  talk  of  your  good  father  :  In  his  youth 
He  had  the  wit,  which  I  cm  well  observe 
To-<lay  in  our  young  lords ;  but  they  may  jest 
Till  their  own  scorn  return  to  them  unnoted, 
Ero  they  can  hide  their  levity  in  honour. 
So  like  a  courtier :  contempt  nor  bitterness 
Were  in  his  pride  or  sharpness ;  if  they  were, 
His  equal  had  awak'd  them  ;  and  his  honour, 
Clock  to  itself,  knew  the  true  minute  when 
Exception  bid  him  sjicak,  ami,  at  this  time. 
His   tongue  obey'd  his  hand  :   who   were   below 
him, 
498 


He  us'd  as  creatures  of  another  place  ; 

And  bow'd  his  eminent  top  to  their  low  ranks. 

Making  them  proud  of  his  humility, 

In  their  poor  praise  he  humbled.     Such  a  man 

Might  be  a  copy  to  these  younger  times ; 

Which,  follow'd    well,  would    demonstrate    then 

now 
But  goers  backward. 

Ber.  His  good  remembrance,  sir. 

Lies  richer  in  your  thoughts  than  on  liis  tomb ; 
So  in  approof  lives  not  his  epitaph, 
As  in  your  royal  speech. 

King.  'Would   I  were  with   him !    He  would 
always  say, 
(Methinks  I  hear  him  now  :  his  plausive  words 
He  scatter'd  not  in  ears,  but  grafted  them. 
To   grow    there,    and   to   bear,) — "  Let  me   not 


This  his  good  melancholy  oft  began. 

On  the  catastrophe  and  heel  of  pastime. 

When  it  was  out, — "  Let  me  not  live,"  quoth  he, 

"  After  my  flame  lacks  oil,  to  be  the  snuff 

Of  younger  spirits,  whose  apprehensive  senses 

All  but  new  things  disdain ;  whose  judgments  are 

Mere  fiithers  of  their  garments ;  whose  constancies 

Expire  before  their  fashions :" This  he  wish'd  : 

I,  after  him,  do  after  him  wish  too. 
Since  I  nor  wax  nor  honey  can  bring  home, 
I  quickly  were  dissolved  from  my  hive. 
To  give  some  labourers  room. 

2  Lord.  XoM  are  lov'd,  sir  : 

They  that  least  lend  it  you,  shall  lack  you  first. 

King.  I  fill  a  place,  I  know  't. — How  long  is  't, 
count. 
Since  the  physician  at  your  father's  died  ? 
He  was  much  fam'd. 

Ber.  Some  six  months  sine*,  my  lord. 

King.   If  he   were    living,   I   would    try    hiu] 
yet;— 
Lend  me  an  arm ; — the  rest  have  worn  me  out 
With  several  applications  : — nature  and  sickness 
Debate  it  at  their  leisure.     Welcome,  count : 
My  son  's  no  dearer. 

Ber.  Thank  your  majesty. 

[Ejtcxiri 

SCENE  HI.— Rousillon.     A  room  in  tlu 
Countess's  Palace. 

Enter  Couktess,  Steward,  and  Clown. 

Count.  I  will  now  hear :  what  say  you  of  tliis 
gentlewoman  3 


ALL'S  WELL  TILVF  K\1)S  WELL. 


SCENE  in. 


Stew.  Maiiain,  (lie  cnro  I  have  n.id  to  oven  your 
content,  I  wish  might  bo  found  iu  tho  ciilendar  of 
my  past  endeavours :  for  then  we  wound  our 
modesty,  and  make  foul  tho  clearness  of  our  de- 
servings,  when  of  ourselves  we  publish  them. 

Count.  What  does  this  knave  hero  ?  Get  you 
gone,  sirrah !  The  complaints  I  have  heard  of 
you  I  do  not  all  believe ;  't  is  my  slowness  that  I 
do  not :  for  I  know  you  lack  not  folly  to  commit 
them,  and  have  ability  enough  to  make  such 
knaveries  yours. 

Clo.  'T  is  not  unknown  to  you,  madam,  I  am  a 
poor  fellow. 

Count.  Well,  sir. 

Clo.  No,  madam,  't  is  not  so  well  that  I  am 
poor  ;  though  many  of  the  rich  are  damn'd  :  but, 
if  I  may  have  your  ladyship's  good-will  to  go  to 
tho  world,  Isbel  the  woman  and  I  will  do  as  we 
may. 

Count.  Wilt  thou  needs  bo  a  beggar  ? 

Clo.  I  do  beg  your  good-will  in  this  case. 

Count.  In  what  case  ? 

Clo.  In  Isbel's  case  and  mine  own.  Service  is 
DO  heritage  :  and  I  think  I  shall  never  have  the 
blessing  of  God,  till  I  have  issue  a'  my  bod}' ;  for, 
they  say,  bairnes  are  blessings. 

Count.  Tell  me  thy  reason  why  thou  wilt 
marry. 

Clo.  My  poor  body,  madam,  requires  it :  I  am 
driven  on  by  the  flesli;  and  he  must  needs  go 
that  the  devil  drives. 

Count.  Is  this  all  your  worehip's  reason  ? 

Clo.  Faith,  madam,  I  have  other  holy  reasons, 
such  as  they  are. 

Count.  May  the  world  know  them  ? 

Clo.  I  have  been,  madam,  a  wicked  creature, 
as  you  and  all  flesh  and  blood  are ;  and,  indeed,  I 
do  marry  that  I  may  repent. 

Count.  Thy  marriage,  sooner  than  thy  wicked- 
ness. 

Clo.  I  am  out  .a'  friends,  madam  ;  and  I  hope 
to  have  friends  for  my  wife's  sake. 

Count.  Such  friends  are  thine  enemies,  knave. 

Clo.  You  're  shallow,  madam ;  e'en  great  friends  ; 
for  the  knaves  come  to  do  that  for  me,  which  I  am 
a-weary  of.  He  that  ears^  my  land  spares  my 
team,  and  givee  me  leave  to  inn  the  crop.  If  I 
be  his  cuckold,  he  's  my  drudge.  He  that  com- 
forts my  wife  is  the  cherisher  of  my  flesh  and 
blood  ;  he  that  cherishes  my  flesh  and  blood  loves 
ray  fli-sh  and  blood ;  he  that  loves  my  flesh  and 
blood  is  my  friend ,  «r_7o,  he  that  kisses  ray  wife 


is  my  friend.  If  men  could  be  contented  to  bo 
what  they  are,  there  were  no  fear  in  marriage :  k<t 
young  Charbon  the  puritan,  and  old  Poysam  (he 
papist,  howsome'er  their  heails  are  sever'd  in 
religion,  their  heads  are.  both  one, — they  may  joll 
horns  together,  like  any  deer  i'  the  lierd. 

Count.  Wilt  thou  ever  be  a  foul-mouth'd  and 
calumnious  knave  ? 

Clo.  A  prophet  I,  madam  ;  and  I  speak  the 
truth  the  next  way  : 

For  I  the  ballad  will  repeat,' 

Whicli  tren  full  true  shall  find  ; 
Your  marria;^e  comes  by  destiny. 

Your  cuckoo  sings  by  kind. 

Count.  Get  you  gone,  sir ;  I  'II  talk  with  you 
more  anon. 

Slew.  May  it  plo.ase  you,  madam,  that  he  bid 
Helen  come  to  you  ;  of  her  I  am  to  speak. 

Count.  Sirrah,  tell  my  gentlewoman  I  would 
speak  with  her  ;  Helen  I  moan. 

Clo.   Was  this  ftir  face,  quoth  she,  the  cause,  [Singing. 

Wliy  the  Grecians  sacked  Troy? 
Fond  done,  done  fond,  good  sooth  it  was ; 

Was  this  king  Priam's  joy  ? 
With  that  she  sighed  as  she  stood. 
With  that  slic  sighed  as  she  stood, 

And  gave  this  sentence  then ; 
Among  nine  bad  if  one  be  good, 
Among  nine  bad  if  one  be  good, 

Tiiere  's  yet  one  good  in  ten. 

Count.  What,  one  good  in  ten  ?  you  corrupt  the 
song,  sirr.ah. 

Clo.  One  good  wom.nn  in  ten,  madam,  which  is 
purifying  a'  the  song :  'Would  God  would  serve 
the  world  so  all  the  year  !  we  'd  find  no  fiiult  with 
the  tithe  woman,  if  I  were  the  parson :  One  iu  ten, 
quoth  a' !  an'  we  might  have  a  good  woman  born 
but  for  every  blazing  star,  or  at  an  earthqu.oke 
't  would  mend  tho  lottery  well ;  a  man  may  di-aw 
his  heart  out,  ere  'a  pluck  one. 

Count,  You  '11  be  gone,  sir  knave,  and  do  as  I 
command  you ! 

Clo.  That  man  should  be  at  woman's  command, 
and  yet  no  hurt  done ! — Though  honesty  be  no 
puritan,  yet  it  -n-ill  do  no  hurt ;  it  ^\^ll  wear  the 
suqilice  of  humility  over  the  black  go-s\Ti  of  a  big 
heart.— I  am  going,  forsooth  ;  the  bushiess  is  for 
Helen  to  come  hither.  [Exit, 

Count.  Well,  now. 

Stew.  I  know,  madam,  you  love  your  gentle- 
woman entirely. 

Count.  Faith,  I  do  :  her  father  bequeath 'd  hei 

499 


ACT    I. 


ALL 'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


SCEKE   in. 


to  ine ;  anJ  she  herself,  without  other  advantage, 
may  lawfully  make  title  to  as  much  love  as  she 
finds :  there  is  more  owing  lier  than  is  paid ;  and 
more  shall  be  paid  her  tlian  she  '11  demand. 

Sleu'.  Madam,  I  was  very  late  more  near  her 
than,  I  think,  she  wished  me :  alone  she  was,  and 
did  communicate  to  hereelf  her  own  words  to  her 
own  ears ;  she  thought,  I  dare  vow  for  her,  they 
touched  Hot  any  stranger  sense.  Iler  matter  was, 
she  loved  your  son.  Fortune,  she  said,  was  no 
goddess,  that  had  put  such  difl'erence  betwixt  their 
two  estates ;  Love,  no  god,  that  would  not  extend 
his  might  only  where  qualities  were  level ;  Diana, 
no  queen  of  virgins,  that  would  sutler  her  poor 
knight  surpris'd,'  without  rescue  in  the  first  as- 
sault, or  ransom  afterward.  This  she  deliver'd  in 
the  most  bitter  touch  of  sorrow  that  e'er  I  heard 
virgin  exclaim  in  :  wliich  I  held  my  duty,  speedily 
to  acquaint  you  withal  ;  sithence,^  in  the  loss 
that  may  happen,  it  concerns  you  something  to 
know  it. 

Count.  You  have  diseharg'd  this  honestly ;  keep 
It  to  yourself:  many  likelihoods  inform'd  me  of 
this  before,  which  hung  so  tott'ring  in  the  balance, 
that  I  could  neither  believe  nor  misdoubt.  Pi'ay 
you,  leave  me :  stall  this  in  your  bosom,  and  I 
thank  you  for  your  honest  care  :  I  will  speak  with 
you  fui'ther  anon.  [Krit  Steward. 

Enter  Helexa. 

Ccimt.   Even  so  it  was  with  me  when  I  was 
young : 
If  ever  we  are  nature's,  these  are  ours;  this 
thorn 
Doth  to  our  rose  of  youth  rightly  belong : 
Our  blood  to  us,  this  to  our  blood  is  born ; 
It  is  the  show  and  seal  of  nature's  truth, 
Where  love's  strong  passion  is  impress'd  in  youth  : 
By  our  remembrances  of  days  foregone, 
Such  were  our  faults ; — or  then  we  thought  them 

iione. 
IJer  eye  is  sick  on 't ;  I  observe  her  now. 
Ifel.  Vf  hat  is  your  pleasure,  madam  ? 
Count.  You  know,  Helena,  I  am  a  mother  to 

vou. 
Ifd.  Mine  honourable  mistress. 
Count.  Nay,  a  mother ; 

Why  not  a  mother?  When  I  said,  a  mother, 
Methought  you  saw  a  serpent:  What's  in  mother 
That  you  start  at  it?  I  say,  I  am  your  mother; 
And  put  you  in  the  catalogue  of  those 
That  were  enwombed  mine.     T?  is  often  seen 
500 


Adoption  strives  with  nature ;  and  choice  breeds 
A  native  slip  to  us  from  foreign  seeds : 
You  ne'er  oppress'd  me  with  a  mother's  groan. 
Yet  I  express  to  you  a  mother's  care: — 
God's  mercy,  maiden !  does  it  curd  thy  blood, 
To  sa)',  I  am  thy  mother  ?     What 's  the  matter, 
That  this  distemper'd  messenger  of  wet, 
The  many-colour'd  Iris,  rounds  thine  eye  ? 
Why  ? — that  you  are  my  daughter  ? 

Ifd.  That  I  am  not. 

Count.  I  say,  I  am  your  mother. 

Ifel.  Pardon,  madam ; 

The  count  Ronsillon  cannot  be  my  brother : 
I  am  from  humble,  he  from  honour'd  name ; 
No  note  upon  my  parents,  his  all  noble ; 
My  master,  my  dear  lord  he  is :  and  I 
His  servant  live,  and  will  his  vassal  die : 
He  must  not  be  my  brother. 

Count.  Nor  I  your  mother  ? 

Hcl.   You  are  my  mother,  madam.     ('Would 
you  were. 
So  that  my  lord,  your  son,  were  not  my  brother.) 
Indeed,   my   mother ! — (Or   were   you    both    our 

mothers, 
I  care  no  more  for  than  I  do  for  heaven. 
So  I  were  not  his  sister.)     Can  't  no  other" 
But,  I  your  daughter,  he  must  be  my  brother  ? 

Count.  Yes,  Helen,  you  might  be  my  daughter- 
in-law  : 
God    shield,   you    mean   it   not !    daughter,    and 

mother. 
So  strive  upon  your  pulse.     What,  pale  again  ? 
My  fear  hath  catch'd  your  fondness.     Now  I  see 
The  mystery  of  your  loneliness,  and  iind 
Your  salt  tears'  head.     Now  to  all  sense  't  is  gross 
You  love  my  son ;  invention  is  asham'd. 
Against  the  proclamation  of  thy  passion, 
To  say  thou  dost  not :  therefore  tell  me  true ; 
But  tell  me  then,  't  is  so : — for,  look,  thy  cheeks 
Confess  it,  th'  one  to  th'  other ;  and  thine  eyes 
See  it  so  grossly  shown  in  thy  behaviours. 
That  in  their  kind  they  speak  it :  only  sin 
And  hellish  obstinacy  tie  thy  tongue. 
That  truth  should  be  suspected.     Speak,  is  't  so  ? 
If  it  bo  so,  you  have  wound  a  goodly  clue ; 
If  it  bo  not,  forewcar  't :  howe'er,  I  charge  thee, 
As  heaven  shall  work  in  me  for  thine  avail, 
To  tell  me  tiiily. 

Hcl.  Good  madam,  pardon  me. 

Count.  Do  yc'U  lovo  my  son  3 

Hcl.  Your  pardon,  noble  tuistrcss  I 

Count.  Love  you  mj  son } 


ACT   I. 


ALL'S  WELL  TiL\T  ENDS  ^\^LL. 


SCENE    lU. 


Hd.  Do  not  you  love  liim,  ri);id.i:a  ? 

Cohnt.  Go  not  aboiit;  my  love  hath  in 't  a  bond, 
Whereof  tlio  world  takes  note ;  come,  come,  dis- 
close 
The  slate  of  youi  affection;  for  your  passions 
Have  to  the  full  appeacliM." 

Hd.  Then,  I  confess, 

Here  on  my  knee,  before  high  Heaven  and  you. 
That  biifore  you,  and  next  unto  high  Heaven, 
I  love  your  son  : — 

My  friends  were  poor  but  honest ;  so  's  my  love  : 
Be  not  offended ;  for  it  hurts  not  him 
That  ho  is  lov'd  of  me.     I  follow  him  not 
By  any  token  of  presumptuous  suit ; 
Nor  would  I  have  him  till  I  do  deserve  him ; 
Yet  never  know  how  that  desert  should  be. 
I  know  I  love  in  vain,  strive  against  hope ; 
Yet,  m  this  captious  and  intenible"  sieve, 
I  still  pour  in  the  waters  of  my  love, 
And  lack  not  to  lose  still :  thus,  Indian-like, 
Religious  in  mine  error,  I  adore 
The  sun,  that  looks  upon  his  worshipper, 
But  knows  of  him  no  more.     My  dearest  madam, 
Let  not  your  hate  encounter  with  my  love, 
For  loving  where  you  do :  but,  if  yourself. 
Whose  aged  honour  cites  a  virtuous  youth. 
Did  ever,  in  so  true  a  flame  of  liking. 
Wish  chastely,  and  lo\'e  dearly,  that  your  Dian 
Was  both  herself  and  love.     O  then,  give  pity 
To  her,  whose  state  is  such,  that  cannot  choose 
But  lend  and  give,  where  she  is  sure  to  lose ; 
That  seeks  not  to  find  that  her  search  implies. 
But,  riddle-like,  lives  sweetly  where  she  dies. 

Count.    Had  j'ou  not  lately  an  intent,  speak 
truly, 
To  go  to  Paris. 

Hel.  Madam,  I  had. 

Count.  "Wherefore  5   tell  true. 

Hel.  I  will  tell  truth ;  by  grace  itself,  I  swear. 
You  know  my  father  left  me  some  prescriptions 
Of  rare  and  prov'd  effects,  such  as  his  reading. 
And  manifest  experience,  had  collected 


For  general  sovereignty;  and  that  ho  wiil'J  me 

Tn  heedfull'st  reservation  to  bestow  them. 

As  notes,  whoso  faculties  inclusive  were. 

More  than  they  were  in  note :  amongst  the  rest, 

There  is  a  remedy,  appi-ov'd,  set  down. 

To  cure  the  desperate  languisliings  whereof 

The  king  is  rendered  lost. 

Count.  This  was  your  motive  for  Paris,  was  it  \ 
speak. 

Hel.  My  lord  your  son  made  mo  to  think  of 
this; 
Else  Paris,  and  the  medicine,  and  the  king, 
Ilad,  from  the  conversation  of  inv  thoughts. 
Haply,  been  absent  then. 

Count.  But  think  you,  Helen, 

If  you  should  tender  your  supposed  aid, 
Ho  would  receive  it  ?     He  and  his  physicians 
Are  of  a  mind ;  he,  that  they  cannot  help  him. 
They,  that   they   cannot  help.     How  shall  they 

credit 
A  poor  unlearned  virgin,  when  the  schools, 
Embowell'd  of  their  doctrine,  have  left  off 
The  danger  to  itself? 

Hel.  There 's  something  in  't. 

More  than  my  father's  skill,  which  was  the  great'st 
Of  his  profession,  that  his  good  receipt 
Shall,  for  my  legacy,  be  sanctified 
By  th'  luckiest  stars  in  heaven :  and,  would  your 

honour 
But  give  me  leave  to  try  success,  I  'd  venture 
The  well-lost  life  of  mine  on  his  grace's  cure. 
By  such  a  day  and  hour. 

Count.  Dost  thou  be!  eve  't  ? 

Hel.  Ay,  madam,  knowingly. 

Count.  Why,  Helen,  thou  slialt  ha\e  my  leave 
and  love. 
Means,  and  attendants,  and  my  loving  greetings 
To  those  of  mine  in  court ;  I  '11  stay  at  home. 
And  pray  God's  blessing  into  thy  attempt : 
Be  gone  to-morrow ;  and  be  sure  of  this. 
What  I  can  help  thee  to  thou  shalt  not  loi's. 

[^Exeunl 
501 


ALL 'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


SCENE    L 


ACT   II. 


■SCENE  ].— Paris.     A  room  tn  the  King's  Palace. 
Flourish.     Sinter  King,    with  two  youny  Lords, 

takinff  leave  for  the  Florentine  war;  Bertram, 

Parolles,  and  Attendants. 

King.  Farewell,  young  lord,  these  warlike  prin- 
ciples 

Do  not  throw  from  you : — and  you,  my  lord,  fare- 
well :— 

Share  the  .advice  betwixt  you :  if  both  gain  all, 

The  gift  doth  stretch  itself  as  't  is  receiv'd. 

And  is  enough  for  both. 

1  Lord.  'T  is  our  hope,  sir, 
.\fter  well  enter'd  soldier's,  to  return 
And  find  your  grace  in  health. 

King.  No,  no,  it  cannot  be  ;  and  yet  my  heart 
Will  not  confess  he  owes  the  malady 
That  doth  my  life  besiege.     Farewell,  young  lords ; 
Whether  I  live  or  die,  be  you  the  sons 
Of  worthy  Frenchmen :  let  higher  Italy 
(Those  'b.ated,  that  inherit  but  the  fall 
Of  the  last  monarchy)  see.  that  you  come 
Not  to  woo  honour,  but  to  wed  it ;  when 
The  bravest  questant  shrinks,  find  wh.at  you  seek, 
That  fiime  may  cry  you  loud.     I  say,  farewell. 

2  Lord.  Health,  at   your   bidding,  serve  your 

majesty  ! 
King   Those  girls  of  Italy,  take  heed  of  them ; 
They  say  our  French  lack  language  to  deny. 
If  they  demand  ;  beware  of  being  captives, 
l-iefore  you  serve. 

Both.  Our  hearts  receive  your  warn- 

ings. 
King,  Farewell. — Come  hitlier  to  me. 

\Tlie  King  retires  to  a  couch. 

1  Lord.  O  my  sweet  lord,  that  you  will  stay  be- 

hind us! 
Par.  'Tis  not  his  fault;  the  spark — 

2  fyord.  0,  't  is  brave  wars ! 

Par.  Most  admiraoio ;  I  have  seen  those  wars. 
£cr.  I  am  commanded  here,  and  kept  a  coil  with, 
"Too   young,"  and  "the   next  year,"  and  "'tis 
t(W  early." 
502 


Par.  An  thy  mind  stand  to't,  boy,  steal  away 

bravely. 
Per.  I  shall  stay  here  the  forenorse  to  a  smock. 
Creaking  my  shoes  on  the  plain  masonry, 
Till  honour  be  bought  up,  and  no  sword  worn 
But  one  to  dance  ^ith  !'^     By  heaven,  I  '11  steal 
away. 

1  Lord.  There  's  honour  in  the  theft. 
Par.  Commit  it,  count. 

2  Lord.  I  am  your  accessaiy ;  and  so  farewelL 
Per.  I  grow  to  you,  and  our  parting  is  a  tortm-'d 

body. 

1  Lord.  Farewell,  captain. 

2  Lord.  Sweet  monsieur  Parolles ! 

Par.  Noble  heroes,  my  sword  and  yours  are  kin 
Good  sparks  and  lustrous,  a  word,  good  metals  : — 
You  shall  find  in  the  regiment  of  the  Sjiinii  one 
captain  Spurio,  with  his  cicatrice,  an  emblem  of 
war,  here  on  his  sinister  cheek  ;  it  was  this  veiy 
sword  entrench'd  it :  say  to  him,  I  live  ;  and  ob- 
serve his  reports  for  me. 

2  Lord.  We  shall,  noble  captain. 

Par.  Mars  dote  on  you  for  his  no^^ces !  \Exeunt 
Lords.]  What  will  you  do  ? 

Ber.  Stay ;  the  king —  \^Secing  him  rise. 

Par.  Use  a  more  spacious  ceremony  to  the  noble 
lords  ;  you  have  restrain'd  yourself  within  the  list 
of  too  cold  an  adieu ;  be  more  expressive  to  them ; 
f:>r  they  wear  themselves  in  (he  cap  of  the  time ; 
there  do  muster  true  gait,  eat,  speak,  and  move 
under  the  influence  of  the  most  receiv'd  star ;  and 
though  the  devil  lead  the  measure,  such  are  to 
be  followed  :  after  them,  and  take  a  more  dilsted 
farewell. 

Ber.  And  I  will  do  so. 

Par.  W^orthy  fellows,  and  like  to  prove  most 
sinewy  swordmen. 

[Exeunt  Bertram  and  Paroli.es. 

Enter  Lafeu. 

Ltif.  P.'irdou,  my  lord,  \kneelin[f\  for  mo  and  fof 

my  tidings. 
King.  I  '11  see  thee  to  stand  up. 


ALL'S  WELL  TUAT  E^'DS  WELL. 


KCEXE    I. 


Ldf.  Then  licre  'a  a  man  stands  that  lias  brouglit 
his  pardon. 
I  would  you  had   kiieel'd,    my  lord,  to   ask    mo 

nie«:y, 
And  that,  at  my  biddinjf,  you  could  so  stand  up. 

Khi(j.  I  would  I  had ;  so  I  had  broke  thy  pate. 
And  ask'd  thee  mercy  for  't. 
Laf.  Good  faith,  across.     But,  my  good  lord, 
't  is  thus ; 
Will  you  be  cur'd  of  your  infirmity  ? 
King.  No. 

Laf.  0,  will  you  eat  no  grapes,  my  royal  fox  ? 
Ves,  but  you  will  my  noble  grapes,  an  if 
My  royal  fox  could  reach  them.     I  have  seen  a 

medicine, 
riiat  's  able  to  breathe  life  into  a  stone. 
Quicken  a  rock,  and  make  you  dance  canary," 
With  sprightl}'  fire  and  motion ;  whose  simple  toudi 
Is  powerful  to  araise  king  Pepin,  nay, 
To  give  great  Charleraain  a  pen  in  's  hand, 
To  write  to  her  a  lovedine. 

King.  What  her  is  this  ? 

Laf.  Wliy,  doctor  she  :  My  lord,  there  's  one 
arriv'd, 
If  you   will    see    her : — Now,    by   my  faith    and 

honour, 
If  seriously  I  may  convey  my  thoughts 
In  this  my  light  deliverance,  I  have  spoke 
With  one,  that,  in  her  sex,  her  years,  profession,'^ 
Wisdom,  and  constancy,  hath  amaz'd  me  more 
Than  I  dare  blame  my  weakness.     Will  you  see 

her, 
(For  that  is  her  demand)  and  know  her  business  ? 
That  done,  laugh  well  at  me. 

King.  Now,  good  Lafeu, 

Bi  iug  in  the  admiration ;  that  we  with  thee 
May  spend  our  wonder  too,  or  take  oft"  thine. 
By  wond'riug  how  thou  took'st  it. 
'  Jjjf  Nay,  I'll  fit  you, 

And  not  be  all  day  neither.  \Exit. 

King.  Thus  he  his  special   nothing  ever  pro- 
Ligues. 

He-enter  Lafeu,  wita  Helena. 
Laf.  Nay,  come  your  ways. 
King.  This  liaste  hath  wings  indeed. 

L']f.  Nay,  come  your  ways ; 
I'his  is  his  majesty,  say  your  mind  to  him : 
A  traitor  you  do  look  like ;  but  such  traitors 
His  majesty  seldom  fears.     I  am  Cressid's  uncle, 
That  dare  leave  two  together  :  fare  you  well. 

[Hxit. 


King.  Now,  fair  one,  does   )'uur    business   fol- 
low us  ? 
Ifel.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 
Gerard  de  Narbon  was  my  father, 
In  what  he  did  profess  well  found. 
King.  I  know  him. 

JIcl,  The  ratlier  will  I  spare  my  praises  towards 
him ; 
Knowing  him  is  enough.     On  'a  bed  of  deatli 
-Many  receipts  he  gave  me ;  chiefly  one, 
Which,  as  the  dearest  issue  cf  his  practice, 
And  of  his  old  experience  th'  only  darhng, 
iJe  bade  me  store  up,  as  a  triple  eye, 
Safer  than  mine  own  two,  more  dear ;  I  have  so  : 
And,  hearing  your  high  majesty  is  touch'd 
With  that  malignant  cause  wherein  the  honour 
Of  my  dear  father's  gift  stands  chief  in  power, 
I  come  to  tender  it,  and  my  appliance, 
With  all  bound  humbleness. 

King.  We  tliauk  you,  maiden ; 

But  may  not  be  so  credulous  of  cure, 
When  our  most  le.arned  doctors  leave  us ;  and 
The  congregated  college  liave  concluded 
That  labouring  art  can  never  ransom  Nature 
From  her  inaidable  estate, — I  say  we  must  not 
So  stain  our  judgment,  or  corrupt  our  hope. 
To  prostitute  our  past-cure  malady 
To  empirics ;  or  to  dissever  so 
Our  great  self  and  our  credit,  to  esteem 
A    senseless    help,    when    help    past    sense    wu 
deem. 
Hel.  My  duty  then  shall  pay  me  for  my  pains 
I  will  no  more  enfoi'ce  mine  office  on  you ; 
Humbly  entreating  from  your  royal  thoughts 
A  modest  one,  to  bear  me  back  again. 

King.    I   cannot   give    thee    less   to   be    call'd 
grateful : 
Thou  thought'st  to  help  me  ;  and  such  thanks  1 

give, 
As  one  near  death  to  those  that  wish  him  live ; 
But  what  at  full  I  know,  thou  know'st  no  part ; 
I  knowing  all  my  peiil,  thou  no  art. 

Hel.  What  I  can  do,  can  do  no  hurt  to  try, 
Since  you  set  up  your  rest  'gainst  remedy : 
He  that  of  greatest  woi'ks  is  finisher 
Oft  does  them  by  the  weakest  minister  : 
So  holy  writ  in  babes  hath  judgment  sh.own. 
When  judges  have  been  babes.    Great  floods  have 

flomi 
From  simple  sources;  and  great  seas  have  dried. 
When  miracles  have  by  the  great'st  been  denied 
Oft  expectation  fails,  and  most  oft  there 

50S 


ALL 'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


SCENE  n. 


Wliere  most  it  promises ;  and  oft  it  hits, 
Wliere  hope  is  coldest,  and  despair  most  shifts. 
King.  I  must  not  hear  thee ;  fare  thee  well,  kind 
maid ; 
Thy  pains,  not  us'd,  must  by  thyself  be  paid : 
Proffers  not  took  reap  thanks  for  their  reward. 
Uel.  Inspired  Merit  so  by  breath  is  barr'd : 
It  is  not  so  with  Him  that  all  things  knows, 
As  't  is  with  us  that  square  our  guess  by  shows : 
But  most  it  is  presumption  in  us,  when 
The  help  of  heaven  we  count  the  act  of  men. 
Dear  sir,  to  my  endeavours  give  consent : 
Of  heaven,  not  me,  make  an  experiment. 
I  am  not  an  impostor,  that  proclaim 
Myself  against  the  level  of  mine  aim  ;" 
But  know  I  think,  and  think  I  know  most  sure. 
My  art  is  not  past  power,  nor  you  past  cure. 

Kinr/.  Art  thou  so  confident?  Within  what  space 
Hop'st  thou  my  cui-e  ? 

Hel.  The  greatest  grace  knding  grace. 

Ere  twice  the  horses  of  the  sun  shall  bring 
Their  fiery  torcher  his  diurnal  ring ; 
Ere  twice  in  murk  and  occidental  damp 
Moist  Ilesperus  hath  quench'd  his  sleepy  lamp ; 
Or  four-and-twenty  times  the  pilot's  glass 
Ilath  told  the  thievish  minutes  bow  they  pass ; 
What  is  infirm  from  3'our  sound  parts  shall  fly, 
Health  shall  live  fi'ee,  and  sickness  freely  die. 
King.  Upon  thy  certainty  and  confidence. 
What  dar'st  thou  venture  ? 

Hd.  Tax  of  impudence, — 

A  strumpet's  boldness,  a  divulged  shame, 
Traduc'd  by  odious  ballads;  my  maiden's  name. 
Sear'd  otherwise ;  no  worse  of  worst  extended. 
With  vildest  torture  let  my  life  be  ended. 

Kiiig.  ^Methinks,  in  thee  some  blessed  spirit  doth 
speak ; 
His  powerful  sound  within  an  organ  weak : 
And  what  impossibility  would  slay 
In  common  sense,  sense  saves  another  way. 
Thy  life  is  dear ;  for  all  that  life  can  rate 
Worth  name  of  life  in  thee  hath  estimate ; 
Vouth,  beauty,  wisdom,  courage,  all 
That  happiness  and  prime  can  happy  call : 
Thou  this  to  hazard,  needs  must  intimate 
Skill  infinite,  or  monstrous  desperate. 
Sweet  practiser,  tliy  physic  I  will  try. 
That  ministers  thine  own  death,  if  I  die. 

HqI.  If  I  break  time,  or  flinch  in  property 
Of  what  I  spoke,  unpitied  let  me  die  ; 
And  well  deserv'd.     Not  lielping,  death  's  my  fee; 
But,  if  I  help,  what  do  3  ou  promise  me  3 


King.  JIake  thy  demand. 

Hd.  But  will  you  make  it  even  ? 

King.  Ay,  by  my  sceptre,  and  my  hopc.^  of 
heaven  i 

Hd.  Then  shalt  thou  give  me,  with  thy  kingly 
hand, 
What  husband  in  thy  power  I  will  command: 
Exempted  be  from  me  the  arrogance 
To  choose  from  forth  tlie  royal  blood  of  France, 
My  low  and  humble  name  to  propagate 
With  any  branch  or  image  of  thy  state : 
But  such  a  one,  thy  vassal,  whom  I  know 
Is  free  for  me  to  ask,  thee  to  bestow. 

King.  Here  is  my  hand ;  the  premises  observ'd, 
Thy  will  by  my  performance  shall  be  serv'd ; 
So  make  the  choice  of  thy  own  time,  for  I, 
Thy  resolv'd  patient,  on  thee  still  rely. 
More  should  I  question  thee,  and  more  I  must, 
Though  more  to  know  could  not  be  more  to  trust ; 
From  whence  thou  cam'st,  how  tended  on, — But 

rest 
Unquestion'd  welcome,  and  undoubted  bless'd. — 
Give  me  some  help  here,  boa ! — If  thou  proceed 
As  high  as  word,  my  deed  shall  match  thy  deed. 

[Flourish.     Excupt 

SCENE  II. — Rousillon.    A  Room  in  the  Countess.' 
Palace. 

Enter  Countess  and  Clown. 

Count.  Come  on,  sir;  I  shall  now  put  you  to 
the  height  of  your  breeding. 

Clo.  I  will  show  myself  highly  fed,  and  lowly 
taught :  I  know  my  business  is  but  to  the  court. 

Count.  To  the  court?  why,  what  place  make 
you  special,  when  you  put  oft"  that  with  such  eon- 
tempt — But  to  the  court  ? 

Clo.  Truly,  madam,  if  God  have  lent  a  man  any 
manners,  he  m.ay  easily  put  it  ofl"  at  court :  he  that 
cannot  make  a  leg,  put  oft'  's  cap,  kiss  his  hand, 
and  say  nothing,  has  neither  leg,  hands,  lip,  nor 
cap ;  and,  indeed,  such  a  fellow,  to  say  precisely, 
were  not  for  the  court:  but  for  me,  I  have  an  an- 
swer will  seiTe  all  men. 

Count.  Marry,  that 's  a  bountiful  answer  thai 
fits  all  questions. 

Clo.  It  is  like  a  barber's  chair,"  that  tits  all  Inn 
tocks ;  the  pin-buttock,  the  quatch-buttock,  the 
brawn-buttock,  or  any  buttock. 

Count.  Will  your  answer  serve  fit  to  all  <jues 
tions  ? 

Clo.  As  fit  as  ten  groats  is  for  the  hand  ol"  aD 


ACT    II. 


ALL'S  WEI.L  TELVT  ENDS  WELL. 


SCENE    HL 


Bttoruey,  ns  your  French  ci'owu  fur  your  tnffata 
punk,"  as  Tib's  rush  for  Tom's  forefinger,'^  as  a 
panoake  for  Slirove-Tuesday,'"  a  morris  for  May- 
day," as  tlio  nail  to  Lis  hole,  the  cuckold  to  his 
horn,  as  a  scolding  quean  to  a  wrangling  knave, 
us  the  nun's  lip  to  the  friar's  mouth ;  nay,  as  the 
pudding  to  his  skin. 

Count.  Have  you,  I  say,  an  answer  of  such  fit- 
ness for  all  questions  ? 

Clo.  From  below  your  duke  to  beneath  your 
constable ;  it  will  fit  any  question. 

Count.  It  must  be  an  answer  of  most  monstrous 
size  that  must  fit  all  demands. 

Clo.  But  a  trifle  neither,  in  good  faith,  if  the 
learned  should  speak  truth  of  it :  here  it  is,  and 
all  that  belongs  to 't :  ask  me  if  I  am  a  courtier : 
it  shall  do  you  no  harm  to  learn. 

Count.  To  be  young  again,  if  we  could,  I  will 
be  a  fool-  in  question.  Loping  to  be  the  wiser  by 
your  answer — I  pray  you,  sir,  are  you  a  courtier? 

Clo.  O  Lord,  sir, There  's  a  simple  putting 

ofi"; — more,  more,  a  hundred  of  them. 

Count.  Sir,  I  am  a  poor  fiiend  of  yours,  that 
loves  you. 

Clo.  0  Lord,  sir, — Thick,  thick,  spare  not  me. 

Count.  I  think,  sir,  you  can  eat  none  of  this 
homely  meat. 

Clo.  0  Lord,  sir, — Nay,  put  me  to  't,  I  warrant 
you. 

Count.  You  were  lately  whipped,  sir,  as  I  think. 

Clo.  O  Lord,  sir, — Spare  not  me. 

Count.  Do  you  cry,  "  0  Lord,  sir,"  at  your 
whipping,  and  "spare  not  me"?  Indeed,  your 
"  O  Lord,  sir,"  is  very  sequent  to  your  whipping ; 
you  would  answer  very  well  to  a  whipping,  if  you 
were  but  bound  to 't. 

Clo.  I  ne'er  had  worse  luck  in  my  life  in  my — 
"0  Lord,  sir:"  I  see  things  may  serve  long,  but 
not  serve  ever. 

Count.   I  play  the  noble  housewife   with  the 
time. 
To  entertain  it  so  merrily  with  a  fool. 

Clo.    O  Lord,  sir, — Why,  there  't  serves  well 
again. 

Count.  An  end,  sir :   To  your  business.     Give 
Helen  this. 
And  urge  her  to  a  present  answer  back : 
Commend  me  to  my  kinsmen,  and  my  son ; 
ITiis  is  not  much. 

Clo.  Not  much  commendation  to  them. 

Count.  Not  much  employment  for  you.  You 
understand  me  ? 


Clo.    Most   fruitfully ;    I   am  there    before  my 

legs. 
Count.  Haste  you  again.        [Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  m.— Paris.     A  Boom  in  the  King's 
Palace. 

Enter  Bertram,  Lafeu,  and  PAitoLLEs. 

Laf.  They  say,  miracles  are  past ;  and  we  have 
our  philosophical  persons,  to  make  modern  and 
familiar,  things  supernatural  and  causeless.  Hence 
is  it  that  we  make  trifles  of  terrors ;  ensconcing 
ourselves  into  seeming  knowledge,  when  we  should 
submit  ourselves  to  an  unknown  fear. 

Par.  Why,  't  is  the  rarest  argument  of  wonder 
that  hath  shot  out  in  our  latter  times. 

Ber.  And  so  't  is. 

Laf.  To  bo  relinquish'd  of  the  artists, — 

Par.  So  I  say ;  both  of  Galen  and  Paracelsus. 

Laf.  Of  all  the  learned  and  authentic  fellows'* — 

Par.  Right,  so  I  say. 

Laf.  That  gave  him  out  incurable — 

Par.  Why,  there  't  is ;  so  say  I  too. 

Laf.  Not  to  be  helped, — 

Par.  Eight ;  as  't  were  a  man  asswr'd  of  an — 

Laf.  Uncertain  life,  and  sure  death. 

Par.  Just,  you  say  well ;  so  would  I  have  said. 

Laf.  I  may  truly  say,  it  is  a  novelty  to  the  world. 

Par.  It  is  indeed :  if  you  will  have  it  in  show 
ing,  you  shall  read  it  in, — What  do  ye  call  there  ? 

Laf.  A  showing  of  a  heavenly  eficct  in  an  earth- 
ly  actor. 

Par.  That 's  it :  I  would  have  said  the  very 
same. 

Laf.  Why,  your  dolphin  is  not  lustier :  'fore  mc 
I  speak  in  respect — 

Par.  Nay,  't  is  strange,  't  is  very  strange ;  that 
is  the  brief  and  the  tedious  of  it;  and  he's  of  a 
most  facinorous  spirit  that  will  not  acknowledge 
it  to  be  the — 

Laf  Very  hand  of  Heaven. 

Par.  Ay,  so  I  say. 

Laf.  In  a  most  weak — 

Par.  And  debile  minister,  great  power,  great 
transcendence  :  which  should,  indeed,  give  us  a 
further  use  to  be  made,  than  alone  the  recov'ry  of 
the  king,  as  to  be — 

Ldf.  Generally  thankful. 

Enter  King,  Helena,  and  Attendants. 

Par.  I  would  have  said  it ;  you  say  well.  Hf;re 
comes  the  king. 

605 


r-- 


ACT    IT. 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


SCENE    IIL 


Laf.  Lustique,"  as  the  Dutcliman  says :  I  '11  like 
a  maid  the  bettor  whilst  I  have  a  tooth  in  my  head. 
Why,  he  's  able  to  lead  her  a  coranto. 

Far.  Mort  du  Vinaigre  !     Is  not  this  Helen  1 

Laf.  'Fore  God,  I  think  so. 

King.  Go,  call  before  me  all  the  lords  in  court. — 
[Exit  an  Attendant. 
Sit,  my  preserver,  by  thy  patient's  side ; 
And  with   this   healthful  hand    whose   banish'd 

sense 
Thou  hast  repeal'd,  a  second  time  receive 
The  confirmation  of  my  promis'd  gift, 
Which  but  attends  thy  naming. 

Enter  several  Lords. 

Fair  maid,  send  forth  thine  eye :   this  youthful 

parcel 
Of  noble  bachelors  stand  at  my  bestowing. 
O'er  whom    both   sovereign   power    and    father's 

voice 
I  have  to  use  :  thy  frank  election  make ; 
Thou  hast  power  to  choose,  and  they  none  to  for- 
sake. 
Hel.  To  each  of  you  one  fair  and  virtuous  mis- 
tress 
Fall,  when  love  please ;  marry,  to  each  but  one. 

Laf.  1  'd  give  bay  curtal,  and  his  furniture. 
My  mouth  no  more  were  broken  than  these  boys', 
And  writ  as  little  beard. 

King.  Peruse  them  well : 

Not  one  of  those  but  had  a  noble  father. 

Hel.  Gentlemen, 
Heaven  hath,  through  me,  restor'd  the  king  to 
health. 
All.  AVe  understand  it,  and  thank  heaven  for 

you. 
Hel.  I  am  a  simple  maid ;  and  therein  wealthiest. 
That,  I  protest,  I  simply  am  a  maid : — 
Please  it  your  majesty,  I  have  done  already : 
The  blushes  in  my  checks  thus  whisper  me, — 
"  We  blush,  that  thou  should'st  choose  ;  but,  be 

refus'd. 
Let  the  white  death"'  sit  on  thy  cheek  for  ever  ; 
We  'II  ne'er  come  there  again." 

King.  Make  choice  ;  and,  see, 

Who  shuns  thy  love  shuns  all  his  love  in  me. 

Hel.  Now,  Dian,  from  thy  altar  do  I  fly  ; 
And  to  imperial  Love,  that  god  most  high. 
Do   my   sighs  stream. — Sir,  will   you   hear  my 
suit? 
I  Lord.  And  grant  it. 

Jltl.  Thanks,  sir ;  all  the  rest  is  mute. 

ri06 


Laf  I  had  rather  be  in  this  choice  than  throw 
ames-ace"  for  my  life. 

Hel.  The  honour,  sir,  that  flames  in  your  fail 
eyes. 
Before  I  speak,  too  threat'ningly  replies : 
Love  make  your  fortunes  twenty  times  above 
Her  that  so  wishes,  and  her  humble  love  1 

2  Lord.  No  better,  if  you  please. 

Hel  My  wish  receive. 

Which  great  Love  grant !  and  so  I  take  my  leave. 

Laf.  Do  all  they  deny  her  ?  An  they  were  sons 
of  mine,  I  'd  have  them  whipp'd  ;  or  I  would  send 
them  to  th'  Turk,  to  make  eunuchs  of. 

Hel.  Be  not  afraid  [to  3  Lord]  that  I  your  hand 
should  take ; 
I  '11  never  do  you  WTong  for  your  own  sake : 
Blessing  upon  your  vows !  and  in  your  bed 
Find  fairer  fortune,  if  you  ever  wed ! 

Laf.  These  boys  are  boys  of  ice !  they  '11  none 
have  her  :  sure  they  are  bastards  to  the  English  ; 
the  French  ne'er  got  'em. 

Hel.  You  are  too  young,  too  happy,  and  too 
good, 
To  make  yourself  a  son  out  of  my  blood. 

4  Lord.  Fair  one,  I  think  not  so. 

Laf  There  's  one  grape  yet, — I  am  sure  thy 
father  drank  wine. — But  if  thou  be'st  not  an  a.ss, 
I  am  a  youth  of  fourteen ;  I  have  known  thee 
already. 

Hel.  I  dare  not  say  I  take  you  [to  Bertram] 
but  I  give 
Me  and  my  service,  ever  whilst  I  live. 
Into  your  guiding  power. — This  is  the  man. 

King.  Why,  then,  young  Bertram  take  her ; 
she  's  thy  wife. 

Ber.  My  wife,  my  liege  ?     I  shall  beseech  your 
highness. 
In  such  a  business  give  me  leave  to  use 
The  help  of  mine  own  eyes. 

King.  Know'st  thou   not,  Bertram,  what  she 
has  done  for  me  ? 

Bcr.  Yes,  my  good  lord,  but  never  hope  to 
know  why 
I  should  marry  her. 

King.  Thou  know'st  she  has  rais'd  me  from  my 
sickly  bed. 

Ber.  But  follows  it,  my  lord,  to  bring  me  down 
Must    answer    for   your    raising  ?      I   know    her 

well ; 
She  had  her  breeding  at  my  father's  charge  : 
A  poor  physician's  daughter  my  wife ! — Disdain 
Kather  corrupt  mo  ever  I 


ACT  n. 


ALL'S  WELL  TIIAT  ENDS  WELL. 


SCENE    lU. 


King,  'T  is  only  title  tbou  disihiiu'st  in  lier,  the 
wliicli 
I  c;in  build  up.     Strange  is  it,  tbat  oui'  bloods, 
Of  colour,  weight,  and  heat,  pour'd  all  together, 
Would  quite  confound  distinction,  3-et  stand  oft" 
111  diftorenccs  so  mighty.     If  she  be 
All  that  is  virtuous  (save  what  thou  dislik'st, 
A  poor  physician's  daughter),  thou  dislik'st 
I  )r  virtue  for  the  name  :  but  do  not  so  : 
From  lowest  ]ilaco  when  virtuous  thing's  proceed. 
The  place  is  dignified  by  th'  doer's  deed : 
Where  great  additions  swell,  and  virtue  none. 
It  is  a  dropsied  honour  :  good  alone 
Is  good  without  a  name ;  vileness  is  so  : 
The  property  by  what  it  is  should  go, 
Not  by  the  title.     She  is  young,  wise,  fair ; 
In  these  to  nature  she  's  immediate  heir. 
And  these  breed  honour :  th:it  is  honour's  scorn 
Which  challenges  itself  as  honour's  born. 
And  is  not  like  the  sire :  Honours  thrive. 
When  rather  from  our  acts  w^e  them  derive 
Than  our  fore-goers :  the  mere  woixl  's  a  slave, 
Debosh'd  on  every  tomb,  on  ever}'  grave 
A  lying  trophy ;  and  as  oft  is  dumb. 
Where  dust,  and  damn'd  oblivion,  is  the  tomb 
Of  honour'd  bones  indeed.    What  should  be  said  ? 
If  thou  canst  like  this  creature  as  a  maid, 
[  can  create  the  rest:  virtue,  and  she, 
Is  her  own  dower;  honour  and  wealth  from  nie. 

Ber.  I  cannot  love  her,  nor  will  strive  to  do  't. 

King.  Thou  wrong'st  thyself,  if  tbou  shoulJst 
strive  to  choose. 

Hel.  Tbat  you  are  well  restor'd,  my  lord,  I  'm 
glad; 
Let  the  rest  go. 

King.  My  honour  's  at  the  stake ;   which  to 
defend, 
I  must  produce  my  power.     Here,  take  her  hand. 
Proud  scornful  bo)%  \mworthy  this  good  gH't, 
Tbat  dost  in  vile  misprision  shackle  up 
My  love,  and  her  desert ;  that  canst  not  dream, 
V/e,  poising  us  in  her  defective  scale. 
Shall  weigh  thee  to  the  beam ;  that  wilt  not  know 
It  is  in  us  to  plant  tliine  honour,  where 
We  please  to  have  it  grow.    Check  thy  contempt : 
Obey  our  will,  which  travails  in  thy  good : 
Believe  not  thy  disdain,  but  presently 
Do  thine  own  fortunes  that  obedient  right 
Which  both  th}'  duty  owes  and  our  power  claims; 
Or  I  will  throw  thee  from  my  care  for  ever. 
Into  the  stag-gel's,  and  the  careless  lapse 
Of  .\outh  and  ignorance ;  both  my  re\-i'nge  and  hate 


Loosing  upon  thee,  in  the  name  of  justice, 
Without  all  terms  of  pity.     Speak  !  thine  answer 

Bcr.  Pardon,  my  gracious  lord  ;  for  I  submit 
M}'  fancy  to  your  eyes.     When  I  consider 
What  great  creation,  ami  what  dole  of  honour. 
Fly  where  you  bid  it,  I  find  that  she,  which  late 
Was  in  my  nobler  thoughts  most  base,  is  now 
The  praised  of  the  king ;  who,  so  ennobled, 
Is,  as  't  were,  born  so. 

King.  Take  her  by  the  hand. 

And  tell  her  she  is  thine :  to  whom  I  promise 
A  counterpoise ;  if  not  to  thy  estate, 
A  balance  more  replete. 

Ber.  I  take  her  hand. 

King.  Good  fortune,  and  the  favour  of  the  king. 
Smile  upon  this  contract ;  whose  ceremony 
Shall  seem  expedient  ou  the  new-born  brief,'' 
And  be  peiform'd  to-night :  the  solemn  feast 
Shall  more  attend  upon  the  coming  space. 
Expecting  absent  friends.     A.s  thou  lov'st  her, 
Thy  love  's  to  me  religious ;  else,  does  err. 
[^Exeunt  King,  P>er.,  Uei..,  Lords,  and  Attendants. 

Luf.  Do  you  hear,  monsieur  ?  a  word  with  you. 

Par.  Your  pleasure,  sir  ? 

La/.  Your  lord  and  master  did  well  to  make 
liis  recantation. 

Par.  Kecantation? — My  lord  ?  my  master? 

Laf.  Ay :  Is  it  not  a  language  I  speak  ? 

Par.  A  most  harsh  one,  and  not  to  be  under- 
stood without  bloody  succeeding.     My  master  ? 

Laf.  Are  you  companion  to  the  count  Eousillon? 

Par.  To  any  count ;  to  all  counts  ;  to  what  ia 
man. 

Laf.  To  what  is  count's  man ;  count's  master  is 
of  another  style. 

Par.  You  are  too  old,  sir :  let  it  satisfy  you,  you 
are  too  old. 

Laf.  I  must  tell  thee,  sirrah,  I  write  man ;  to 
which  title  age  cannot  bring  thee. 

Par.  What  I  dare  too  well  do,  I  dare  not  do. 

Laf.  I  did  think  thee,  for  two  ordinaries,  to  bo 
a  pretty  wise  fellow;  thou  didst  make  tolerable 
vent  of  thy  travel ;  it  might  pass :  yet  the  scai-fe 
and  the  bannerets  about  thee  did  manifoldly  dis- 
suade me  from  believing  thee  a  vessel  of  too  great 
a  burthen.  I  have  now  found  thee ;  when  I  lose 
thee  again  I  care  not :  yet  art  thou  good  for  nothing 
but  faking  up ;  and  that  thou  'rt  scarce  worth. 

Par.  Iladst  thou  not  the  privilege  of  antiquity 
upon  thee, — • 

Laf.  Do  not  plunge  thyself  too  far  in  anger,  lest 
thou  hasten  thy  trial ; — which  if— Lord  have  mercv 

507 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


BCEKE    m. 


on  tliee  for  a  lieu  !  So,  my  good  window  of  lattice, 
fare  thee  well ;  thy  casement  I  need  not  open,  for 
I  look  through  thee.     Give  me  thy  hand. 

Par.  My  lord,  you  give  me  most  egregious 
indignity. 

Laf.  Av,  v.'ith  all  my  heart ;  and  thou  art 
worthy  of  it. 

Par.  I  have  not,  my  lord,  deserv'd  it. 

Laf.  Yes,  good  faith,  ev'ry  drachm  of  it :  and  I 
will  not  bate  thee  a  scruple. 

Par.  Well,  I  shall  be  wiser. 

Laf.  Ev'n  as  soon  as  thou  canst,  for  thou  hast 
to  pull  at  a  smack  a'  the  contrary.  If  ever  thou 
be'st  bound  in  thy  scarf,  and  beaten,  thou  shalt 
find  what  it  is  to  be  proud  of  thy  bondage.  I 
have  a  desire  to  hold  my  acquaintance  with  thee, 
or  rather  my  knowledge,  that  I  may  say,  in  the 
default,  he  is  a  man  I  know. 

Par.  My  lord,  you  do  me  most  insupportable 
vexation. 

Laf.  I  would  it  were  hell-pains  for  thy  sake, 
and  my  poor  doing  eternal ;  for  doing  I  am  past, 
as  I  will  b}'  thee,  in  what  motion  age  will  give  me 
leave.  \Ezit. 

Par.  Well,  thou  hast  a  son  shall  take  this  dis- 
grace off  me,  scurvy,  old,  filthy,  scurvy  lord  ! — 
Well,  I  must  be  patient ;  there  is  no  fettering  of 
authority.  I  '11  beat  him,  by  my  life,  if  I  can 
meet  liim  with  any  convenience,  an  he  were 
double  and  double  a  lord.  I  '11  have  no  more  pity 
of  his  age,  than  I  would  have  of — I  '11  beat  him, 
an  if  I  could  but  meet  him  again. 

Re-enter  Lafec. 

Laf.  Sirrah,  your  lord  and  master  's  married ; 
there 's  news  for  you  ;  you  have  a  new  mistress. 

Par.  I  most  uufeiguedly  beseech  your  lordship 
to  make  some  reservation  of  your  wrongs.  lie  is 
my  good  lord  :  whom  I  serve  above  is  my  master. 

Laf  Who?  God? 

Par.  Ay,  sir. 

Laf.  The  devil  it  is  that 's  thy  master.  Why 
do.st  thou  garter  up  thy  arms  a'  this  fashion  ? 
dost  make  liose  of  thy  sleeves  ?  do  other  servants 
60  ?  Thou  wert  best  set  thy  lower  part  wlicre  thy 
noso  stands.  By  mine  honour,  if  I  were  but  two 
hours  j'ounger,  I  'd  beat  thee :  methinks,  thou 
art  a  general  offence,  and  every  man  should  beat 
thee.  I  think  thou  wast  created  for  men  to 
breathe  themselves  u]ion  thee. 

Par.  This  is  hard  and  undeserved  measure,  my 
lonl 

&n8 


Laf  Go  to,  sir;  you  were  beaten  in  Italy  for 
picking  a  kernel  out  of  a  pomegiauate  ;  you  are  a 
vagabond,  and  no  true  traveller:  you  are  more 
saucy  with  lords  and  honourable  pereonages,  than 
the  condition  of  your  birth  and  virtue  gives  you 
heraldiy.  You  are  not  worth  another  word,  elsf 
I  'd  call  you  knave.     I  leave  you.  [Exil 

Enter  Bertram. 

Par.  Good,  very  good ;  it  is  so  then. — Good, 
very  good ;  let  it  be  conceal'd  a  while. 

Ber.  Undone,  and  forfeited  to  cares  for  ever  1 

Par,  What 's  the  matter,  sweet  heart  ? 

Bcr.  Although  before  the  solemn  priest  I  have 
sworn,  I  will  not  bed  her. 

Par.  What  ?  what,  sweet  heart  ? 

Ber.  0  my  ParoUes,  they  have  mamed  me : — 
I  '11  to  the  Tuscan  wars,  and  never  bed  her. 

Par.   France   is   a  dog-hole,  and   it  no  more 
merits 
The  tread  of  a  man's  foot :  to  th'  wars ! 

Bcr.  There  's  letters  from  my  mother ;  what 
th'  import  is,  I  know  not  yet. 

Par.  Ay,  that  would  be  known.     To  th'  wai-s, 
my  boy,  to  th'  wars ! 
He  wears  his  honour  in  a  box  unseen 
That  hugs  his  kicky-wicky"  here  at  home ; 
Spending  his  manly  marrow  in  her  arms, 
Which  should  sustain  the  bound  and  high  curvet 
Of  Mars's  fiery  steed.     To  other  regions  ! 
France  is  a  stable  ;  we,  that  dwell  in  't,  jades ; 
Therefore,  to  th'  war ! 

Ber.    It   shall    be    so ;    I  '11   send    her   to    ui) 
house ; 
Acquaint  my  motber  with  my  hate  to  her, 
And  wherefore  I  am  fled ;  write  to  the  king 
That  which  I  durst  not  speak.     His  present  gift 
Shall  furnish  me  to  those  Italian  fields. 
Where  noble  fellows  strike.     War  is  no  strife 
To  the  dark  house,  and  the  detested  wife.^ 

Par.   Will    this    capricio*'    hold    in    thee,   fu( 
sure  ? 

Ber.   Go  with   mo  to   my  chamber,  and    ad- 
vise mo. 
I  'II  send  her  straight  away.     To-morrow 
I  '11  to  the  wars,  she  to  her  single  sorrow. 

Par.  Why,   these  balls  bound  •    there  's  noJM 
in  it.     'T  is  hard: 
A  young  man  married  is  a  man  that 's  marr'd : 
Therefore  awaj",  and  leave  her  bravely;  go: 
The  king  luus  dor.e  you  wrong :  but,  husli !  't  is  so. 

\Kxeunt. 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


SCENE    IV T 


SCENE  IV. — The  same.     Another  Room  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter  IIelkna  and  Clown. 

Hd.  My  motliei  groots  me  kindly:  Is  she  well  ? 

Clo.  She  is  not  well ;  bnt  yet  she  has  her 
health :  she  's  very  merry ;  but  yet  she  is  not 
Well :  but  thauks  bo  given,  she  's  very  well,  and 
wants  nothing  i'  the  world ;  but  yet  she  is  not 
well. 

llel.  If  she  be  very  well,  what  does  she  ail 
Lhat  she  's  not  very  well  3 

Clo.  Truly,  she  's  very  well,  indeed,  but  for  two 
things. 

Hel.  What  two  things  ? 

Clo.  One,  that  she  's  not  in  heaven,  whither 
God  send  her  quickly !  the  other,  that  she  's  in 
earth,  from  whence  God  send  her  quickly  1 

Enter  Pauolles. 

Par.  Bless  you,  my  fortunate  Lady  ! 

Hel.  I  hope,  sir,  I  have  your  good  will  to  have 
mine  own  good  fortunes. 

Par.  You  had  my  prayers  to  lead  them  on : 
and  to  keep  them  on,  have  them  still. — 0,  my 
knave,  how  does  my  old  lady  ? 

Clo.  So  that  you  had  her  wrinkles,  and  I  her 
money,  I  would  she  did  as  you  say. 

Par.  Why,  I  say  nothing. 

Clo.  Marry,  you  are  the  wiser  man ;  for  many 
a  man's  tongue  shakes  out  his  master's  undoing. 
To  say  nothing,  to  do  nothing,  to  know  nothing, 
and  to  have  nothing,  is  to  be  a  great  part  of  your 
title ;  which  is  within  a  very  little  of  nothing. 

Par.  Away,  thou  'rt  a  knave. 

Clo.  You  should  have  said,  sir,  before  a  knave 
thou  'rt  a  knave  ;  that  's,  before  me  thou  'rt  a 
knave  ;  tliis  had  been  truth,  sir. 

Par.  Go  to,  thou  art  a  witty  fool ;  I  have  found 
thee. 

Clo.  Did  you  find  me  in  yourself,  sir  ?  or  were 
pu  taught  to  find  me  ?  The  seai'ch,  sir,  was 
profitable ;  and  much  fool  may  you  find  in  you, 
even  to  the  world's  pleasure,  and  the  increase  of 
laughter. 

Par.  A  good  knave,  i'  faith,  and  well  fed. — 
Madam,  my  lord  will  go  away  to-night: 
A  very  serious  business  calls  on  him. 
The  great  prerogative  and  right  of  love. 
Which,    as    your    due,    time    claims,    he    does 

acknowledge ; 
But  cuts  it  off  to  a  compell'd  restraint; 


Whoso  want,  and  whose  delay,  is  strew'd  with 

sweets, 
Which  they  distil  now  in  the  curbed  time, 
To  make  the  coming  hour  o'erflow  with  joy. 
And  pleasure  drown  the  brim. 

IM.  What 's  his  will  else  ? 

Par.  That  you  will  take  your  instant  leave  a 
the  king. 
And  make  this  haste  as  your  own  good  proceeding, 
Streugthen'd  with  wliat  apology  you  think 
May  make  it  probable  need. 

Hel.  What  more  commands  he  3 

Par,  That,  having  this  obtain'd,  you  presently 
Attend  his  further  pleasure. 

Hd.  In  everything  I  wait  upon  liis  will. 

Par.  I  shall  report  it  so. 

Hd.  I  pray  you. — Come,  sirrah. 

[^Exeunt 

SCENE  V. — Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  Lafeu  and  Bertram. 

Laf.  But  I  hope  your  lordship  thinks  not  him 
a  soldier. 

Ber.  Yes,  my  lord,  and  of  very  valiant  approof. 

Laf.  You  have  it  from  his  own  deliverance. 

Ber.  And  by  other  warranted  testimony. 

Laf.  Then  my  dial  goes  not  true :  I  took  this 
lark  for  a  bunting.*" 

Ber.  I  do  assure  you,  my  lord,  he  is  very  gi'eat 
in  knowledge,  and  accordingly  valiant. 

Laf.  I  have  then  sinn'd  against  his  experience, 
and  transgressed  against  his  valour;  and  my  state 
that  way  is  dangerous,  since  I  cannot  yet  find  in 
my  heart  to  repent.  Here  he  comes ;  I  pray  you, 
make  us  friends;  I  will  pursue  the  amity. 

Enter  Parolles. 

Par.  These  things  shall  be  done,  sir. 

[To  Bertram. 
Laf.  Pray  you,  sir,  who  's  his  tailor  3 
Par.  Sir  3  ' 

Laf.  0,  I  know  him  well.     Ay,  sir ;  he,  sir,  ia 
a  good  workman,  a  very  good  tailor. 
Ber.  Is  she  gone  to  the  king  ? 

\_Aside  to  Parolles, 
Par.  She  is. 

Ber.  W"ill  she  away  to-night  3 
Par.  As  you  '11  have  her. 
Ber.   I    have    writ   my   lettere,    casketod    mj 
treasure. 
Given  order  for  our  horees ;  and  to-night, 

509 


ACT    II. 


ALL 'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


SCEBIS   'V. 


When  I  should  take  possession  of  the  bride, 
End  ere  I  do  begin. 

Laf.  A  good  traveller  is  something  at  the  latter 
end  of  a  dinner ;  but  one  that  lies  three-thirds,  and 
uses  a  known  truth  to  pass  a  thousand  nothings 
with,  should  be  once  heard,  and  thrice  beaten. — 
God  save  you,  captain. 

Ber.  Is  there  any  unkindness  between  my  lord 
and  you,  monsieur  ? 

Par.  I  know  not  how  I  have  deserved  to  run 
into  my  lord's  displeasure. 

Laf.  You  have  made  shift  to  nm  into 't,  boots 
and  spurs  and  all,  like  Lim  that  leaped  into  the 
custard  ;^'  and  out  of  it  you  '11  run  again,  rather 
than  sutler  question  for  your  residence. 

Ber.  It  may  be  you  have  mistaken  him,  my 
lord. 

Laf.  And  shall  do  so  ever,  though  I  took  him 
at  's  prayers.  Fare  you  well,  my  lord ;  and 
believe  this  of  me,  there  can  be  no  kernel  in  this 
light  nut ;  the  soul  of  this  man  is  his  clothes : 
trust  him  not  in  matter  of  heavy  consequence ;  I 
have  kept  of  them  tame,  and  know  their  natures. — 
Farewell,  monsieur:  I  have  spoken  better  of  you 
than  you  have  or  will  to  deserve  at  my  hand  f " 
b  it  we  must  do  good  against  ev-il.  \Exit. 

Par.  An  idle  lord,  I  swear. 

Ber.  I  think  so. 

Par.  Why,  do  you  not  know  him  ? 

Bir.  Yes,  I  do  know  him  well;  and  common 
speech 
Gives  him  a  worthy  pass.     Here  comes  my  clog. 

Enter  Helena. 

Hel.  I  have,  sir,  as  I  was  commanded  from  you. 
Spoke  with  the  king,  and  have  procur'd  his  leave 
For  present  parting ;  only,  he  desires 
Some  private  speech  with  you. 

Ber.  I  shall  obey  his  will. 

You  must  not  marvel,  Helen,  at  my  course. 
Which  holds  not  colour  with  the  time,  nor  does 
The  ministration  and  required  office 
On  my  particular ;  prepai'd  I  was  not 
610 


For  such  a  business ;  therefore  am  I  found 
So  much  unsettled.    This  drives  me  to  entreat  you, 
That  presently  you  take  your  way  for  home  ; 
And  rather  muse,  than  ask,  why  I  entreat  you ; 
For  my  respects  are  better  than  they  seem ; 
And  my  appointments  have  in  them  a  need 
Greater  thau  show"  itself,  at  the  &'st  view, 
To  you  that  know  them  not.     This  to  my  mother ; 

\G'whi,g  a  letltr 
'T  will  be  two  days  ere  I  shall  see  you ;  so 
I  leave  you  to  your  wisdom. 

Htl.  Sir,  I  can  nothing  say. 

But  that  I  am  your  most  obedient  servant. 

Ber.  Come,  come,  no  more  of  that. 

Hel.  And  ever  shall 

With  true  observance  seek  to  eke  out  that. 
Wherein  toward  me  my  homely  stars  have  failed 
To  equal  my  great  fortune. 

Ber.  Let  that  go : 

My  h.aste  is  very  great.     Farewell ;  hie  home. 

Hel.  Pray,  sir,  your  pardon. 

Ber.  Well,  what  would  you  say  ? 

Hel.  I  am  not  worthy  of  the  wealth  I  owe ; 
Nor  dare  I  say  't  is  mine ;  and  yet  it  is ; 
But,  like  a  timorous  thief,  most  fain  would  steal 
What  law  does  vouch  mine  own. 

Ber.  What  would  you  have  ? 

Hel.  Something ;  and  scarce  so  much  : — noth 
ing,  indeed. — 
I  would  not  tell  you  what  I  would :  my  lord — 

'faith,  yes ; — 
Strangers  and  foes  do  sunder,  and  not  kiss. 

Ber.  I  pray  you,  stay  not,  but  in  haste  to  horse 

Hi.  I  shall  not  break  your  bidding,  good  my 
lord. 
Where  are  my  other  men  ?  Monsieur,  farewell. 

\_Exlt  Helexa. 

Ber.  Go  thou  toward  home ;  where  I  w ill  ne\ei 
come, 
WTiilst  I  can  shake  my  sword  or  hear  the  drum : — ■ 
Away,  and  for  our  flight ! 

Par.  Bravely,  coragio 

[^Exeunt 


ALL 'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


SCENE  I — n. 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I. — Florence.     A  Room  in  the  Duke's 
Palace. 

Flourish.     Unter  the  Duke  of  Florence,  two 
French  Lords,  and  soldiers. 

Duke.  So  that,  from  point  to  point,  now  have 
you  heard 
The  fundamental  reasons  of  this  war ; 
Whose  great  decision  hath  niuch  blood  let  forth. 
And  more  tliirsts  after. 

1  Lord.  Holy  seems  the  quarrel 
Upon  your  grace's  part;  black  and  fearful 
On  the  opposer. 

Duke.  Therefore  we  marvel  much,  our  cousin 
France 
Would,  in  so  just  a  business,  shut  his  bosom 
Against  our  borrowing  prayers. 

2  Lord.  Good  my  lord. 
The  reasons  of  our  state  I  cannot  yield 
But  like  a  common  and  an  outward  man, 
That  the  great  figure  of  a  council  frames 
By  self-unable  motion  :  therefore  dare  not 
Say  what  I  think  of  it ;  since  I  have  found 
Myself  in  my  uncertain  grounds  to  fail 

As  often  as  I  guess'd. 

Duke.  Be  it  his  pleasure. 

2  Lord.    But  I  am  sure,  the  younger  of  our 
nature. 
That  surfeit  on  their  ease,  will,  day  by  day, 
Come  here  for  physic. 

Duke.  Welcome  shall  they  be ; 

And  all  the  honours  that  can  fly  from  us 
Shall  on  them  settle.     You  know  your  places  well ; 
When  better  fall,  for  your  avails  they  fell : 
To-morrow  to  the  field. 

[Flourish.     Exeunt. 

SCENE  IT.^Rousillon.    A  Room  in  the  Countess'* 
Palace. 

Enter  Countess  and  Clown. 

Count.  It  hath  happen'd  all  as  I  would  have 
had  it,  save  that  he  comes  not  along  with  her. 


Clo.  By  my  troth,  I  fake  my  young  lord  to  be 
a  very  melancholy  man. 

Count.  By  what  observance,  I  pray  you  ? 

Clo.  Why,  he  ml!  look  upon  his  boot,  and  sing; 
mend  the  rufl',"  and  sing ;  ask  questions,  and  sing ; 
pick  his  teeth,  and  sing :  I  knew  a  man  that  had 
this  trick  of  melancholy  hold  a  goodly  manor  fur 
a  song. 

Coujit.  Let  me  see  what  he  writes,  and  when  he 
means  to  come.  [Openinr/  a  letter. 

Clo.  I  have  no  mind  to  Lbel,  since  I  was  at 
court;  our  old  ling  and  our  Isbels  a'  the  country 
ai'e  nothing  like  your  old  ling  and  your  Isbels  a'  the 
court :  the  brains  of  my  Cupid  's  knock'd  out ;  and 
I  begin  to  love,  as  an  old  man  loves  money,  with 
no  stomach. 

Count.  What  have  we  here  ? 

Clo.  E'en  that  you  have  there.  [Exit. 

Count.  [Reads.^ 

"  I  have  sent  you  a  daughter-in-law;  she  hath  recovered 
the  king,  and  undone  me.  I  liave  wedded  her,  not  bedded 
her;  and  have  sworn  to  make  the  nvt  eternaL  You  shall 
hear  I  am  run  away ;  know  it  before  the  report  come.  If 
there  be  breadth  enough  in  the  world,  I  will  hold  a  lo:;g 
distance,    ily  duty  to  you. 

"  Your  unfortunate  son, 

"BEHTKiLM.'' 

This  is  not  well,  rash  and  unbridled  boy. 
To  fly  the  favoiu's  of  so  good  a  king : 
To  pluck  his  indignation  on  thy  head, 
By  the  misprizing  of  a  maid  too  virtuous 
For  the  contempt  of  empire. 

Re-enter  Clown. 

Clo.  O  madam,  yonder  is  heavy  news  within, 
between  two  soldiers  and  my  young  lady. 

Count.  What  is  the  matter? 

Clo.  Nay,  there  is  some  comfort  in  the  news, 
some  comfort ;  your  son  vd\l  not  be  kill'd  so  soon 
as  I  thought  he  would. 

Count.  Why  should  he  be  kill'd? 

Clo.  So  say  I,  madam,  if  he  run  away,  as  I  hear 
he  does :  the  danger  is  in  standing  to  't ;  that '» 

511 


nCT   in. 


ALL^S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


the  loss  of  men,  though  it  be  the  getting  of  chil- 
dren. Here  they  come  v.ill  tell  you  more  :  for 
ray  part,  I  only  hear  your  son  was  run  awny. 

[Exit. 

Enter  IIelkna  and  two  Gentlemen. 

1  Gent.  Save  you,  good  m.adiiin. 

Hel.  Madam,  my  lord  is  gone,  for  ever  gone. 
«  Gent.  Do  not  say  so. 

Count.  Think  upon  patience. — Pray  you,  gentle- 
men,— 
I  have  felt  so  many  quirks  of  joy  and  grief, 
That  the  first  face  of  neither,  on  the  start. 
Can  woman  me  unto  't, — "W^here  is  my  son,  I  pray 
you? 

2  Gent.  Madam,  he  's  gone  to  serve  the  duke  of 

Florence : 
\Ve  met  him  thitherward ;  for  thence  wo  came, 
And,  after  some  despatch  in  hand  at  court. 
Thither  we  bend  again. 

Hel.  Look  on  his  letter,  madam ;  here  's  my 

passport.  \Reads. 

"  When  tliou  canst  get  the  ring  upon  my  finger,  which 
never  shnll  come  off,  and  show  me  a  cliild  begotten  of  tliy 
body  that  I  am  father  to,  then  ciU  me  husband ;  but  in 
such  a  then  I  write  a  never.'''' 

This  is  a  dreadful  sentence. 

Count.  Brought  you  this  letter,  gentlemen  ? 

1  Gent.  Ay,  madam  ; 

And,  for  the  contents'  s.ake,  are  sony  for  our  pains. 

Count.  I  prithee,  lady,  have  a  better  cheer ; 
If  thou  engrossest  all  the  griefs  are  thine, 
Thou  robb'st  me  of  a  moiety.     lie  was  my  son ; 
But  I  do  wash  his  name  out  of  my  blood. 
And  thou  art  all  my  child. — Towards  Florence  is 
he? 

2  Gent.  Ay,  madam. 

Count.  And  to  be  a  soldier? 

2  Gent.  Such  is  his  noblo  purpose :  and,  be- 
lieve 't. 
The  duke  will  lay  upon  him  all  th«  honour 
That  good  convenience  claims. 

Count.  Return  thou  thither? 

1  Gent.  Ay,  madam,  with  the  swiftest  wing  of 
speed. 

Hel.  "  Till  I  have  no  wife,  I  have  nothing  in 
France." 
T  is  bitter. 

Count.  Find  you  that  there  ? 

TIel.  Ay,  madam. 

I  Gent.  'T  is  but  the  boldness  of  his  hand,  haply, 
wliiih  his  heart  was  not  consenting  to. 

.S12 


Count.   Nothing  in  France,  until   he  have  no 
wife ! 
There 's  nothing  here  that  is  too  good  for  him, 
But  only  she  :  and  she  deserves  a  lord 
That  twenty  such  rude  boys  mignt  tend  ujion. 
And  call  her  hourly,  mistress.   Who  was  with  him  1 

1  Gent.  A  servant  only,  and  a  gentleman 
Which  I  have  some  time  known. 

Count.  Parolles,  was  't  not  ? 

1  Gent.  Ay,  my  good  lady,  he. 

Count.  A  very  tainted  fellow,  and  full  of  wicked- 
ness: 
My  son  corrupts  a  well-derived  nature 
With  his  inducement. 

1  Gent.  Indeed,  good  lady, 
The  fellow  has  a  deal  of  that,  too  much. 
Which  holds  him  much  to  have. 

Count.  Y'  are  welcome,  gentlemen. 
I  will  entreat  you,  when  you  see  my  son, 
To  tell  him  that  his  sword  can  never  win 
The  honour  that  he  loses :  more  I  '11  entreat  you, 
Written,  to  bear  along. 

2  Gent.  We  sen'e  you,  madam, 
In  that  and  all  your  worthiest  aflairs. 

Count.  Not  so,  but  as  we  change  our  courtesir:; 
Will  you  draw  near  ? 

[Exeunt  CouKT.  and  Gentlemen. 
Hel.  "Till  I  have  no  wife,  I  have  nothing  in 

France." 
Nothing  in  France,  till  he  has  no  wife ! 
Tliou  shall  have  none,  Eousillon,  none  in  France; 
Then  hast  thou  all  again.     Poor  lord  !  is  't  I 
That  chase  thee  from  thy  country,  and  expose 
Those  tender  limbs  of  thine  to  the  event 
Of  the  none-sparing  war  ?  and  is  it  I 
That  drive  thee  from  the  sportive  court,  whor 

thou 
Wast  shot  at  with  fair  eyes,  to  be  the  mark 
Of  .smoky  muskets  ?     O,  you  leaden  messengers, 
That  ride  upon  the  violent  speed  of  fire. 
Fly  with  false  aim ;  move  the  still-pefering**  air, 
That  sings  with  piercing;  do  not  touch  my  lord 
Whoever  shoots  at  him,  I  set  him  there  : 
Whoever  charges  on  his  forward  breast, 
I  am  the  caitifl"  that  do  hold  him  to  it ; 
And,  though  I  kill  him  not,  I  am  the  cause 
Ilis  death  was  so  eilected  :  better 't  were, 
I  mot  the  ravin  lion  when  he  roar'd 
With  sharp  consti'aint  of  hunger ;  better  't  worcs, 
Tiiat  all  the  miseries  which  nature  owes 
Were  mine  at  once.     No,  come  thou  home,  Rou- 

sillon, 


AOT    lU. 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


SCENE    HI V. 


WLence  honour  but  of  danger  wins  a  scar, 

As  oft  it  loses  all;  I  will  be  gone: 

My  being  here  it  is  that  holds  thee  hence : 

Shall  I  stay  here  to  do  't  ?  no,  no,  although 

The  air  of  paradise  did  fan  the  house, 

And  angels  ofBc'd  all :  I  will  be  gone, — 

That  Y  tiful  rumour  may  report  my  flight, 

To  oonsolate  thine  ear.     Come,  night;  end,  day  ! 

For,  with  the  dark,  poor  thief,  I  '11  steal  away. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  in.— Florence.  Before  the  Duke's  Palace. 

Flourish.  Enter  the  Duke  of  Florence,  Bertram, 
Lords,  Officers,  Soldiers,  and  others. 

Duke.   The    general    of  our  horse   thou   art ; 
and  we. 
Great  in  our  hope,  lay  our  best  love  and  credence 
Upon  thy  promising  fortune. 

£er. '  Sir,  it  is 

A  charge  too  heavy  for  my  strength :  but  yet 
We  '11  strive  to  bear  it  for  your  worthy  sake. 
To  th'  extreme  edge  of  hazard. 

Duke.  Then,  go  thou  forth ; 

And  fortune  play  upon  thy  prosperous  helm. 
As  thy  auspicious  mistress ! 

Ber.  This  veiy  day. 

Great  Mars,  I  put  myself  into  thy  file : 
Make  me  but  like  my  thoughts ;  and  I  shall  prove 
A  lover  of  thy  drum,  hater  of  love.  [Exeunt 


SCENE  rV. — Rousillon.  A  Room  in  the  Countess's 
Palace. 

Enter  Countess  and  Steward. 

Count.  Alas !  and  would  you  take  the  letter  of 
her? 
Might  you  not  know  she  would  do  as  she  has  done. 
By  sending  me  a  letter  ?    Read  it  again. 

Stew. 

I  am  St.  Jacques'  pilgrim,  thither  gon«. : 

Ambitious  love  hath  so  in  me  offended, 
That  barefoot  plod  I  the  cold  ground  upon. 

With  sainted  vow  my  faults  to  have  amended. 
Write,  write,  that,  from  the  bloody  course  of  war 

My  dearest  master,  your  dear  son,  may  hie ; 
Bless  him  at  home  in  peace,  whilst  I  from  fur 

His  name  with  zealous  fervour  sanctify : 
His  taken  labours  bid  him  me  forgive ; 

I,  his  despiteful  Juno,  send  him  forth 
From  courtly  friends,  with  camping  foes  to  live, 

Where  death  and  dhnger  dog  the  heels  of  worth : 
Hb  is  too  good  and  fair  for  Death  and  me ; 
Whom  I  myself  embrace,  to  set  him  free. 
65 


Count.  Ah,  what  sharp  stings  are  in  her  mildest 
words  1 — 
Rinaldo,  you  did  never  lack  advice  so  much 

As  letting  her  pass  so ;  had  I  spoke  with  her, 
I  could  have  well  diverted  her  intents, 
Which  thus  she  hath  prevented. 

Steiv.  Pardon  me,  madam ; 

If  I  had  given  you  this  at  over-night, 
She   might   have   been    o'erta'en ;    and   yet  sho 

writes. 
Pursuit  would  be  but  vain. 

Count.  What  angel  shall 

Bless  this  unworthy  husband  ?  he  cannot  thrive, 
Unless  her  prayers,  whom  heaven  delights  to  hear, 
And  loves  to  grant,  reprieve  him  from  the  wrath 
Of  greatest  justice. — Write,  write,  Rinaldo, 
To  this  unworthy  husband  of  his  wife : 
Let  every  word  weigh  heavy  of  her  worth. 
That  he  does  weigh  too  light :  my  greatest  giiet^ 
Though  little  he  do  feel  it,  set  down  sharply. 
Despatch  the  most  convenient  messenger : — 
When,  haply,  he  shall  hear  that  she  is  gone, 
He  will  return ;  and  hope  I  may  that  she. 
Hearing  so  much,  will  speed  her  foot  again. 
Led  hither  by  pure  love.     Which  of  them  both 
Is  dearest  to  me,  I  have  no  skill  in  sense 
To  make  distinction : — Provide  this  messenger : — 
My  heart  is  heavy,  and  mine  age  is  weak ; 
Grief  would  have  tears,  and  sorrow  bids  me  speak 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  Y.— Without  the  Walls  o/ Florence. 

A  tucket  afar  off.  Enter  an  old  Widow  of  Flo- 
rence, Diana,  Violenta,  Mariana,  and  other 
Citizens. 

Wid.  Nay,  come;  for  if  they  do  ajiproach  the 
city,  we  shall  lose  all  the  sight. 

Dia.  They  say  the  French  count  has  done  most 
honourable  service. 

Wid.  It  is  reported  that  he  has  taken  their 
great'st  commander,  and  that,  with  his  own  hand, 
he  slew  the  duke's  brother.  We  have  lost  our 
labour :  they  are  gone  a  contrary  way :  hark ! 
you  may  know  by  their  trumpets. 

Mar.  Come,  let 's  return  again,  and  sufBce  our- 
selves with  the  report  of  it.  Well,  Diana,  take 
hee-i  of  this  French  earl :  the  honour  of  a  maid  ia 
her  name,  and  no  legacy  is  so  rich  as  honesty. 

Wid.  I  have  told  my  neighbour  how  you  have 
been  solicited  by  a  gentleman  his  companion. 

Mar.    I   know    that   knave ;    hang   him !    one 

518 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


BCEIfE    V 


Parolles :  a  filthy  officer  he  is  in  those  suggestions 
for  the  young  earl. — Beware  of  them,  Diana; 
their  promises,  enticements,  oaths,  tokens,  and  all 
these  engines  of  lust,  are  not  the  things  they  go 
under :  many  a  maid  hath  been  seduced  by  them ; 
and  the  misery  is,  example,  that  so  terrible  shows 
in  the  wreck  of  maidenhood,  cannot  for  all  that 
dissuade  succession,  but  that  they  are  limed  with 
the  twigs  that  threaten  them.  I  hope  I  need  not 
to  advise  you  further ;  but  I  hope  your  own  grace 
will  keep  you  where  you  are,  though  there  were 
no  further  danger  known,  but  the  modesty  which 
is  so  lost. 

Dia.  You  shall  not  need  to  fear  me. 

Enter  Helena,  in  the  dress  of  a  pilgrim. 

Wid.  I  hope  so. — Look,  here  comes  a  pilgrim : 
I  know  she  will  lie  at  my  house  :  thither  they  send 
one  another :  I  '11  question  her. — 
God  save  you,  pilgrim  !  whither  are  you  bound  ? 

Hel.  To  Saint  Jaques  le  Grand. 
Where  do  the  palmers  lodge,  I  do  beseech  you  ? 

Wid.  At  the  Saint  Francis  here,  beside  the  port. 

Hd.  Is  this  the  way  ? 

Wid.  Ay  marry  is  't. — Hark  you,  they  come 

this  way : —  [A  march  afar  off. 

If  you  will  tarry,  holy  pilgrim,  but  till  the  troops 

come  by, 
I  will  conduct  you  where  you  shall  be  lodged ; 
The  rather,  for  I  think  I  know  your  hostess 
As  ani])le  as  myself 

Hel.  Is  it  yourself? 

Wid.  If  you  shall  please  so,  pilgrim. 

Hel.   I  thank  you,  and  will  stay  upon  your 
leisure. 

Wid.  You  came,  I  think,  from  France. 

Hel.  I  did  so. 

Wid.  Here  you  shall  see  a  countryman  of  youre. 
That  has  done  worthy  service. 

Hel.  His  name,  I  pray  you. 

Dia.  The  count  Rousillon :  know  you  such  a  one? 

Hel.  But  by  the  ear  that  hears  most  nobly  of 
him : 
His  face  I  know  not. 

Dia.  Whatsoe'er  he  is. 

He  's  bravely  taken  here.     He  stole  from  France, 
As  't  is  reported,  for  the  king  had  married  him 
Against  his  liking:  Think  you  it  is  so? 

Hel.  Ay,  surely,  mere  the  truth ;  I  know  liia 
lady. 

Dia.  There  is  a  gentleman  that  serves  the  coimt 
Report/!  but  coarsely  of  her. 
614 


Hel.  Wliat  's  his  name  ? 

Dia.  Monsieur  Parolles. 

Hel.  0,  1  believe  with  him, 

In  argument  of  praise,  or  to  the  worth 
Of  the  great  count  himself,  she  is  too  mean 
To  have  her  name  repeated ;  all  her  deserving 
Is  a  reserved  honesty,  and  that 
I  have  not  heard  examined. 

Dia.  Alas,  poor  lady  ! 

'T  is  a  hard  bondage,  to  become  ihe  wife 
Of  a  detesting  lord. 

Wid.    Ay,   right ;    good  creature,  wheresoe'ei 
she  is. 
Her  heait  weighs  sadly:  this  yoimg  maid  might 

do  her 
A  shrewd  turn,  if  she  pleased. 

Hel.  How  do  you  mean  ? 

May  be,  the  amorous  count  solicits  her 
In  the  unlawful  purpose. 

Wid.  He  does,  indeed  ; 

And  brokes  with  all  that  can  in  such  a  suit 
Corrupt  the  tender  honour  of  a  maid  : 
But  she  is  arm'd  for  him,  and  keeps  her  guard 
In  honestest  defence. 

Hnter,  with  drum  and   colours,  a  party  of  On 
Florentine  army,  Bertram,  and  Parolles. 

Mar.  The  gods  forbid  else  ! 
Wid.  So,  now  they  come : — 

That  is  Antonio,  the  duke's  eldest  son ; 
That,  Escalus. 

Hel.  Wliich  is  the  Frenchman  ? 

Dia.  He ; 

That  with  the  plume :  't  is  a  most  gallant  fel- 
low; 
I  would  he  lov'd  his  wife :  if  he  were  honester. 
He  were  much  goodlier : — Is  't  not  a  handsome 
gentleman  ? 

Hel.  I  like  him  well. 

Dia.  'T  is  pity  he  is  not  honest :  Yond  's  thai 
same  knave. 
That    leads    him   to   these   places ;    were  I   his 

lady, 
I  would  poison  that  vile  rascal. 

Hel.  Which  is  he? 

Dia.  That  jack-an-apes  with  scarfe :  Why  is  he 
melancholy  ? 

Hel.  Perchance  he 's  hurt  i'  the  battle. 

Par.  Lose  our  drum!  well. 

Mar.  He  's  shrewdly  vex'd  at  something.   Look 
he  has  spied  us. 

Wid.  Marry,  hang  you  I 


ACT   III. 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  KNUS  WELL. 


Mar.  And  your  courtesy,  for  a  ring-carrier ! 
[Exeunt  Ber.,  Par.,  Officers,  and  Soldiers. 

Wid.  The  troop  h  pass'J :  Come,  pilgrim,  I  will 
bring  you 
Where  you  shall  host:  of  eujoin'd  penitents 
There 's  four  or  five,  to  great  saint  Jaques  bound, 
Already  at  my  house. 

flel.  I  humbly  thank  you : 

Please  it  this  matron,  and  this  gentle  maid, 
To  eat  with  us  to-night,  the  charge  and  thanking 
Shall  be  for  me ;  and,  to  requite  you  further, 
I  will  bestow  some  precepts  of  this  virgin,^ 
Worthy  the  note. 

Both.  We  '11  take  your  offer  kindly. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  \I.—Camp  before  Florence. 
Enter  Bertram  and  ike  two  French  Lords. 

1  Lord.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  put  him  to 't ;  let 
him  have  his  way. 

2  Lord.  If  your  lordship  find  him  not  a  hilding, 
hold  me  no  more  in  your  respect. 

1  Lord.  On  my  life,  my  lord,  a  bubble  I 
Ber.   Do  you  think  I  anj  so  far  deceived  in 
him? 

1  Lord.  Believe  it,  my  lord,  in  mine  own  direct 
knowledge,  without  any  malice,  but  to  speak  of 
him  as  my  kinsman,  he  's  a  most  notable  coward, 
an  infinite  and  endless  liar,  an  hourly  promise- 
breaker,  the  owner  of  no  one  good  quality  worthy 
your  lordship's  entertainment. 

2  Lord.  It  were  fit  you  knew  him:  lest,  reposing 
too  far  in  bis  virtue,  which  he  hath  not,  he  might, 
at  some  great  and  trusty  business,  in  a  main  dan- 
ger, fail  you. 

Ber.  I  would  I  knew  in  what  particular  action 
to  try  him. 

2  Lord.  None  better  than  to  let  him  fetch  ofi' 
his  drum,  which  you  hear  him  so  confidently  un- 
dertake to  do. 

1  Lord.  I,  with  a  troop  of  Florentines,  will 
suddenly  surprise  him ;  such  I  will  have  whom  I 
am  sure  he  knows  not  from  the  enemy :  we  will 
bind  and  hoodwink  him,  so  that  he  shall  sujipose 
no  other  but  that  he  is  carried  into  the  leaguer  of 
the  adversaries,  when  we  bring  him  to  our  own 
tents.  Be  but  your  lordship  present  at  his  ex- 
amination :  if  he  do  not,  for  the  promise  of  his 
life,  and  in  the  highest  compulsion  of  base  fear, 
offer  to  betray  you,  and  deliver  all  the  intelligence 
in  his  power  against  you,  and  that  with  the  divine 


forfeit  of  his  soul  upon  oath,  never  trust  my  judg^ 
ment  in  anything. 

2  Lord.  O,  for  the  love  of  laughter,  let  him 
fetch  his  drum  ;  ho  says,  he  has  a  stratagem  for 't 
when  your  lordship  sees  the  bottom  of  his  success 
in 't,  and  to  what  metal  this  counterfeit  lump  of  ore 
will  be  melted,  if  you  give  him  not  John  Drum's 
entertainment,  your  inclining  cannot  be  removed. 
Here  he  comes. 

Enter  Parolles. 

1  Lord.  O,  for  the  love  of  laughter,  hinder  not 
the  humour  of  his  design :  let  him  fetch  oti"  his 
drum  in  any  hand. 

Ber.  How  now,  monsieur  ?  this  drum  sticks 
sorely  in  your  disposition. 

2  Lord.   A  pox  on  't,  let  it  go ;    't  is  but  a 

drum. 

Par.  But  a  drum  I  Is 't  but  a  drum  ?  A  drum 
so  lost! — There  was  excellent  command !  to  charge 
in  with  our  horse  upon  our  own  wings,  and  to  rend 
our  own  soldiers ! 

2  Lord.  That  was  not  to  be  blamed  in  the  com- 
mand of  the  service ;  it  was  a  disaster  of  war  that 
Caesar  himself  could  not  have  prevented,  if  he  had 
been  there  to  command. 

Ber.  Well,  we  cannot  greatly  condemn  our  suc- 
cess :  some  dishonour  we  had  in  the  loss  of  that 
drum ;  but  it  is  not  to  be  recovered. 

Par.  It  might  have  been  recovered. 

Ber.  It  might,  but  it  is  not  now. 

Par.  It  is  to  be  recovered :  but  that  the  merit 
of  service  is  seldom  attributed  to  the  true  and  exact 
performer,  I  would  have  that  drum  or  another,  or 
hie  jacet. 

Ber.  Why,  if  you  have  a  stomach  to  't,  mon- 
sieur, if  you  think  your  mystery  in  stratagem  can 
bring  this  instrument  of  honour  again  into  his 
native  quarter,  be  magnanimous  in  the  enterprise, 
and  go  on  ;  I  will  grace  the  attempt  for  a  worthy 
exploit :  if  you  speed  well  in  it,  the  duke  shall 
both  speak  of  it,  and  extend  to  you  what  further 
becomes  his  greatness,  even  to  the  utmost  syllable 
of  your  worthiness. 

Par.  By  the  hand  of  a  soldier,  I  will  under- 
take it. 

Ber.  But  you  must  not  now  slumber  in  it. 

Par.  I  '11  about  it  this  evening :  and  I  will 
presently  pen  down  my  dilemmas,  encourage  my- 
self in  my  certainty,  put  myself  into  my  mortal 
preparation,  and,  by  midnight,  look  to  hear  fuilher 
from  me. 

615 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


scKNK  vn. 


Ber.  Ma}'  I  be  bold  to  acquaint  Lis  grace  you 
are  gone  about  it  ? 

Par.  I  know  not  what  the  success  will  be,  my 
lord ;  but  the  attempt  I  vow. 

Ber   I  know  thou  'rt  valiant ; 
And  to  the  possibility  of  thy  soldiership 
Will  subscribe  for  thee.     Farewell. 

Par.  I  love  not  many  words.  [Exit. 

1  Lord.  No  more  thau  a  fish  loves  water. — Is 
not  this  a  strange  fellow,  my  lord,  that  so  confi- 
dently seems  to  undertake  this  business,  which  he 
knows  is  not  to  be  done;  damns  himself  to  do, 
and  dares  better  be  damned  than  to  do  't  ? 

2  Lord.  You  do  not  know  him,  my  lord,  as  we 
do :  certain  it  is,  that  he  will  steal  himself  into  a 
man's  favour,  and,  for  a  week,  escape  a  great  deal 
of  discoveries;  but  when  you  find  him  out,  you 
have  him  ever  after. 

Ber.  Why,  do  you  think  he  will  make  no  deed 
at  all  of  this,  that  so  seriously  he  does  address 
himself  unto  ? 

1  Lord.  None  in  the  world ;  but  return  with  an 
invention,  and  clap  upon  you  two  or  three  proba- 
ble hes :  but  (ve  have  almost  emboss'd  him ;  you 
shall  see  his  fall  to-night:  for,  indeed,  he  is  not 
for  your  lordship's  respect. 

2  Lord.  We  '11  make  yon  some  sport  with  the 
fox,  ere  we  case  Lim.  He  was  first  smok'd  by  the 
old  lord  Lafeu:  when  his  disguise  and  he  is 
Darted,  tell  me  what  a  sprat  you  shall  find  him ; 
which  you  shall  see  this  very  night. 

1  Lord.  I  must  go  look  my  twigs ;  he  shall  be 
caught. 

Ber.   Your   brother,    he   shall   go   along  with 
me. 

1  Lord.  As  't  pleass  your  lordship :  I  '11  leave 

you.  [Exit. 

Ber.  Now  will  I  lead    70u  to  the  house,  and 
show  you 
["he  lass  I  spoke  of. 

2  Lord.  But  you  say  she  's  honest. 
Ber.  Thiit  's  all  the  fault:   I  spoke  with  her 

but  once, 

And    found   her  wondrous    cold ;    but  I  sent    to 
her. 

By  this  same  coxcomb  that  we  have  i'  the  wind. 

Tokens  and  lett<^rs  which  she  did  re-send ; 

And  this  is  all  I  have  done.     She  's  a  fair  crea- 
ture ; 

Will  you  go  see  her  ? 
2  Ijord.  With  all  my  heart,  my  lord. 

[Exeunt. 

516 


SCENE  vn.— Florence.   A  Room  in  the  Widow'* 
House. 

Enter  Helena  and  Widow, 

Hel.  If  you  misdoubt  me  that  I  am  not  she, 
I  know  not  how  I  shall  assure  you  further. 
But  I  shall  lose  the  grounds  I  work  upon. 

Wid.  Though  my  estate  be  fall'n,  I  was  well 
bom. 
Nothing  acquainted  with  these  businesses. 
And  would  not  put  my  reputation  now 
In  any  staining  act. 

Hel.  Nor  would  I  wish  you. 

First,  give  me  trust,  the  count  he  is  my  husband 
And,  what  to  your  sworn  counsel  I  have  spoken 
Is  so,  from  word  to  word ;  and  then  you  cannot. 
By  the  good  aid  that  I  of  you  shall  borrow. 
Err  in  bestowing  it. 

Wid.  I  should  beheve  you ; 

For  you  have   show'd  me  that  which  well  ap- 
proves 
Y'  are  great  in  fortune. 

Hel.  Take  this  purse  of  gold, 

And  let  me  buy  your  friendly  help  thus  far, 
Which  I  will  over-pay,  and  pay  again, 
When  I  have  found  it.     The  count  he  woos  yet  r 

daughter, 
Lays  down  his  wanton  siege  before  her  beauty, 
Resolves  to  carry  her ;  let  her,  in  fine,  consent. 
As  we  '11  direct  her  how  't  is  best  to  bear  it ; 
Now  his  important  blood  will  nought  deny 
That  she  '11  demand.     A  ring  the  county  wears. 
That  downward  hath  succeeded  in  his  house, 
From  son  to  son,  some  four  or  five  descents 
Since  the  first  father  wore  it :  this  ring  he  holds 
In  most  rich  choice ;  yet,  in  his  idle  fire, 
To  buy  his  will,  it  would  not  seem  too  dear, 
Howe'er  repented  after. 

Wid.  Now  I  see  the  bottom  of  your  purpose. 

Hel.  You  see  it  la\vful  then  :  It  is  no  more, 
But  that  your  daughter,  ere  she  seems  as  won. 
Desires  this  ring ;  appoints  him  an  encounter ; 
In  fine,  delivers  mo  to  fill  the  time. 
Herself  most  chastely  absent ;  after  this, 
To  marry  her,  I  '11  add  three  thousand  crowns 
To  what  is  past  already. 

Wid.  I  have  yiolded  : 

Instruct  my  daughter  how  she  shall  persever, 
That  time  and  place,  with  this  deceit  so  lawfiil, 
May  prove  coherent.     Every  night  he  comes 
With  musics  of  all  sorts,  and  songs  compos'd 
To  her  unworthiuess.     It  nothing  steads  Ufl 


ACT   IV. 


ALL'S  WELL  TUAT  ENDS  WELL. 


SCBNE  I. 


To  chide  liiin  from  our  eaves;  for  he  persists, 

Is  wicked  meaning  in  a  lawful  deed, 

As  if  his  life  lay  on  't. 

And  lawful  meaning  in  a  lawful  act; 

Hcl.                 Why,  then,  to-night 

Where  both  not  sin,  and  yet  a  sinful  fact : 

fyct  us  assay  our  plot ;  which,  if  it  speed, 

But  let 's  about  it.                                      [Extunt 

ACT    lY. 


SCENE  I.— Without  the  Florentine  Camp. 
Enter  first  Lord,  with  five  or  six  Soldiers  in  ambush. 

1  Lord.  He  can  come  no  other  way  but  by  this 
hedge-comer.  When  you  sally  upon  him,  speak 
what  terrible  language  you  will ;  though  you 
understand  it  not  yourselves,  no  matter;  for  we 
must  not  seem  to  nnderstaud  him,  unless  some 
one  among  us,  whom  we  must  produce  for  an 
intei'preter. 

1  Sold.  Good  captain,  let  me  be  the  interpreter. 

1  Lord.  Art  not  acquainted  with  him  ?  knows 
ho  not  thy  voice  ? 

1  Sold.  No,  sir,  I  warrant  you. 

1  Lord.  But  what  linsy-woolsy  hast  thou  to 
speak  to  us  again  ? 

1  Sold.  E'en  such  as  you  speak  to  me. 

1  Lord.  He  must  think  us  some  band  of  stran- 
gers i'  the  adversary's  entei'tainment.  Now  he 
hath  a  smack  of  all  neighbouring  languages ;  tliere- 
fore  we  must  every  one  be  a  man  of  his  own  fancy, 
not  to  know  what  we  speak  one  to  another;  so 
we  seem  to  know  is  to  know  straight  our  pur- 
pose :  chough's  language,  gabble  enough,  and  good 
enough.  As  for  you,  interpreter,  you  must  seem 
very  politic.  But  couch,  boa !  here  ho  comes ;  to 
beguile  two  hours  in  a  sleep,  and  then  to  return 
and  swear  the  lies  he  forges. 

Enter  Parolles. 

Par.  Ten  a'clock :  within  these  three  hours  't 
will  be  time  enough  to  go  home.  What  shall  I 
Bay  I  have  done  ?  It  must  be  a  very  plausive  inven- 
tion that  carries  it.  They  begin  to  smoke  me :  and 
disgraces  have  of  late  knock'd  too  often  at  my  door. 
I  find  my  tongue  is  too  fool-hardy ;  but  my  heart 
hath  the  fear  of  Mars  before  it,  and  of  his  creatures, 
not  daring  the  reports  of  my  tongue. 

1  Lord.  This  is  the  first  truth  that  e'er  thine 
own  tongue  was  guilty  of.  [Aside. 


Par.  What  the  devil  should  move  me  to  under- 
take the  recovery  of  this  drum ;  being  not  ignorant 
of  the  impossibility,  and  knowing  I  had  no  such 
purpose?  I  must  give  myself  some  hurts,  and  say 
I  got  them  in  exploit.  Yet  slight  ones  will  not 
carry  it :  Tliey  will  say.  Came  you  off  with  so 
little  ?  and  great  ones  I  dare  not  give.  Where- 
fore? what's  the  instance?  Tongue,  I  must  put 
you  into  a  butter-woman's  mouth,  and  buy  myself 
another  of  Bajazet's  mule,'"  if  you  prattle  me  into 
these  perils. 

1  Lord.  Is  it  possible  he  should  know  what  he 
is,  and  be  that  he  is  ?  [Aside. 

Par.  I  would  the  cutting  of  my  garments  would 
serve  the  turn,  or  the  breaking  of  my  Spanish  sword. 

1  Lord.  We  cannot  afford  you  so.  [Aside. 

Par.  Or  the  baring  of  my  beard  ;  and  to  say  i( 
was  in  stratagem 

1  Lord.  'T  would  not  do.  [Aside 

Par.  Or  to  drown  my  clothes,  and  say  I  was 
stripp'd. 

1  Lord.  Hardly  serve.  [Aside. 

Par.  Though  I  swore  I  leap'd  from  the  window 
of  the  citadel — 

1  Lord.  How  deep  ?  [Aside, 

Par.  Thirty  fathom. 

1  Lord.  Three  great  oaths  would  scarce  make 
that  be  believed.  [Aside. 

Par.  I  would  I  had  any  drum  of  the  enemy's ; 
I  would  swear  I  recover'd  it. 

1  Lord.  You  shall  hear  one  anon.  [Aside. 

Par.  A  drum  now  of  the  enemy's ! 

[Alarum  within, 

1  Lord.  Throca  movousiis,  cargo,  cargo,  cargo. 

All.  Cargo,  cargo,  cargo,  villianda  par  corba^ 
cargo. 

Par.  0 !  ransom,  ransom :  do  not  hide  mine 
eyes. 

[They  seize  him  and  blindfold  him 

1  Sold.  Boskos  thromuldo  boskos. 

517 


ALL 'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


BOENE   TI. 


Far.  I  know  you  are  the  Muskos'  regiment, 
And  I  shall  lose  my  life  for  want  of  language : 
If  there  be  here  German,  or  Dane,  low  Dutch, 
rtalian,  or  French,  let  him  speak  to  me  ; 
I  will  discover  that  which  shall  undo 
The  Florentine. 

1  Sold.  Boskos  vauvado  : — 

I  understand  thee,  and  can  speak  thy  tongue : — 
Kerelybonto : — Sir, 

Betake  thee  to  thy  faith,  for  seventeen  poniards 
Are  at  thy  bosom. 

Par.  Oh ! 

1  Sold.  0,  pray,  pray,  pray, — 

Manka  revania  dulche. 

1  Lwrd.  Oscorbi  dulchos  volivorco. 

1  Sold.  The  general  is  content  to  spare  thee  yet ; 
And,  hoodwink'd  as  thou  art,  will  lead  thee  on 
To  gather  from  thee :  haply  thou  mayst  inform 
Something  to  save  thy  life. 

Far.  O,  let  me  live. 

And  all  the  secrets  of  our  camp  I  '11  show, 
Tlieir  force,  their  purposes  :  nay,  I  '11  speak  that 
Which  you  will  wonder  at. 

1  Sold.  But  wilt  thou  faithfully  ? 

Far.  If  I  do  not,  damn  me. 

1  Sold.  Acordo  Unta. — 

Come  on,  thou  art  granted  space. 

\_Exit,  with  Parolles  guarded. 

1  Lord.  Go,  tell  the  count  Rousillon,  and  my 

brother, 
We  have  caught  the  woodcock,  and  will  keep  him 

muffled 
Till  we  do  hear  from  them. 

2  Sold.  Captain,  I  will. 

1  Lord.  He  will  betray  us  all  unto  ourselves ; — 
Inform  on  that. 

2  Sold.  So  I  will,  sir. 

1  Lord.  Till   then,    I  '11    keep  him    dark,   and 
safely  lock'd.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  n.— Florence.     A  Boom  in  the  Widow'* 
House. 

Enter  Bertram  and  Diana. 

Bcr.  They  told  me  that  your  name  was  Fontibell. 

Dia.  No,  my  good  lord,  Diana. 

Der.  Titled  goddess ; 

And  worth  it,  with  addition ! — But,  fair  soul, 
In  your  fine  frame  hath  love  no  quality  ? 
If  the  (juick  fire  of  youth  light  not  your  mind, 
Vou  are  no  maiden,  but  a  monument : 
When  you  are  dead,  you  should  be  such  a  one 
618 


As  you  are  now,  for  you  are  cold  and  stem ; 
And  now  you  should  be  as  your  mother  was, 
When  your  sweet  self  was  got. 

Dia.  She  then  was  honest. 

Ber.  So  should  you  be. 

Dia.  No : 

My  mother  did  but  duty, — such,  my  lord, 
As  you  owe  to  your  wife. 

Ber.  No  more  a'  that ! 

I  piithee  do  not  strive  against  my  vows : 
I  was  compel  I'd  to  her;  but  I  love  thee 
By  love's  own  sweet  constraint,  and  will  forever 
Do  thee  all  rights  of  service. 

Dia.  Ay,  so  you  serve  us. 

Till  we  serve  you  :  but  when  you  have  our  roses. 
You  barely  leave  our  thorns  to  prick  ourselves, 
And  mock  us  with  our  bareness. 

Ber.  How  have  I  sworn ! 

Dia.  'T  is  not  the  many  oaths  that  make  tlia 
truth  ; 
But  the  plain  single  vow,  that  is  vow'd  true. 
What  is  not  holy,  that  we  swear  not  by, 
But  take   the   Highest  to  witness :   Then,  prav 

you,  tell  me, 
If  I  should  swear  by  Jove's  great  attributes 
I  lov'd  you  dearly,  would  you  believe  my  oaths. 
When  I  did  love  you  ill  ?    This  has  no  holding, 
To  swear  by  him  whom  I  protest  to  hive. 
That  I  will  work   against  him.     Therefore,  yout 

oaths 
Are  words,  and  poor  conditions,  but  unseal'd, — 
At  least,  in  my  opinion. 

Ber.  Change  it,  change  it ; 

Be  not  so  holy-cruel :  love  is  holy. 
And  my  iutegiity  ne'er  knew  the  crafts 
That  you  do  charge  men  with.  Stand  no  more  off, 
But  give  thyself  unto  my  sick  desires. 
Who  then  recover :  say,  thou  art  mine,  and  ever 
My  love,  as  it  begins,  shall  so  persever. 

Dia.  I  see  that   men    make    ropes   in  such    a 
scarre," 
That  wo  '11  forsake  oui-selves.     Give  me  that  ling. 

Ber.   I  '11   lend   it   thee,   my   dear,   but  havo 
no  power 
To  give  it  from  me. 

Dia.  Will  you  not,  my  lord  ? 

Ber.  It  is  an  honour  'longing  to  our  houae, 
Bequeathed  down  from  many  ancestors ; 
Which  were  the  greatest  obloquy  i'  the  world 
In  me  to  lose. 

Dia.  Mine  honour 's  such  a  riiip ' 

I  My  chastity  's  tbe  jewel  of  our  house. 


ACT    IV 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  JuNDS  WELL. 


SCENE    111. 


Bequeathed  down  from  many  ancestors ; 
Which  were  the  greatest  obloquy  i'  the  world 
In  me  to  lose.     Thus  your  own  proper  wisdom 
Brings  in  the  champion  Honour  on  my  part, 
.\giiiust  your  vain  assault. 

Bcr.  Here,  take  my  ring  : 

My  house,  mine  honour,  yea,  my  life,  be  thine, 
And  I  '11  be  bid  by  thee. 

Dia.   When   midnight   comes,   knock    at  my 

chamber  window. 
I  'II  order  take  my  mother  shall  not  hear. 
Now  will  I  charge  you  in  the  band  of  truth. 
When  you  have  conquer'd  my  yet  maiden  bed, 
Remain  there  but  an  hour,  nor  speak  to  me : 
My  reasons  are  most  strong ;  and  you  shall  know 

them. 
When  back  again  this  ring  shall  be  deliver'd : 
And  on  your  linger,  in  the  night,  I  '11  put 
Another  ring ;  that  what  in  time  proceeds 
May  token  to  the  future  our  past  deeds. 
Adieu,  till  then  ;  then,  fail  not :  You  have  won 
A  wife  of  me,  though  there  my  hope  be  done. 
Bcr.  A  heaven  on  earth  I  have  won,  by  wooing 

thee.  [Exit. 

Dia.  For  which  live  long  to  thank  both  Heaven 

and  me ! 
Vou  may  so  in  the  end. — 
My  mother  told  me  just  how  he  would  woo, 
As  if  she  sat  in  's  heart ;  she  says,  all  men 
Have  the  like  oaths :  he  had  sworn  to  marry  me, 
When  his  wife  's  dead  ;   therefore  I  '11   lie    with 

him 
When  I  am   buried.     Since   Frenchmen   are   so 

braid,'' 
Many  that  will,  I  live  and  die  a  maid : 
Only,  in  this  disguise,  I  think  't  no  sin 
To  cozen  him  that  would  unjustly  win.  \Exit. 

SCENE  m.— TAe  Florentine  Camp. 

Enter  the   two   French   Lords,  and  two  or  three 
Soldiers. 

1  Lord.  You  have  not  given  him  his  mothev's 
letter? 

2  Lord.  I  have  delivered  it  an  hour  since : 
there  is  something  in  't  that  stings  his  nature ; 
for,  on  the  reading  it,  he  changed  almost  into 
another  man. 

1  Lord.  He  has  much  worthy  blame  laid  upon 
him,  for  shaking  oft"  so  good  a  wife,  and  so  sweet 
I  lady. 

2  Lord.  Especially  he  hath  incurred  the  ever- 


lasting displeasure  of  the  king,  who  had  even 
tun'd  his  bounty  to  sing  happiness  to  him.  I 
will  tell  you  a  thing,  but  you  shall  let  it  dwell 
darkly  with  you. 

1  Lord.  When  you  havo  spoken  it,  't  is  dead, 
and  I  am  the  grave  of  it. 

2  Lord.  He  hath  perverted  a  young  gentle- 
woman here  in  Florence,  of  a  most  chaste  renown  ; 
and  this  night  ho  fleshes  his  will  in  the  spoil  of 
her  honour  :  he  hath  given  her  his  monumental 
ring,  and  thinks  himself  made  in  the  unchaste 
composition. 

1  Lord.  Now,  God  delay  our  rebellion  !  as  we 
are  ourselves  what  things  are  we ! 

2  Lord.  Merely  our  own  traitors.  And  as  in 
the  common  course  of  all  treasons,  we  still  sec 
them  reveal  themselves,  till  they  attain  to  their 
abhorr'd  ends ;  so  he,  that  in  this  action  contrives 
against  his  own  nobility,  in  his  proper  stream 
o'erflows  himself. 

1  Lord.  Is  it  not  meant  damnable"  in  us  to  be 
trumpeters  of  our  unlawful  intents?  We  shall 
not  then  have  his  company  to-night  ? 

2  Lord.  Not  till  after  midnight;  for  he  is 
dieted  to  his  hour. 

1  Lord.  That  approaches  apace  :  I  would  gladly 
have  him  see  his  company  anatomiz'd,  that  he 
might  take  a  measure  of  his  own  judgments  where- 
in so  curiously  he  had  set  this  counterfeit. 

2  Lord.  We  will  not  meddle  with  him  till  lie 
come;  for  his  presence  must  be  the  whip  of  the 
other. 

1  Lord.  In  the  mean  time,  what  hear  you  of 
these  wars? 

2  Lord.  I  hear  there  is  an  overture  of  peace. 

1  Lord.  Nay,  I  assure  you  a  peace  concluded. 

2  Lord.  What  will  count  Rousillon  do  then  ? 
will  he  travel  higher,  or  return  again  into  France 

1  Lord.  I  perceive,  by  this  demand,  you  art 
not  altogether  of  his  council. 

2  Lord.  Let  it  be  forbid,  sir !  so  should  I  be  a 
great  deal  of  his  act. 

1  Lord.  Sir,  his  wife,  some  two  months  since, 
fled  from  his  house  :  her  pretence  is  a  pilgrimage 
to  saint  Jaques  le  Grand  ;  which  holy  undertaking, 
with  most  austere  sanctimony,  she  accomplish'd  : 
and  there  residing,  the  tenderness  of  her  nature 
became  as  a  prey  to  her  grief;  in  fine,  made  a 
groan  of  her  last  breath,  and  now  she  sings  it 
heaven. 

2  Lord.  How  is  this  justified  ? 

1  Lord.  The  stronger  par*  of  it  by  her  own  le< 

•MO 


ACT    IV. 


ALL'S  WELL  TUAT  ENDS  WELL. 


SCENE   in. 


ters;  which  makes  her  story  true,  even  to  the  point 
of  her  death  :  her  death  itself,  which  could  not  be 
her  office  to  say  is  come,  was  faithfully  confirm'd 
by  the  rector  of  the  place. 

2  Lord.  Hath  the  count  all  this  intelligence  ? 

1  Lord.  Aj,  and  the  particular  confirmations, 
point  from  point,  to  the  full  arming  of  the  verity. 

2  Lord.  I  am  heailily  sorry  that  he  '11  be  glad 
of  this. 

1  Lord.  How  mightily,  sometimes,  we  make  us 
comforts  of  our  losses  ! 

2  Lord.  And  how  mightily,  some  other  times, 
we  drown  our  gain  in  tears !  The  great  dignity 
that  his  valour  hath  here  acquir'd  for  him,  shall 
at  home  be  encount'red  with  a  shame  as  ample. 

1  Lord.  The  web  of  our  life  is  of  a  mingled 
yarn,  good  and  ill  together :  our  virtues  would  be 
proud,  if  our  faults  whipp'd  them  not ;  and  our 
crimes  would  despair,  if  they  were  not  cherish'd 
by  our  virtues. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

How  now  3  where 's  your  master  ? 

Serv.  He  met  the  duke  in  the  street,  sir,  of 
whom  he  hath  taken  a  solemn  leave  ;  his  lordship 
will  ne.xt  morning  for  France.  The  duke  hath 
ofl'ered  him  letters  of  commendations  to  the  king. 

2  Lord.  They  shall  be  no  more  than  needful 
there,  if  they  were  more  than  they  can  commend. 

Enter  Bertram. 

1  Lord.  They  cannot  be  too  sweet  for  the  king's 
tartness.  Here  's  his  lordship  now.  How  now, 
my  lord,  is  't  not  after  midnight  ? 

Ber.  I  have  to-night  despatch'd  sixteen  busi- 
nesses, a  month's  length  a-piece,  by  an  abstract 
of  success :  I  have  conge'd  with  the  duke ;  done 
my  adieu  with  his  nearest ;  buried  a  wife ;  mourn'd 
for  her  ;  writ  to  my  lady  mother  I  am  returning ; 
entertained  my  convoy ;  and  between  these  main 
parcels  of  despatch,  efiected  many  nicer  needs ; 
the  last  was  the  greatest,  but  that  I  have  not 
ended  yet. 

2  Lord.  If  the  business  be  of  any  difficulty,  and 
this  morning  your  departure  hence,  it  requires 
Liuste  of  your  lordship. 

Ber.  I  mean  the  business  is  not  ended,  as  fear- 
ing to  hear  of  it  hereafter  :  But  shall  we  have  this 
dialogue  be*-^een  the  fool  and  the  soldier  ? — Come, 
bring  forth  this  counterfeit  module,  has  deceiv'd 
me,*'  lik(!  a  double-meaning  prophesier. 

2  Lord.  ]5ring  him  forth  :      yExeunt  Soldiers.] 

/i20 


h  'as   sat   in   the    stocks   all   night,  poor   gallant 
knave. 

Ber.  No  matter ;  his  heels  have  deserv'd  it,  in 
usurping  his  spurs  so  long.  How  does  he  carry 
himself  ? 

1  Lord.  I  have  told  your  lordship  already  ;  the 
stocks  carry  him.  But  to  answer  you  as  you 
would  be  understood, — he  weeps  like  a  wench  that 
had  shed  her  milk :  he  hath  coirfess'd  himself  to 
Morgan,  whom  he  supposes  to  be  a  fiiar,  fiom  the 
time  of  his  remembrance  to  this  very  instant  disas- 
ter of  his  setting  i'  the  stocks  :  And  what  think 
you  he  hath  confess'd  ? 

Ber.  Nothing  of  me,  has  'a  ? 

2  Lord.  His  confession  is  taken,  and  it  shall  be 
read  ii  his  face  :  if  your  lordship  be  in  't,  as  I  be- 
lieve you  are,  you  must  have  the  patience  to  hear  it 

Re-enter  Soldiers,  with  Parolle.s. 

Ber.  A  plague  upon  him  !  muffled  !  he  can  say 
nothing  of  me  ;  hush  !  hush  ! 

1  Lord.  Hoodman  comes  '.■"     Porto  tartarossa. 

1  Sold.  He  calls  for  the  tortures :  What  will 
you  say  without  'em  ? 

Par.  I  will  confess  what  I  know  without  con 
straint ;  if  ye  pinch  me  like  a  pasty,  I  can  say  "n 
more. 

1  Sold.  Bosko  chimurcho. 

2  Lord.  Boblibindo  chicurmurco. 

1  Sold.  You  are  a  merciful  general : — Our  gen- 
eral bids  you  answer  to  what  I  shall  ask  you  cut 
of  a  note. 

Par.  And  truly,  as  I  hope  to  live. 

1  Sold.  "  First  demand  of  him  how  many  horse 
the  duke  is  strong."     What  say  you  to  that  ? 

Par.  Five  or  six  thousand ;  but  very  weak,  and 
unserviceable :  the  troops  are  all  scattered,  and  the 
commanders  very  poor  rogues,  upon  my  reputation 
and  credit,  and  as  I  hope  to  live. 

1  Sold.  Shall  I  set  down  your  answer  so  ? 

Par.  Do ;  I  '11  take  the  sacrament  on  't,  how 
and  which  way  you  will. 

1  Sold.  All 's  one  to  him. 

Ber.  Wliat  a  pjist-saving  slave  is  this  ! 

1  Lord.  Y'  are  deceiv'd,  my  lord  ;  this  is  mon- 
sieur ParoUes,  the  gallant  militarist  (that  was  his 
own  phrase),  that  had  the  whole  theoric  of  war  in 
the  knot  of  his  scarf,  and  the  practice  in  the  chape 
of  his  dagger. 

2  Lord.  I  will  never  trust  a  man  again,  foi 
keeping  his  sword  clean  ;  nor  believe  he  can  hav« 
everything  in  him,  by  wearing  his  apparel  neatly. 


ALL 'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


BCESK  in. 


1  Sold.  Well,  tliat  's  set  down. 

Par.  Five  or  six  thousand  horse,  I  said,  I  will 
Bay  true, — or  thereabouts,  set  down, — for  I  '11 
speak  tiiith. 

1  Lord.  He  's  very  near  the  truth  in  this. 

Ber.  But  I  con""  him  no  thanks  fur 't,  in  the 
nature  he  delivers  it. 

Par.  Poor  rogues,  I  pray  you,  say. 

1  Sold.  Well,  that 's  set  down. 

Par.  I  humbly  thank  you,  sir ;  a  truth  's  a 
truth  ;  the  rogues  are  marvellous  poor. 

1  Sold.  "  Demand  of  him,  of  what  strength  they 
are  a-foot."     What  say  you  to  that  ? 

Par.  By  my  troth,  sir,  if  I  ware  to  live  this 
present  hour,  I  will  tell  true.  Let  me  see :  Spurio 
a  hundred  and  fifty,  Sebastian  so  many,  Corambus 
BO  many,  Jaques  so  many  ;  Ouiltan,  Cosmo,  Lodo- 
wic,  and  Gratii,  two  humlred  fifty  each :  mine 
own  cornpany,  Chitopher,  Vaumond,  Bentii,  two 
hundred  fifty  each ;  so  that  the  muster-file,  rotten 
and  sound,  upon  my  life,  amounts  not  to  fifteen 
thousand  poll ;  half  of  the  which  dare  not  shake 
the  snow  from  off  their  cassocks,*'  lest  they  shake 
themselves  to  pieces. 

Ber.  Wiat  shall  be  done  to  him  ? 

1  Lord.  Nothing,  but  let  him  have  thanks. 
Demand  of  him  my  condition,  and  what  credit  I 
have  with  the  duke. 

1  Sold.  Well,  that 's  set  down.  "  You  shall 
demand  of  him,  whether  one  captain  Dumain  be 
i'  the  camp,  a  Frenchman  ;  what  his  reputation 
is  with  the  duke,  what  his  valour,  honesty,  and 
expertness  in  wars  ;  or  whether  he  thinks  it  were 
not  possible,  with  well-weighing  sums  of  gold,  to 
corrupt  him  to  a  revolt."  What  say  you  to  this  ? 
what  do  you  know  of  it  ? 

Par.  I  beseech  you,  let  me  answer  to  the  partic- 
ular of  the  intergatories.     Demand  them  simply. 

1  Sold.  Do  you  know  this  captain  Dumain  3 

Par.  I  know  him  :  'a  was  a  botcher's  'prentice 
in  Paris,  from  whence  he  was  whipp'd  for  getting 
the  shrieve's  fool  with  child  ;   a  dumb   innocent 
that  could  not  say  him  nay. 
[r/ic First  Lord — Dum. — lifts  uj)  his  hand  in  anr/er. 

Ber.  Nay,  by  your  leave,  hold  your  hands ; 
though  I  know  his  brains  are  forfeit  to  the  next 
tile  th.at  Mh. 

1   Sold.  Well,  is  this  captain  in  the   duke  of 
(Iplorence's  camp  ? 

Par.  Upon  my  knowledge  he  is,  and  lousy. 

1  Ixird.  Nay,  look  not  so  upon  me ;  we  shall 
bear  of  your  lordfhip  anon. 
66 


1  Sold.  What  is  his  reputation  with  the  duke  1 

Par.  The  duke  knows  him  for  no  other  but  a 
poor  officer  of  mine ;  and  writ  to  me  this  other 
day  to  turn  him  out  a'  the  baud  :  I  think  I  have 
his  letter  in  my  pocket. 

1  Sold.  Marry,  we  '11  search. 

Par,  In  good  sadness,  I  do  not  know  ;  either  it 
is  there,  or  it  is  upon  a  file,  with  the  duke's  other 
letters,  in  my  tent. 

1  Sold.  Here 't  is;  here's  a  paper.  Shall  I 
read  it  to  you  ? 

Par.  I  do  not  know  if  it  be  it,  or  no. 

Ber.  Our  interpreter  does  it  well. 

1  Lord.  Excellently. 

1  Sold. 
"Eian.     Ttie  count's  a  fool,  and  full  of  gold," 

Par.  That  is  not  the  duke's  letter,  sir ;  that  is 
an  advertisement  to  a  proper  maid  in  Florence, 
one  Diana,  to  take  heed  of  the  allurement  of  one 
count  Rousillon,  a  foolish  idle  boy,  but  for  all 
that,  very  ruttish.  I  pray  you,  sir,  put  it  up 
again. 

1  Sold.  Nay,  I  '11  read  it  first,  by  your  favour. 

Par.  My  meaning  in  't,  I  protest,  was  very 
honest  in  the  behalf  of  the  maid  ;  for  I  knew  the 
young  count  to  be  a  dangerous  and  lascivious 
boy ;  who  is  a  whale  to  virginitj',  and  devours  un 
all  the  fry  it  finds. 

Ber.  Damn.able,  both  sides  rogue  ! 

1  Sold. 

"  When  he  swears  oaths,  bid  him  drop  gold,  aud  take  it , 
After  he  scores,  he  never  pays  the  score  : 
Half  won  is  match  well  made  ;  match,  and  well  mako  it 

He  ne'er  pays  after  debts,  take  it  before ; 
And  say  a  soldier,  Dian,  told  thee  tliis. 
Men  are  to  mell  with,<<  boys  are  not  to  kiss : 
For  count  of  this,  the  count's  a  fool,  I  know  it, 
Who  pays  before,  but  not  wlien  he  does  owe  it. 
Thine,  as  he  vow'd  to  thee  in  thine  ear, 

"  Pakolles." 

Ber.  He  shall  be  whipp'd  through  the  army, 
with  this  rhyme  in  's  forehead. 

2  Lord.  This  is  your  devoted  friend,  sir,  the 
manifold  hnguist,  and  the  armipotent  soldier." 

Ber.  I  could  endure  anything  before  but  a  cat, 
and  now  he  's  a  cat  to  me. 

1  Sold.  I  perceive,  sir,  by  our  general's  looks 
we  shall  be  fain  to  hang  you. 

Par.  My  life,  sir,  in  any  case :  not  that  I  am 
afi'aid  to  die ;  but  that,  my  offences  being  many 
I  would  repent  out  the  remainder  of  natiwe  :  let 
me  live,  sir,  in  a  dungeon,  i'  the  stocks,  or  any- 
where, so  I  may  hve. 

521 


ALL'S   WELL   THAT   ENDS  WELL. 


1  Sold.  We  '11  see  what  may  be  done,  so  you 
confess  freely ;  therefore,  once  more  to  this  cap- 
tain Dumain.  You  have  answer'd  to  his  reputa- 
tion with  the  duke,  and  to  his  valour :  what  is  his 
honesty  ? 

Far.  He  will  steal,  sir,  an  egg  out  of  a  cloister ; 
for  rapes  and  ravishments,  he  parallels  Nessus. 
He  professes  not  keeping  of  oaths ;  in  breaking 
'em,  he  is  stronger  than  Hercules.  He  will  lie, 
sir,  with  such  volubility,  that  you  would  think 
truth  were  a  fool :  drunkenness  is  his  best  virtue ; 
for  he  will  be  swine-drunk,  and  in  his  sleep  he 
does  little  harm,  save  to  his  bed-clothes  about 
him  ;  but  they  know  his  conditions,  and  lay  him 
in  straw.  I  have  but  little  more  to  say,  sir,  of 
his  honesty  :  he  has  evei-ything  that  an  honest 
man  should  not  have  ;  what  an  honest  man  should 
have,  he  has  nothing. 

1  Lord.  I  begin  to  love  him  for  this. 

Ber.  For  this  description  of  thine  honesty  1  A 
pox  upon  him  for  me  1  he 's  more  and  more  a  eat. 

1  Sold.  What  say  you  to  his  expertness  in 
war? 

Par.  Faith,  sir,  h'  as  led  the  drum  before  the 
English  tragedians, — To  belie  him  I  will  not, — 
and  more  of  his  soldiership  I  know  not ;  except, 
in  that  country,  he  had  the  honour  to  be  the  of- 
.*icer  at  a  place  there  called  Mile-end,  to  instruct 
for  the  doubling  of  files :  I  would  do  the  man 
what  honour  I  can,  but  of  this  I  am  not  certain. 

1  Lord.  He  hath  out^villain'd  villainy  so  far, 
that  the  rarity  redeems  him. 

Ber.  A  pox  on  him ;  he  's  a  cat  still. 

1  Sold.  His  qualities  being  at  this  poor  price, 
1  need  not  to  ask  you  if  gold  will  corrupt  him 
to  revolt. 

Par.  Sir,  for  a  cardecue  he  will  sell  the  fee-sim- 
ple of  his  salvation,  the  inheritance  of  it ;  and  cut 
th'  entail  from  all  remainders,  and  a  perpetual 
succession  for  it  perpetually. 

1  Sold.  What 's  his  brother,  the  other  captain 
Dumain  1 

2  Lord.  Why  does  he  ask  him  of  me  ? 
1   Sold.  What 'she? 

Par.  E'en  a  crow  a'  the  same  nest ;  not  alto- 
gether 30  great  as  the  first  in  goodness,  but  greater 
a  great  deal  in  evil.  He  excels  his  brother  for  a 
coward,  yet  his  brother  is  reputed  one  of  the 
best  that  is.  In  a  retreat,  he  outruns  any  lackey  ; 
marry,  in  coming  on  lie  has  the  cramp. 

1  Sold.  If  your  life  bo  saved,  will  you  under- 
take to  betray  the  Florentine  1 
C22 


Par.  Ay,  and  the  captain  of  his  horse,  count 
Rousillon. 

1  Sold.  I  '11  whisper  with  the  general,  and 
know  his  pleasure. 

Par.  I  '11  no  more  drumming ;  a  plague  of  all 
drums :  Only  to  seem  to  deserve  well,  and  to 
beguile  the  supposition  of  that  lascivious  young 
boy  the  count,  have  I  run  into  this  danger :  Yet 
who  would  have  suspected  an  ambush  where  I 
was  taken?  [Aside. 

1  Sold.  There  is  no  remedy,  sir,  but  you  must 
die :  the  general  says,  you,  that  have  so  traitorous- 
ly discover'd  the  secrets  of  your  army,  and  made 
such  pestiferous  reports  of  men  very  nobly  held, 
can  serve  the  world  for  no  honest  use ;  therefore 
you  must  die.  Come,  headsman,  oS"  with  his  head. 

Par.  0  Lord,  sir,  let  me  live,  or  let  me  see 
my  death ! 

1  Sold.  That  shall  you,  and  take  your  leave 
of  all  your  friends.  \_Unmvffling  him. 

So,  look  about  you :  Know  you  any  here  ? 

Ber.  Good  morrow,  noble  captain. 

3  Lord.  God  bless  you,  captain  Parolles. 

1  Lord.  God  save  you,  noble  captain. 

2  Lord.  Captain,  what  greeting  will  you  to  my 
lord  Lafeu?  I  am  for  France. 

1  Lord.  Good  captain,  will  you  give  me  a 
copy  of  the  sonnet  you  writ  to  Diana  in  behalf 
of  the  count  Eousillon  ?  an  I  wore  not  a  very  cow- 
ard, I'd  compel  it  of  you  ;  but  fare  you  well. 

[Exeunt  Ber.,  Lords,  &c. 

1  Sold.  You  are  undone,  captain :  all  but  your 
scarf,  that  has  a  knot  on  't  yet. 

Par.  Who  cannot  be  crush'd  with  a  plot? 

I  Sold.  If  you  could  find  out  a  country  where 
but  women  were  that  had  received  so  much 
shame,  you  might  begin  an  impudent  nation. 
Fare  you  well,  sir ;  1  am  for  France,  too ;  we 
shall  speak  of  you  there.  [Exit. 

Par.  Yet  am  I  thankful :  if  my  heart  were 
great, 
'T  would  burst  at  this.    Captain  I  '11  be  no  more ; 
But  I  will  eat  and  drink,  and  sleep  as  soft 
As  captain  shall ;  simply  the  thing  I  am 
Shall   make   me  live.     Who  knows  himself  n 

braggart. 
Let  him  fear  this  ;  for  it  will  come  to  pass. 
That  every  braggart  shall  be  found  an  ass. 
Rust,  sword !  cool,  blushes  !  and,  Parolles  live 
Safest  in  shame !  being  fool'd,  by  fool'ry  thrive ! 
There 's  place  and  means  for  every  man  alive. 
I  '11  after  them.  lExit 


ALL  S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


SCENE    IV V. 


SCENE  rV.— Florence.     A  Room  in  the  Widow's 
House. 

Enter  Helena,  Widow,  and  Diana. 

Ud.  That  you  may  well  perceive  I  have  not 

wrong'd  you. 
One  of  the  greatest  in  the  Christian  world 
Shall    be   my   surety ;    'fore   whose    throne    't  is 

needful. 
Ere  I  can  perfect  mine  intents,  to  kneel : 
Time  was,  I  did  him  a  desired  office. 
Dear  almost  as  his  life ;  which  gratitude 
Through  flinty  Tartar's  bosom  would  peep  forth. 
And  answer,  thanks.     I  duly  am  inform'd 
His  grace  is  at  Marseilles ;  to  which  place 
We  have  convenient  convoy.     You  must  know 
I  am  supposed  dead :  the  ai'my  breaking, 
My   husband   hies  him   home ;    where,   Heaven 

aiding, 
And  by  the  leave  of  my  good  lord  the  king, 
We  '11  be  before  our  welcome. 

Wid.  Gentle  madam, 

You  never  had  a  servant  to  whose  trust 
Your  business  was  more  welcome. 

Hel.  Nor  you,  mistress. 

Ever  a  friend  whose  thoughts  more  truly  labour 
To  recompense  your  love :  doubt  not,  but  Heaven 
Hath    brought    me    up   to   be   your    daughter's 

dower, 
As  it  hath  fated  her  to  be  my  motive 
And  helper  to  a  husband.    But  O,  strange  men ! 
That   can   such   sweet  use   make  of  what   they 

hate. 
When  saucy  trusting  of  the  cozen'd  thoughts 
Defiles  the  pitchy  night !  so  lust  doth  play 
With  what  it  loathes,  for  that  which  is  away : 
But  more  of  this  hereafter : — You,  Diana, 
Under  my  poor  instructions  yet  must  sufl'er 
Something  in  my  behalf. 

Dia.  Let  death  and  honesty 

Go  with  your  impositions ;  I  am  yours 
Upon  your  will  to  suffer. 

Hd.  Yet,  I  pray  you, — 

Piut   with    the    word,    the    time   will    bring    on 

summer, 
When  briers  shall  have  leaves  as  well  as  thorns, 
And  be  as  sweet  as  sharp.     We  must  away : 
Our  wagon  is  prepar'd,  and  time  revives  us : 
All 's  well  that  ends  well :   still  the  fine  's  the 

crown  ;* 
Wbat«'er  the  course,  the  eud  is  the  renovm. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  v.— Kousillon.    A  Room  in  the  Countx^ss'i 
Palace. 

Enter  Countess,  Lafec,  and  Clown. 

Laf.  No,  no,  no,  your  son  was  misled  with  a 
snipt-tafl'ata  fellow  there,  whose  villainous  saflVon 
would  have  made  all  the  unbak'd  and  doughy 
youth  of  a  nation  in  his  colour  :  your  daughter-in- 
law  had  been  alive  at  this  hour,  and  your  son  here 
at  home  more  advanc'd  by  the  king,  than  by  that 
red-tail'd  humble-bee  I  speak  of 

Count.  I  would  I  had  not  known  him !  it  was 
the  death  of  the  most  virtuous  gentlewoman  that 
ever  nature  had  praise  for  creating:  if  she  had 
partaken  of  my  flesh,  and  cost  me  the  deai'est 
groans  of  a  mother,  I  could  not  have  owed  her  a 
more  rooted  love. 

Laf.  'T  was  a  good  lady,  't  was  a  good  lady : 
we  may  pick  a  thousand  sallets,  ere  we  light  on 
such  another  herb. 

Clo.  Indeed,  sir,  she  was  the  sweet  maijoram  of 
the  sallet,  or,  rather,  the  herb  of  grace. 

Laf.  They  are  not  sallet-herbs,  you  knave,  they 
are  nose-herbs. 

Clo.  I  am  no  great  Nebuchadnezzar,  sir;  I  have 
not  much  skill  in  grass. 

Laf  Whether  dost  thou  profess  thyself — a 
knave  or  a  fool  ? 

Clo.  A  fool,  sir,  at  a  woman's  service,  and  a 
knave  at  a  man's. 

Laf,  Your  distinction  ? 

Clo.  I  would  cozen  the  man  of  his  wife,  an  do 
his  service. 

Laf.  So  you  were  a  knave  at  his  service,  indeed. 

Clo.  And  I  would  give  his  wife  my  bauble,  sir, 
to  do  her  service. 

Laf.  I  will  subscribe  for  thee ;  thou  art  both 
knave  and  fool. 

Clo.  At  your  service. 

Laf.  No,  no,  no. 

Clo.  WTiy,  sir,  if  I  cannot  serve  you,  I  can  serve 
as  great  a  prince  as  you  are. 

Laf.  Who  's  that  ?  a  Frenchman  ? 

Clo.  Faith,  sir,  'a  has  an  English  name ;  but  his 
phisnomy  is  more  hotter  in  France  than  there. 

Laf.  What  prince  is  that  ? 

Clo.  The  black  prince,  sir;  alias,  the  prince  o. 
darkness ;  alias,  the  devil. 

Laf.  Hold  thee ;  there  's  my  purse ;  I  give  thee 
not  this  to  suggest  thee  from  thy  master  thou 
talk'st  of;  serve  him  still. 

Clo.  I  am  a  woodland  fellow,  sir,  that  always 

623 


ACT    ■v. 


ALL'S  WELL  TE^VT  ENDS  WELL. 


SCEKB   1, 


loved  a  great  fire ;  and  the  master  I  speak  of  ever 
keeps  a  good  fire.  But,  sure,  he  is  the  prince  of 
the  world  ;  If  t  his  nobility  remain  in  's  court.  I 
am  for  the  house  with  the  nanow  gate,  which  I 
take  to  be  too  httle  for  pomp  to  enter :  some  that 
humble  themselves  may ;  but  the  many  will  be 
too  chill  and  tender,  and  they  '11  be  for  the 
flow'ry  way,  that  leads  to  the  broad  gate  and  the 
great  fire. 

Laf.  Go  thy  ways,  I  begin  to  be  a-weary  of 
thee  ;  and  I  tell  thee  so  before,  because  I  would 
not  fall  out  with  thee.  Go  thy  ways;  let  my 
horses  be  well  look'd  to,  without  any  tricks. 

Clo.  If  I  put  any  tricks  upon  'em,  sir,  they 
shall  be  jades'  tricks ;  which  are  their  own  right 
by  the  law  of  nature.  \_Exit. 

Luf.  A  shrewd  knave,  and  an  iinhapi;y." 

Count.  So  'a  is.  My  lord,  that 's  gone,  made 
himself  much  sport  out  of  him :  by  his  authority 
he  remains  here,  which  he  thinks  is  a  patent  for 
his  sauciness ;  and,  indeed,  he  has  no  place,  but 
runs  where  he  will. 

Laf.  I  hke  him  well ;  it  is  not  amiss.  And  I 
was  about  to  tell  you,  since  I  heard  of  the  good 
lady's  death,  and  that  my  lord  your  son  was  upon 
his  return  home,  I  moved  the  king  my  master  to 
speak  in  the  behalf  of  my  daughter ;  which,  in 
the  minority  of  them  both,  his  majesty,  out  of  a 
self-gracious  remembrance,  did  first  propose  ;  his 
highness  hath  promis'd  me  to  do  it :  and,  to  stop 
up  the  displeasure  he  hath  conceived  against  your 
son,  there  is  no  fitter  matter.  How  does  your 
ladyship  like  it  ? 


Count.  With  very  much  content,  my  lord,  and 
I  wish  it  hajipily  eftected. 

Laf.  His  highness  comes  post  from  Marseilles, 
of  as  able  body  as  when  he  number'd  thirty ;  'a 
will  be  here  to-morrow,  or  I  am  deceiv'd  by  him 
that  in  such  intelligence  hath  seldom  fail'd. 

Count.  It  rejoices  me  that  I  hope  I  shall  see 
him  ere  I  die.  I  have  lettei?,  that  my  son  will  be 
here  to-night :  I  shall  beseech  your  lordship  to 
remain  with  me  till  they  meet  together. 

Laf.  Madam,  I  was  thinking  with  what  man- 
ners I  might  safely  be  admitted. 

Count.  You  need  but  plead  your  honourable 
privilege. 

Laf.  Lady,  of  that  I  have  made  a  bold  charter ; 
but,  I  thank  my  God,  it  holds  yet. 

Re-enicr  Clown. 

Clo.  O  madan,  yonder  's  my  lord  your  son 
with  a  patch  of  velvet  on  's  face ;  whether  there 
be  a  scar  under  't,  or  no,  the  velvet  knows ;  but 
't  is  a  goodly  patch  of  velvet:  his  left  cheek  is  a 
cheek  of  two  pile  and  a  half,  but  his  right  cheek 
is  worn  bare. 

Laf  A  scar  nobly  got,  or  a  noble  scar,  is  a  good 
liv'ry  of  honour  ;  so,  belike,  is  that. 

Clo.  But  it  is  your  carbonado'd  face. 

Laf.  Let  us  go  see  your  son,  I  pray  you ;  I 
long  to  talk  with  the  young  noble  soldier. 

Clo.  'Faith,  there  's  a  dozen  of  'em,  with  deli- 
cate fine  hats,  and  most  courteous  feathers,  which 
bow  the  head,  and  nod  at  every  man. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT   V. 


SCENE  I.— Marseilles.     A  street. 

Enter   Helena,  Widow,   and   Diana,  with  two 
Attendants. 

Hel.  But  this  exceeding  posting,  day  and  night. 
Must  wear  your  spirits  low:  we  cannot  help  it; 
But  since  you  have  made  the  days  and  nights  as 

one, 
To  wear  your  gentle  limbs  in  my  affairs, 
Be  bold  you  do  so  grow  in  my  requital. 
As  nothing  can  unroot  you.     In  happy  time; — 

521 


Enter  a  gentle  Astringer.*' 

This  man  may  help  me  to  his  majesty's  ear, 

K  he  would  spend  his  power. — God  save  you,  sir. 

Ast.  And  you. 

Hel.  Sir,  I  have  seen  you  in  the  court  of  France. 

Ast.  I  have  been  sometimes  there. 

Hel.  I  do  presume,  sir,  that  you  are  not  fallen 
From  the  report  that  goes  upon  your  goodness ; 
And  therefore,  goaded  with  most  sharp  occasions, 
Which  lay  nice  manners  by,  I  put  you  to 


ACT   V. 


ALL 'S  ^VELL  TILVT  ENDS  WELL. 


SCENE  ii-m. 


The  use  of  your  own  virtues,  for  the  which 
I  shall  continub  thankful. 

^4'/.  What 's  your  will  ? 

Hel.  That  it  will  please  you 
To  give  this  poor  petition  to  the  king ; 
And  aid  me  with  that  store  of  power  you  have, 
To  come  into  his  presence. 

Ast.  The  king  's  not  here. 

Hel.  Not  here,  sir  3 

Ast.  Not,  indeed : 

He  hence  remov'd  last  night,  and  with  more  haste 
Than  is  his  use. 

Wid.  Lord,  how  we  lose  our  pains ! 

Hel.  All 's  well  that  ends  well,  yet ; 
Though  time  seem  so  adverse,  and  means  unfit.  — 
I  do  beseech  you,  whither  is  he  gone  ? 

Ast.  Marry,  as  I  take  it,  to  Rousillon  •, 
Whither  1  am  going. 

Hel.  I  do  beseech  you,  sir. 

Since  you  are  like  to  see  the  king  before  me, 
Commend  the  paper  to  his  gracious  hand  ; 
Which,  I  presume,  shall  render  you  no  blame. 
But  rather  make  you  thank  your  pains  for  it : 
I  will  come  after  you,  with  what  good  speed 
Our  means  will  make  us  means. 

Ast.  This  I  '11  do  for  you. 

llel.   And  you  shall  find  yourself  to  be   well 
thank'd, 
Whate'er  falls  more. — We  must  to  horse  ag.ain  ; — 
Go,  go,  provide.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  n. — Rousillon.     The  inner  Court  of  the 
Countess'*  Palace. 

Enter  Clown  and  Parolles. 

Par.  Good  monsieur  Lavatch,  give  my  lord 
Lafeu  this  letter :  I  have  ere  now,  sir,  been  better 
known  to  you,  when  1  have  held  familiarity  with 
fresher  clothes;  but  I  am  now,  sir,  muddied  in 
Fortune's  mood,'"  and  smell  somewhat  strong  of 
her  strong  displeasure. 

Clo.  Truly,  Fortune's  displeasure  is  but  sluttish, 
if  it  smell  so  strongly  as  thou  speak'st  of :  I  will 
henceforth  eat  no  fish  of  Fortune's  butt'rintr. 
Prithee  allow  the  wind. 

Par.  Nay,  you  need  not  to  stop  your  nose,  sir  ; 
I  npake  but  by  a  metaphor. 

Clo.  Indeed,  sir,  if  your  metaphor  stink,  I  will 
stop  my  nose ;  or  against  any  man's  metaphor. 
Piithee  get  thee  further. 

Par.  Pi'ay  you,  sir,  deliver  me  this  paper. 

Clo.  Fob,  prithee  stand  away :  A  paper  from 


Fortune's  c'ose-stool  to  give  to  a  nobleman !  Look, 
here  he  comes  himself. 

Enter  Lafeu. 

Here  is  a  pur  of  Fortune's,  sir,  or  of  Fortune's  cat, 
(but  not  a  musk-cat,)  that  has  fallen  into  the  un- 
clean fish-pond  of  her  displeasure,  and,  as  he  says, 
is  muddied  withal.  Pray  you,  sir,  use  the  carp  as 
you  may  ;  for  he  looks  like  a  poor,  decayed,  inge- 
nious, foolish,  rascally  knave.  I  do  pity  his  distress 
in  my  smiles  of  comfort,  and  leave  him  to  your 
lordship.  [Exit. 

Par.  My  lord,  I  am  a  man  whom  Fortune  hath 
cruelly  scratch'd. 

Laf.  And  what  would  you  have  me  to  do  ?  't  ia 
too  late  to  pave  her  nails  now.  Wherein  have 
you  played  the  knave  with  Fortune,  that  she  should 
scratch  you,  who  of  herself  is  a  good  lady,  and 
would  not  have  knaves  thrive  long  under  her  1 
There 's  a  cardecue  for  you  :™  Let  the  justices  make 
you  and  Fortune  friends ;  I  am  for  other  business. 

Par.  I  beseech  your  honour  to  hear  me  one 
single  word. 

Laf.  You  beg  a  single  penny  more  :  come,  you 
shall  ha  't:  save  your  word. 

Par.  My  name,  my  good  lord,  is  Parolles. 

Laf.  You  beg  more  than  a  word  then. — Cox' 
my  passion  !  give  me  your  hand :  How  does  your 
drum  ? 

Par.  0  my  good  lord,  you  were  the  firet  that 
found  me. 

Laf.  Was  I,  in  sooth  ?  and  I  was  the  first  that 
lost  thee. 

Par.  It  hes  in  you,  my  lord,  to  bring  me  in 
some  grace,  for  you  did  bring  me  out. 

Laf.  Out  upon  thee,  knave !  dost  thou  put 
upon  me  at  once  both  the  oiBce  of  God  and  the 
devil  ?  one  brings  thee  in  grace,  and  the  other 
brings  thee  out.  [Trumpets  soundi\  The  king  's 
coming,  I  know  by  his  trumpets. — Sirrah,  inquire 
finther  after  me ;  I  had  talk  of  you  last  night : 
though  you  are  a  fool  and  a  knave,  you  shall  eat ; 
go  to,  follow. 

Par.  I  praise  God  for  vou.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  in. — The  same.  A  Room  in  the  Countess's 
Palace. 

Flourish.    Enter  Kixo,  Countess,  Lafeu,  Lords, 
Gentlemen,  Guards,  cfr. 

King.  We  lost  a  jewel  of  her  ;  and  our  esteem 
Was   made   much  poorer  by  it :    but  your  son, 

626 


ACT  V. 


ALL 'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


bCENK    tn. 


As  mad  in  folly,  lack'd  .ne  sense  to  koow 
Her  estimation  home. 

Count.  'T  is  past,  my  liege  : 

And  I  beseech  your  majesty  to  make  it 
Natural  rebellion,  done  i'  the  blaze  of  youth, 
When  oil  and  fire,  too  strong  for  reason's  force, 
O'erbears  it,  and  bums  on. 

King.  My  honour'd  lady, 

I  have  forgiven  and  forgotten  all ; 
Though  my  revenges  were  high  bent  upon  him, 
And  watch'd  the  time  to  shoot 

Laf.  This  I  must  say, — 

But  fii-st  I  beg  my  pardon, — The  young  lord 
Did  to  his  majesty,  his  mother,  and  his  lady. 
Offence  of  mighty  note  ;  but  to  himself 
The  greatest  wrong  of  all :  he  lost  a  wife 
Whose  beauty  did  astonish  the  survey 
Of  richest  eyes ;  whose  words  all  ears  took  captive ; 
Whose  dear  perfection  hearts  that  scorn'd  to  serve 
Humbly  call'd  mistress. 

Kiny.  Praising  what  is  lost. 

Makes   the   remembrance  dear. — Well,  call  him 

hither ; 
We  are  reconcil'd,  and  the  first  view  shall  kill 
All  repetition  : — Let  him  not  ask  our  pardon  ; 
The  nature  of  his  great  offence  is  dead. 
And  deeper  than  oblivion  we  do  bury 
Th'  incensing  relics  of  it ;  let  him  approach, 
A  stranger,  no  offender ;  and  inform  him 
So  't  is  our  will  he  should. 

Gent.  I  shall,  my  hege.  \Exit. 

King.  Wliat  says  he  to  your  daughter?  have 
you  spoke  ? 

Laf.   All   that  he   is   hath  reference  to  your 
highness. 

King.  Then  shall  we  have  a  match.     I  have 
letters  sent  me 
That  set  him  high  in  fame. 

Enter  Bertram. 

Laf.  He  looks  well  on  't. 

King.  I  am  not  a  day  of  season," 
For  thou  mayst  see  a  sunshine  and  a  hail 
In  me  at  once :  But  to  the  brightest  beams 
Distracted  clouds  give  way  ;  so  stand  thou  forth. 
The  time  is  fair  again. 

Ber.  My  high-repented  blames, 

Dear  sovereign,  pardon  to  me. 

King.  All  is  whole  ; 
Not  one  word  more  of  the  cousinncd  time. 
Let 's  take  the  instant  by  the  forward  top  ; 
For  wo  are  old,  and  on  out  quick'st  decrees 

6^0 


Th'  inaudible  and  noiseless  foot  of  time 
Steals,  ere  we  can  effect  them  :   You  remember 
The  daughter  of  this  lord  ? 

Ber.  Admiringly,  my  liege  :  at  first 
I  stuck  my  choice  upon  her,  ere  my  heart 
Durst  make  too  bold  a  herald  of  my  tongue : 
Where  the  impression  of  mine  eye  infixing, 
Contempt  his  scornful  perspective  did  lend  me, 
Which  warp'd  the  line  of  every  other  favour ; 
Scorn'd  a  fair  colour,  or  express'd  it  stolen  ; 
Extended  or  contracted  all  proportions. 
To  a  most  hideous  object.     Thence  it  came. 
That  she,   whom   all   men    prais'd,    and   whom 

myself 
Since  I  have  lost  have  lov'd,  was  in  mine  eye 
The  dust  that  did  offend  it. 

King.  Well  excus'd ; 

That  thou  didst  love  her  strikes  some  scores  away 
From  the  great  compt :  But  love  that  comes  too 

late, 
Like  a  remorseful  pardon  slowly  carried. 
To  the  great  sender  turns  a  sour  offence, 
Crying,  That 's  good  that 's  gone  :  our  rash  faults 
Make  trivial  price  of  serious  things  we  have. 
Not  knowing  them,  until  we  know  their  grave  : 
Oft  our  displeasures,  to  ourselves  unjust, 
Destroy  our  friends,  and  after  weep  their  dust,: 
Our  own  love  waking  cries  to  see  what 's  done. 
While  shameful  hate  sleeps  out  the  afternoon. 
Be  this  sweet  Helen's  knell,  and  now  forget  her. 
Send  forth  your  amorous  token  for  fair  Maudlin  : 
The  main  consents  are  had  ;  and  here  we  '11  stay 
To  see  our  widower's  second  man-iage-day. 

Count.   Which  better  than  the  first,  O  dear 

Heaven  bless ! 
Or,  ere  they  meet  in  me,  0  nature,  cesse." 

Laf.   Come  on,  my  son,  in  whom  my  house's 

name 
Must  be  digested,  give  a  favour  from  you. 
To  sparkle  in  the  spiiits  of  my  daughter. 
That  she  may  quickly  come. — By  my  old  beard, 
And  ev'ry  hair  that 's  on  't,  Helen,  that 's  dead, 
Was  a  sweet  creature  ;  such  a  ring  as  this, 
The  last  that  ere  I  took  her  eave  at  court, 
I  saw  upon  her  finger. 

Ber.  Hers  it  S'.'is  not. 

King.  Now,  pray  you,  let  me  see  it ;  for  mine 

eye, 
Wliile  I  w!is  speaking,  oft  was  fasten'd  to  it. — 
This  ring  was  mine  ;  and,  when  I  gave  it  Helfln, 
I  bade  her,  if  her  fortunes  ever  stood 
Necessitied  to  help,  that  by  this  token 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  KNDS  WELL. 


SCENE    III 


1  would  relieve  lier  :  Had  you  that  craft,  to  reave 

her 
Of  what  should  stead  her  most  ? 

Ber.  My  gracious  sovereign, 

Uowe'er  it  pleases  you  to  take  it  so, 
The  ring  was  never  hers. 

Count.  Son,  on  my  life, 

[  have  seen  her  wear  it ;  and  she  reckon'd  it 
At  her  life's  rate. 

Laf.  I  am  sure  I  saw  her  wear  it. 

Ber.  You  are  deceiv'd,  my  lord,  she  never  saw  it; 
In  Florence  was  it  from  a  casement  thrown  me, 
Wrapp'd  in  a  paper,  which  contain'd  the  name 
Of  her    that    threw   it  :    noble    she    was,   and 

thought 
I  stood  engag'd  :"  but  when  I  had  subscrib'd 
To  mine  own  fortune,  and  infonn'd  her  fully, 
I  could  not  answer  in  that  couree  of  honour 
As  she  had  made  the  overture,  she  ceas'd, 
lu  heavy  satisfaction,  and  would  never 
Receive  the  ring  again. 

King.  Plutus  himself, 

That  knows  the  tinct  and  multiplying  raed'cine, 
Hath  not  in  nature's  mystery  more  science. 
Than  I  have  in    this   ring :    't  was  mine,    t'  was 

Helen's, 
Whoever  gave  it  you.     Then,  if  you  know 
That  you  are  well  acquainted  with  yourself. 
Confess 't  was  hers,  and  by  what  rough  enforcement 
You  got  it  from  her :  she  call'd  the  saints  to  surety. 
That  she  would  never  put  it  from  her  finger. 
Unless  she  gave  it  to  yourself  in  bed, 
(Where  you  have  never  come,)  or  sent  it  us 
Upon  her  great  disaster. 

Ber.  She  never  saw  it. 

King.  Thou  speak'st  it  falsely,  as  I  love  mine 
honour ; 
x\nd  mak'st  conjectural  fears  to  come  into  me. 
Which  I  would  fain  shut  out :  If  it  should  prove 
That  thou  art  so  inhuman, — 't  will  not  prove  so ; — 
And  yet  I  know  not : — thou  didst  hate  her  deadly. 
And  she  is  dead ;  which  nothing,  but  to  close 
Her  eyes  myself,  could  win  me  to  believe, 
More  than  to  see  this  ring. — Take  him  away. — 
Guards  seise  Bertram. 
My  fore-past  proofs,  howe'er  the  matter  fall. 
Shall  tax  my  fears  of  little  vanity, 
Having  vainly    fear'd   too  little. — Away  with 

him ; — 
We  'II  sift  this  matter  further. 

Ber.  If  you  shall  prove 

This  ring  was  ever  hers,  yon  shall  as  easy 


Prove  that  I  husbanded  her  bed  in  Florence, 
Where  yet  she  never  was.  \Exit  Bertram  yuarded, 

Enter  the  Astringer. 

King.  1  am  wiapp'd  in  dismal  thinkings. 

Ast.  Gracious  sovereign, 

Wliethcr  I  have  been  to  blame,  or  no,  I  know  not 
Here  's  a  petition  fi-om  a  Florentine, 
Who  hath,  for  four  or  five  removes,  come  short 
To  tender  it  herself     I  undertook  it, 
Vanquish'd  thereto  by  (he  fair  grace  and  speech 
Of  the  poor  suppliant,  who  by  this,  I  know. 
Is  here  attending  :  her  business  looks  in  her 
With  an  importing  visage ;  and  she  told  me, 
In  a  sweet  verbal  brief,  it  did  concern 
Your  highness  with  herself. 

King.  [Meads.^ 

"  Upon  his  many  protestations  to  marry  me,wlien  his  wife 
was  dead,  I  blush  to  sny  it,  he  won  me.  Now  is  the  coint 
Eousillon  a  widower ;  his  vows  are  forfeited  to  me,  and  my 
honour  's  paid  to  him.  lie  stole  from  Florence,  taking  no 
leave,  and  I  follow  him  to  his  country  for  justice.  Grant 
it  me,  0  king;  in  you  it  best  lies;  otherwise  a  seducer 
flourishes,  and  a  poor  maid  is  undone.      Diana  Capilet." 

Laf.  I  will  buy  me  a  son-in-law  in  a  fair,  and 
tolP^  him  ;  for  this,  I  '11  none  of  him. 

King.  The  Heavens  have  thought  well  on  theo, 
Lafeu, 
To  bring  forth  this  discovery. — Seek  these  suitors  : 
Go  speedily,  and  bring  again  the  count. 

[JSxcuni  the  Astiinger  and  sume  Allendanta. 
I  am  afeard  the  life  of  Helen,  lady. 
Was  foully  snatch'd. 

Count.  Now,  justice  on  the  doers  ! 

Enter  Bertram  guarded. 

King.  I   wonder,  sir,  since  wives  are  monsters 

to  you. 
And    that    you    fly   them    as   you   swear   them 

lordship, 
Yet  you  desire  to  maiTy. — What  woman  's  that '( 

Re-enter  the  Astringer,  with  Widow  and  Diana. 
Dia.  I  am,  my  lord,  a  wretched  Florentine, 
Derived  from  the  ancient  Capilet ; 
My  suit,  as  I  do  understand,  you  know. 
And  therefore  know  how  far  I  may  be  pitied. 
Wid.  I   am   her   mother,   sir,  whose   age  nnd 
honour 
Both  suffer  under  this  complaint  we  bring, 
And  both  shall  cease,  without  your  remedy. 
King.    Come    hither,   count :    Do   you  know 

these  women  ? 
Ber.  My  lord,  I  neither  can  nor  will  deny 

627 


ACT   V. 


ALL  'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


SCENE  ra. 


Uiit  that  I  know  them :    Do   they  charge  me 
further  ? 

Ilia.  Why  do  you  look  so  strange  upon  your 
\Yif'e  ? 

Ber.  She  's  none  of  mine,  my  lord. 

Dia.  If  you  shall  marry, 

Tou  give  away  this  hand,  and  that  is  mine ; 
You  give  away  Heaven's   vows,   and  those  are 

mine ; 
You  give  away  myself,  which  is  known  mine  ; 
For  I  by  vow  am  so  embodied  yours, 
That  she  which  marries  you  must  marry  me. 
Either  both  or  none. 

Laf.  Your  reputation  [to  Bertram]  comes  too 
short  for  my  daughter ;  you  are  no  husband  for 
her. 

Ber.   My  lord,  this  is   a  fond   and   desp'rate 
creature, 
Whom  sometime  I  have  laughed  with :  let  your 

highness 
Lay  a  more  noble  thought  upon  mine  honour. 
Than  for  to  think  that  I  would  sink  it  here. 

King.  Sir,  for  my  thoughts,  you  have  them  ill 
to  friend, 
Till  your  deeds  gain  them :   Fairer  prove  your 

honour, 
Than  in  my  thought  it  lies  ! 

Dia.  Good  my  lord, 

Ask  him  upon  his  oath,  if  he  does  think 
He  had  not  my  virginity. 

King.  What  say'st  thou  to  her  ? 

Ber.  She  's  impudent,  my  lord. 

And  was  a  common  gamester"  to  the  camp. 

Bia.  He  does  me  wrong,  my  lord ;  if  I  were  so. 
He  might  have  bought  me  at  a  common  price  : 
Do  not  believe  him.     0,  behold  this  ring. 
Whose  high  respect,  and  rich  validity. 
Did  lack  a  parallel ;  yet,  for  all  that, 
He  gave  it  to  a  commoner  a'  the  camp, 
If  I  be  one. 

Count.  He  blushes,  and  't  is  his  : 
Of  six  preceding  ancestors,  that  gem 
Conferr'd  by  testament  to  the  sequent  issue, 
Hath  it  been  ow'd  and  worn.    Tliis  is  his  wife  ; 
That  ring  's  a  thousand  proofs. 

King.  Methought,  you  said, 

You  saw  one  here  in  court  could  witness  it. 

Bin.  I  (lid,  my  lord,  but  loth  am  to  produce 
So  bad  an  instrument;  his  name  's  Parolles. 

J^af.  I  saw  the  man  to-day,  if  man  he  be. 

King.  Find  him,  and  bring  liim  hither. 

Her.  What  of  him  ? 

528 


He  's  quoted  for  a  most  perfidious  s.ave. 
With  all  the  spots  a'  the  world  tax'd  and  debosh'd 
Whose  nature  sickens  but  to  speak  a  truth  : 
Am  I  or  that,  or  this,  for  what  he  '11  utter. 
That  will  speak  anything  ? 

King.  She  hath  that  ring  of  yours. 

Ber.  I  think  she  has  :  certain  it  is  I  lik'd  her, 
And  boarded  her  i'  the  wanton  way  of  youth  : 
She  knew  her  distance,  and  did  angle  for  me, 
Madding  my  eagerness  with  her  restraint, 
As  all  impediments  in  fancy's  course 
Are  motives  of  more  finoy  ;  and,  in  fine. 
Her  infinite  cunning  with  her  modem  grace, 
Subdu'd  me  to  her  rate  :  she  got  the  ring  : 
And  I  had  that  which  any  inferior  might 
At  market-price  have  bought. 

Bia.  I  must  be  patient ; 

You,  that  have  turn'd  off  a  first  so  noble  wife, 
May  justly  diet  me.     I  pray  you  yet, 
(Since  you  lack  virtue  I  will  lose  a  husband,) 
Send  for  your  ring,  I  will  return  it  home. 
And  give  me  mine  again. 

Ber.  I  have  it  not. 

King.  WTiat  ring  was  yours,  I  pray  you  ? 

Bia.  Sir,  much  like  the  same  upon  your  finger. 

King.  Know  you  this  ring  ?  this  ring  was  hit 
of  late. 

Bia.  And  this  was  it  I  gave  him,  being  a-bed. 

King.  The  story  then  goes  false,  you  threw  it 
him 
Out  of  a  casement. 

Bia.  I  have  spoke  the  truth. 

Enter  Parolles. 

Ber.  My  lord,  I  do  confess  the  ring  was  hers. 

King.  Y'ou  boggle  shrewdly,  every  feather  starts 
you.— 
Is  this  the  man  you  speak  of? 

Bia.  Ay,  my  lord. 

King.  Tell  me,  sirrah,  but  tell  me  true,  I  charge 
you, 
Not  fearing  the  displeasure  of  your  master. 
(Which,  on  your  just  proceedir.g,  I'  11  keep  off,) 
]^y  him,  and   by   this   woniat    here,  what  knew 
you  ? 

Par.  So  please  your  majesty,  my  master  hath 
been  an  honorable  gentleman  ;  tricks  he  hath  had 
in  him,  which  gon'.lenien  have. 

King.  Come,  c  me,  to  the  purpose  !  Did  he  love 
this  woman  ? 

Par.  'Faith,  sir,  he  did  love  he'' '   But  how  ? 

King.  How,  I  pray  you  ? 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


BCENE    III. 


I'ar.  lie  did  love  her,  sir,  as  a  gentleman  loves 
a  woman. 

King.  IIow  is  that? 

Par.  He  lov'd  her,  sir,  and  lov'd  her  not. 

King.  As  thou  art  a  knave,  and  no  knave  : — 
What  an  equivocal  companion  is  this  ! 

Par.  I  am  a  poor  man,  and  at  your  majesty's 
command. 

Laf.  He  's  a  good  drum,  my  lord,  but  a  naughty 
orator. 

Dia.  Do  you  know  he  promis'd  me  marriage  ? 

Par.  'Faith,  I  Icnow  more  than  I  '11  speak. 

King.  But  wilt  thou  not  speak  all  thou  know'st  ? 

Par.  Yes,  so  please  your  majesty :  I  did  go 
between  them,  as  I  said ;  but  more  than  that,  he 
lov'd  her, — for,  indeed,  he  was  mad  for  her,  and 
talk'd  of  Satan,  and  of  limbo,  and  of  furies,  and  I 
know  not  what :  yet  I  was  in  that  credit  with  them 
at  that-  time,  that  I  knew  of  their  going  to  bed ;  and 
of  other  motions,  as  promising  her  marriage,  and 
tilings  which  would  derive  me  ill  will  to  speak  of; 
therefore  I  will  not  speak  what  I  know. 

King.  Thou  hast  spoken  all  already,  unless  thou 
ranst  say  they  are  married  :  But  thou  art  too  fine'^ 
in  thy  evidence  ;  therefore  stand  aside. — This  ring, 
you  say,  was  yours  ? 

Bia.  Aj,  my  good  lord. 

King,  Where  did  you  'ouy  it  ?  or  who  gave  it 
you  ? 

Dia.  It  was  not  given  me,  nor  I  did  not  buy  it,. 

King.  Who  lent  it  you  ? 

Dia.  It  was  not  lent  me  neither. 

King.  Where  did  you  find  it  then  ? 

Dia.  1  found  it  not. 

King.  If  it  were  yours   by  none  of  all  these 
ways. 
How  could  you  give  it  him  ? 

Dia.  I  never  gave  it  hini. 

Daf.  This  woman  's  an  easy  glove,  my  lord  ;  she 
goes  off  and  on  at  pleasure. 

King.  This  ring  was  mine ;  I  gave  it  his  first 
wife. 

Dia    It  might  be  yours,  or  hers,  for  aught  I 
know. 

King.  Take  her  away,  I  do  not  like  her  now ; 
To  prison  with  lier  :  and  away  with  him. — 
Unless  thou  tell'st  me  where  thou  hadst  this  ring, 
Thou  diest  within  this  hour. 

Dia.  I  '11  never  tell  you. 

King.  Take  her  away. 

Dia.  I  '11  put  in  bail,  my  liege. 

King.  I  think  thee  now  some  common  customer. 
67 


Dia.  By  Jove,  if  ever  I  knew  man,  't  was  you. 

King.  Wherefore  hast  thou  accus'd  him  all  tlii," 
while  ? 

Dia.  Because  ho  's  guilty,  and  he  is  not  guilty  : 
He  knows  I  am  no  maid,  and  he  '11  swear  to  't : 
I  '11  swear  I  am  a  maid,  and  he  knows  not. 
Great  king,  I  am  no  strumpet,  by  my  life ; 
I  am  either  maid,  or  else  this  old  man's  wife. 

[Pointing  to  Lafeo 

King.  She  does  abuse  our  ears  ;  to  prison  with 
her. 

Dia.  Good  mother,  fetch  my  bail.^Stay,  royal 
sir ;  [Kxit  Widow. 

The  jeweller  that  owes  the  ring  is  sent  for. 
And  he  shall  surety  me.     But  for  this  lord, 
Who  hath  abus'd  me,  as  he  knows  himself. 
Though  yet  he  never  harm'd  me,  here  I  quit  him 
He  knows  himself  my  bed  ht  hath  defil'd. 
And  at  that  time  he  got  his  wife  with  child  : 
Dead  though  she  be,  she  feels  her  young  one  kick  ; 
Bo  there  's  my  riddle, — One  that 's  dead  is  quick  •, 
And  now  behold  the  meaning. 

Re-enter  Widow,  with  Helena. 

King.  I3  there  no  exorcist 

Beguiles  the  true  otfice  of  mine  eyes '{ 
Is 't  real  that  I  see  ? 

Jlel.  No,  my  good  lord  ; 

T  is  but  the  shadow  of  a  wife  you  seu 
The  name,  and  not  the  thing. 

£er.  Both,  both  ;  0,  pardon 

-Hi'/.  0,  my  good  lord,  when  I  was  like   this 
maid, 
I  found  you  wondrous  kind.     There  is  your  ring, 
And,  look  you,  here  's  your  letter :  This  it  says, 
"  When  from  my  finger  you  can  get  this  ring, 
And  are  by  mo  with  child,"  &c. — This  is  done  : 
Will  you  be  mine,  now  you  are  doubly  won  ? 

Ber.  If  she,  my  liege,  can  make  me  know  this 
clearly, 
I  '11  love  her  dearly,  ever,  ever  dearlj*. 

ITcL  If  it  appear  not  plain,  and  prove  untrue. 
Deadly  divorce  step  between  me  and  you  ! — ■ 
O,  my  dear  mother,  do  I  see  you  living  1 

Laf.  Mine  eyes  smell  onions,  I  shall  weep 
anon  : — Good  Tom  Drum"  [to  Parolles]  lend  me 
a  handkerchief :  So,  I  thank  thee;  wait  on  me 
home,  I  '11  make  sport  with  thee :  Let  thy 
court'sies  alone,  they  are  scurvy  ones. 

King.  Let  us  from  point   to  point  this  storj' 
know. 
To  make  the  even  truth  in  pleasure  tlow : — 


iCT  ^. 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


bCEHX    in. 


If  ti.ou  bcest  3-et  a  fresh  uncropped  flower, 

[To  Diana. 
Cliooso    thou   tliy   husband,   and   I  '11   pay   thy 

dower ; 
For  I  can  guess,  that,  by  thy  honest  aid. 
Thou  kept'st  a  wife  herself,  thyself  a  maid. — 
Of  that  and  all  the  progress,  more  and  less, 
Resolvedly  more  leisure  shall  express : 
All  yet  ftoems  well ;  and,  if  it  end  bo  meet, 

no 


The  bitter  past,  more  welcome  is  the  sweet, 

[Flotirisk, 
(Advancing.) 
The  king  'b  a  beggar,  now  the  play  is  done  : 
All  is  well  ended,  if  this  suit  be  won, 
That  you  express  content;  which  wo  will  pay. 
With  Btrife  to  please  you,  day  exceeding  day : 
Ours  be  your  patience  then,  and  yours  our  parts ; 
Yonr  gonUe  hands  lend  us.  and  take  our  hearts. 

[Exeunt 


NOTES  TO  ALL 'S  ¥ELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


'  Houi  tad  a  pcuaage  't  ia. 

P(ustife,  B8  Dr.  Johnson  observes,  is  "nnvthing  that 
passes,"  This  sense  of  the  word  is  now  obsolete,  but  it 
constantly  occurs  in  the  old  dramatists. 

*  Where  an  unclean  mindj  dhc. 

That  is,  where  a  vicious  mind  is  joined  to  good  qualities, 
our  commendations  are  given  with  regret,  for  even  then 
the  virtues  become  as  traitors,  and  are  suspected. 

Season,  to  preserve  by  salting.  Livelihood,  appearance 
of  life. 

'  In  our  hearVe  table. 


And  when,  in  tables  of  my  heart, 
Love  with  such  things  as  bred  my  smart, 
My  IVIopsa,  with  her  face  of  clout, 
Wou-l  in  an  instant  wipe  them  out. 

Musarum,  Delicim,  1656. 

Trick,  faljit  tracing,  as  an  heraldic  trick.  Favour,  coon- 
tcuance. 

*  Which  is  the  most  inhibited  ain. 

Inhibited,  forbidden.  "  Inhibityng  them  upon  a  greats 
payn  not  once  to  approche  ether  to  his  speche  or  presence," 
Hall's  Chronicle,  1548. 

•  Tour  date  is  better  in  your  pie, 

A  quibble,  dates  being  then  much  eaten  in  pastry. 
"  And  then  to  be  bak'd  with  no  date  in  the  pie,  for  the* 
the  man's  date  is  out,"  Troilue  and  Creseida. 

Cristendoms,  Christian  names. 

"  Ke  that  ears  my  land. 

Ear,  to  plough.  This  word  occurs  several  times  in  the 
Scriptures.    (A.  S.) 

'  For  I  the  ballad  wiU  repeat. 

The  latter  part  of  this  stanza  was  a  proverb  long  before 
Sliakespeare  wrote.    Compare  the  following  extract: — 

"  Content  yourselfe  as  well  as  I, 
Let  reason  rule  your  miude ; 
As  cuckoldn  come  by  destiny, 
So  cuckowes  sing  by  kinde." 

Granges  Garden,  4to.,  1577. 

It  was  a  vulgar  belief  in  Shakespeare's  time  that  unfaith- 
folnesa  was  destined,  and  so  uuable  to  be  prevented. 


'  Iler  poor  Icnight  surprised, 

Elliptically  for,  "  her  poor  knight  to  he  surprised."  This 
mode  of  construction  was  not  unueual  in  Elizabethan 
writers. 

» Sithence, 

That  is,  since.  From  the  AngIo-Sa.\on.  In  earlier  wri- 
ters, it  is  more  iiaually  aithcn. 

I  bade  felowcs  to  my  dynere. 
And  sithen  tliei  wil  not  cum  here, 
A  develle  have  wjio  that  reclie  ! 

J/6'.  £ibl.  Publ.  Cantab,  Ff.  v.  48. 

"  CaiCt  no  other. 

Mr.  Knight  erroneously  reads,  can't  be  other.  Dr.  Joha 
son  thus  explains  this  sentence, — **  Can  it  be  no  other  way, 
but  if  I  be  your  daughter,  he  must  be  mi'  brother  " 

"  Have  to  the  full  appeach'd. 

Appeceh^d,  inipeached,  accused. 

And  though  the  skill  were  far  above  his  reach. 

He  needs  would  prove  a  Priest,  and  fals  to  preach; 

But  patching  sermons  with  a  sorry  fhift. 

As  needs  they  must,  that  ere  they  learn  will  teach; 

At  last  some  foes  so  nearly  do  him  sift. 

And  of  such  words  and  deeds  did  him  appe^ch. 

Harrington's  Ipigrams,  fol.  1533. 

"  In  this  captious  and  intcnUle  sieve. 

It  appears  to  me  that  Shakespeare  uses  these  adjectives 
actively  in  the  primitive  sense.  In  this  view,  captious  would 
be,  capable  of  receiving,  and  intenible,  incapable  of  holding. 
There  has,  however,  been  much  controversy  on  the  line. 

Johnson  was  perplexed  about  the  word  captiouef  "  whiah 
(says  he)  I  never  found  in  this  sense,  yet  I  cannot  tell  what 
to  substitute,  unless  carious  for  rotten  1"  Farmer  supposed 
captious  to  be  a  contraction  of  capacious  I  Steevcns  be- 
lieved that  captious  meant  recipient,  capable  of  receiving; 
which  interpretation  Malone  adopts.  Mr.  Collier,  in  his 
recent  edition  of  Shakespcire,  after  stating  Johnson's  and 
Farmer's  suggestions,  says,  "  where  is  the  difficulty  ?  It 
is  true  that  this  sense  of  captious  may  not  have  an  exact 
parallel ;  but  the  intention  of  Shakespeare  is  very  evident : 
captious  means,  as  Malone  says,  capable  o(  receiving  j  and 
intenible  (  printed  intemiile  in  the  first  folio,  and  rightly  in 
the  second)  incapable  of  retaining.  Two  more  appropriate 
epithets  could  hardly  be  found,  and  a  simile  more  happUj 
expressive." 

531 


NOTES  TO  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


It  is  not  impossible  that  the  poet  may  have  had  in  hia 
mind  tho  fruitless  labour  imposed  upon  the  Danaides  as  a 
pan_5hmcnt,  for  it  has  been  thus  moralized : 

These  virgins,  who  in  the  flower  of  their  age  pour  water 
into  pierced  vessels  which  they  can  never  fill,  what  is  it 
but  to  be  always  bestowing  our  love  and  benefits  upon  the 
ungrateful. 

1*  But  OTU  to  dance  with. 

The  cnstom  of  wearing  swords  in  dancing  is  frequently 
alluded  to.  Light  dawnsin^  swordis  are  mentioned  in  Staf- 
ford's Brlefe  Conceipt  of  English  Pcllicy,  1531. 

1*  And  make  you  danc^  canary. 

A  quick  and  lively  dance.  "Came  reeling  out  of  an  ale- 
house in  the  shape  of  a  drunkard,  who  no  sooner  smelt  the 
winde,  bu*  he  thought  the  ground  under  him  danced  the 
canaries,"  Decker's  Wonderful!  Yeare,  1603. 

"  In.  lier  sex,  her  years,  profession. 

Hy  profession,  says  Warburton,  is  meant  her  declaration 
of  the  end  and  purpose  of  her  coming. 

^*  Myself  against  the  level  of  mine  aim. 

Thus  explained  by  Dr.  Johnson : — "  I  am  not  an  impos- 
tor that  proclaim  one  thing  and  design  another,  that  pro- 
claim a  cure,  and  aim  at  a  fraud  ;  I  think  what  I  spesk." 

"  It  is  like  a  barber's  chair. 

Gosson,  in  his  "  Apologie  of  the  Schoole  of  Abuse,"  ap- 
pended to  his  "  Ephomerides  of  Phialo,"  1579,  speaking  of 
Venus,  saj-s  she  "  made  herself  as  common  as  a  barbar's 
chayre." 

Steevens  quotes  the  following  apposite  passage  from 
More  Eooles  Yet,  by  K.  S.,  1610,— 

Moreover  sattin  sutes  he  doth  compare 
Unto  the  service  of  a  barber's  chayre  ;  ' 

As  fit  for  every  Jack  and  journeyman, 
As  for  a  knight  or  worthy  gentleman. 

Compare,  also,  the  Essays  of  Montaigne,  translated  by 
Florio,  fol.  Lond.  1603,  p.  384,— 

My  writings  I  reade  not  hut  to  my  friends,  to  any. 
Nor  eaohwhere,  nor  to  all,  nor  but  desir'd  ;  yet  macy 
In  market-place  rcade  theirs. 
In  batiies,  in  barber's  ehaires. 


■•  Your  French  crown  for  your  tqfata  punk. 
The  declining  of  a  gallant. 

Nominative  hie,  gallant  asse. 
Gcnitivo  hujus,  bravo. 
Dativo  huic,  if  he  get  a  lioko. 
Accusitivo  hunc,  of  a  tafaty  punck. 
Vocativo  O,  ho  '»  gone  if  ho  cry  so. 
Ablative  ab  hoc,  ho  hatli  got  the  pock. 

Wits  Kccrcatious,  1040. 

'•  r/i's  rtuihfor  Tom! e fore-jinger. 

•'  The  allusion,"  says  Sir  J.  Hawkins,  "  is  to  an  ancient 
practice  of  marrying  with  a  rush  ring,  as  well  in  other 
countries  as  in  England.  Du  Breul,  in  his  Antiquities  of 
I'ariw,  mentions  it  as  a  kind  of  espousal  used  in  France,  by 
Buch  persons  aa  meant  to  live  together  in  a  state  of  concu- 
binage •  but  in  England  it  was  scarce  ever  piactised  except 
fiS2 


by  designing  men,  for  the  purpose  of  coiruptin?  thooe 
young  women  to  whom  they  pretended  luve.  Richard 
Poore,  bishop  of  Salisbury,  in  his  Constitutions,  1217,  for- 
bids the  putting  of  rush  rings,  or  any  the  like  matter,  on 
women's  fingers,  in  order  to  the  debauching  tViem  more 
readily :  and  he  insinuates,  as  the  reason  for  the  prohibi- 
tion, that  there  were  some  people  weak  enough  to  believe, 
that  what  was  thus  done  in  jest,  was  a  real  marriage. 

"  But,  notwithstanding  this  censure  on  it,  the  practice 
was  not  abolished  ;  for  it  is  alluded  to  in  a  song  in  a  pUy 
written  by  Sir  William  D'Avenant,  called  the  Kivals : 

"I  'I  crown  thee  with  a  garland  of  straw  then. 
And  I  '11  marry  thee  with  a  rush  rinff.^'' 

Which  song,  by  the  way,  was  first  sung  by  Miss  Davis,  she 
acting  the  part  of  Celania  in  the  play;  and  King  Charles  II. 
upon  hearing  it,  was  so  pleased  witJi  her  voice  and  action, 
that  he  took  her  from  the  stage,  and  made  her  liis  mistress. 
"  Again,  in  the  song  called  the  Winchester  Wedding,  in 
D'Urfey's  Pills  to  Purge  Melancholy,  vol.  i.  p.  276: 

"  Pert  Strephon  was  kind  to  Betty, 
And  blithe  as  a  bird  in  the  spring, 
And  Tommy  was  so  to  Katy, 
And  wedded  her  with  a  rush-ring.^^ 

^  As  a  pancake  for  Shroie-Tuesday. 

"  Vox  Graculi,"  a  curious  quarto  tract,  printed  in  1628, 
says  of  this  season, — "  llere  must  enter  tl.at  wadling,  t-tr&a- 
ling,  caruifex  of  all  Christeudome,  vulgarly  ecstilii  Shrove 
Tuesday,  but,  more  pertinently,  sole  monarch  of  the  mouth, 
high  stoward  to  the  stomach,  prime  peere  of  the  pullets, 
first  favourite  to  the  frying-pans,  greatest  bashaw  to  the 
batter-bowles,  protector  of  tlie  pancakes,  first  founder  oi 
the  fritters,  baron  of  bacoii-fiitch,  earle  of  the  egg-baskets, 
&c.  This  corpulent  commander  of  those  chollericke  things 
called  cookes  will  show  himself  to  be  but  of  ignoble  educa- 
tion :  for,  by  his  r'anners  you  may  find  him  better  fed  than 
taught,  wherever  ho  comes."  The  following  allusion  oc- 
curs in  Poor  Robin's  Almanac  for  1699, — • 

"Shrove-Tide  is  come,  th';  Pancake  Bell 
Doth  ring ;  by  which,  aiid  by  the  smell 
Brought  to  your  Nose  with  u  West  wind, 
Pancakes  and  Fritters  you  may  find 
In  every  House  that  can  be  told, 
Where  you  may  eat  hold  Belly  hold. 
Tiius  harinlcss  mirth  and  good  House-keeping 
Were  us'd  ere  Pride  on  us  came  creeping  ; 
But  now  good  things  are  Laid  aside, 
And  all  for  to  maintain  damn'd  pride." 

To  eat  pancakes  and  fritters  on  Shrove-Tuesday  is  a  cus- 
tom from  time  immemorial,  and  the  great  bell  which  used 
to  bo  rung  on  Shrove-Tuesday,  to  call  the  people  together 
for  the  purpose  of  confessing  their  sins,  was  oMed  pancake- 
bell,  a  name  which  it  still  retains  in  some  places  where  this 
custom  is  still  kept  up. 

Of  the  pancake-bell,  Taylor,  the  water-poet,  in  his  works, 
1030,  has  a  curious  account.  "Shrove-Tuesday,  at  whoso 
entrance  in  the  morning  all  the  whole  kingdom  is  inquict; 
but  by  that  time  tho  clocko  strikes  eleven,  which  (by  the 
help  of  a  knavish  sexton)  is  commonly  before  nine,  then 
there  is  a  bell  rung,  cal'd  the  pancake  bell,  the  sound 
whereof  makes  thousands  of  people  distracted,  and  forget- 
ful citlier  of  manners  or  humanitie;  then  there  is  a  thing 
called  wheatcn  flourc,  which  the  cookes  do  mingle  with 
water,  eggcs,  spice,  and  other  tragioall,  magicall  inchant- 
ments;  and  then  they  put  it,  by  little  and  little,  into  a 
frying-pan  of  boiling  suet,  where  it  makes  a  confused  dis- 
niall  hissing,  like  tho  Eerncan  snakes  in  tho  reeds  cf  Ach- 
eron, Sti.v.  or  Phlegoton." 


NOTES  TO  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


"  A  morritfor  May-day. 

The  celebrated  dissertntion  by  Mr.  Douce  on  the  morris 
dance,  has  furnislied  materials  for  all  later  writers  on  tlio 
subject.  The  following  observationa  are  taken  from  a 
popular  account  of  it  by  the  late  Mr.  Hone : — 

Tlie  morris  dance,  in  which  bells  are  jingled,  or  staves 
or  swords  clashed,  was  learned,  says  Dr.  Johnson,  by  the 
Moors,  and  was  probably  a  kind  of  Pyrrhick,  or  military 
dance.  Blount  says,  "  Mori.sco,  a  Moor;  also  a  dance,  so 
called,  wherein  there  were  usually  five  men,  and  a  boy 
dressed  in  a  girl's  habit,  whom  they  called  the  Maid  Ma- 
rian, or,  I  erhaps,  Morian,  from  the  Italian  Morione,  a  hea/J- 
piece,  heoause  her  head  was  wont  to  be  gaily  trimmed  up. 
Common  pieople  call  it  a  morris-dance." 

The  morris  danoo  is  presumed  by  Mr.  Peck  to  have  been 
firbt  brought  to  England  in  the  time  of  Edward  III.,  when 
John  of  Gaunt  returned  from  Spain,  where  he  had  been  to 
assist  Petro,  king  of  Castile.  He  says,  "This  dance  was 
usually  performed  abroad  by  an  equal  number  of  young  men, 
who  danced  in  their  shirts,  with  ribands,  and  little  bells 
about  their  legs.  But  hero,  in  England,  they  have  always 
an  odd  person  besides,  being  a  boy  dressed  in  a  girl's  habit, 
whom  they  call  Maid  Marian,  an  old  favourite  character  in 
the  spqrt."  The  morris  dance  became  introduced  into  the 
May-games,  in  which  there  was  formerly  a  king  and  queen 
of  the  May  :  subsequently,  it  appears,  the  king  of  the  May 
was  disused,  and  Maid  Marian  was  sole  sovereign,  or  queen 
of  the  May. 

Mr.  Douce  observes,  that  both  English  and  foreign  glos- 
saries uniformly  ascribe  the  origin  of  this  dance  to  the 
Moors ;  although  the  genuine  Moorish,  or  Morisco  dance, 
wail,  no  doubt,  very  ditferent  from  the  European  morris. 
Strutt  cites  a  passage  from  the  play  of  "Variety,"  1649,  in 
which  the  Spanish  morisco  is  mentioned ;  and  this,  Mr. 
Douce  adds,  not  only  shows  the  legitimacy  of  the  term 
morris,  but  that  the  real  and  uncorrupted  Moorish  dance 
was  to  be  found  in  Spain,  where  it  still  continues  to  delight 
both  natives  and  foreigners  under  the  name  of  the  Fan- 
dango. The  Spanish  morrice  was  also  danced  at  puppet 
shows,  by  a  person  habited  like  a  Moor,  with  cast-ignets ; 
and  Juuius  has  informed  us  that  the  morris  dancers  usual- 
ly blackened  their  faces  with  soot,  that  they  might  the 
better  pass  for  Moors.  Having  noticed  the  corruption  of 
the  '■^Pyrrkica  Saltatid'^  of  the  ancients,  and  the  uiicorrupt- 
ed  morris  dunce.,  as  practised  in  Franca  about  the  beginning 
of  the  thirteenth  century,  Mr.  Douce  says,  "  It  has  been 
supposed  that  the  morris  dance  was  first  brought  into  Eng- 
land in  the  time  of  Edward  III.,  when  John  of  Gaunt  re- 
turned from  Spain,  but  it  is  much  more  probable  that  we 
had  it  from  our  Gallic  neighbours,  or  even  from  the  Flem- 
ings. Few  if  any  vestiges  of  it  can  be  traced  beyond  the 
reign  of  Henry  VII.,  about  which  time,  and  particularly  in 
that  of  Henry  VIII.,  the  churchwardens'  accounts  in  sev- 
eral parishes  aflbrd  materials  that  throw  much  light  on  the 
subject,  and  show  that  the  morris  dance  made  a  very  con- 
siderable figure  in  the  parochial  festivals. — We  find  also," 
he  continues,  "that  other  festivals  and  ceremonies  had  their 
morris ;  as,  Itoly  Thursday ;  the  Whitsun  ales ;  the  bride 
ales,  or  weddings ;  and  a  sort  of  play,  or  pageant,  called 
the  lord  of  misrule.  Sheriffs,  too,  had  their  morris  dance. — 
It  is  by  no  means  clear  that,  at  any  time,  Eobin  Hood  and 
his  companions  were  comtltuent  characters  in  the  morris." 
Shakespeare  makes  mention  of  an  English  Whitsun 
morrice  dance,  in  the  following  speech  of  the  Dauphin  in 
Henry  V. 

"  No,  with  no  more,  than  if  we  heard  that  England 
Were  busied  with  a  Whitsun  morrice  dauuoe." 


The  following  description  of  a  morris  dance  occurs  Ir 
"  Cobbe's  Prophecies,  his  Signos  and  Tokens,  hia  Madri- 
galls,  Questions  and  Answers,  1614." 

It  was  my  hap  of  late,  by  chance, 
To  meet  a  country  morris  dance. 
When,  chccfest  of  them  all,  the  foole 

Plaicd  with  a  ladle 

When  every  younger  shak't  his  bells — 

And  fine  maid  Marian,  with  her  smoile, 

Rhow'd  how  a  rascall  plaid  the  roilc ; 

But,  when  the  hobby-liorse  did  wihy, 

Then  all  the  wenches  gave  a  tihy  : 

But  when  they  gan  to  shake  their  boxe, 

And  not  a  goo.se  could  catch  a  foxe. 

The  piper  then  put  up  his  pipes, 

And  all  the  woodcocks  look't  like  snipes,  Ac. 

■^  Of  all  the  learned  and  auihentUk  fellows. 

Authentick  physicians  were  those  who  were  allowed  to 
practise  publicly,  authentlee  Uc^ntlatus  in  the  language  of 
the  diploma. 

What  do  ye  call  there,  the  same  idiom  as,  what  dti  yt 
call  it  f 

^  Lustique,  (M  the  Dutchman  say». 

That  is,  lusty,  cheerful,  pleasant.  A  Dutchman  intro- 
duced in  the  Weakest  gocth  to  the  Wall,  1618,  says, 
"  Well,  well,  hah  mien  skone  friester,  mien  lieff,  dow  sail 
met  mie  blieven,  and  di  mannykin  a  weigh  lope,  heigh 
loustick." 

'*  Let  the  white  dtaih. 

The  white  death,  says  Boswell,  is  the  paleness  of  death. 
There  was  a  pestilence  called  the  Mack  death, 

2^  Than  throw  amea-acefor  my  life. 

Ames-ace  or  ambe$-as,  the  lowest  throw  in  the  dice ;  and 
hence  often  used  figuratively  for  bad  luck.    So  Skelton, — 

This  were  a  hevy  case, 
A  chaunce  <ji  anihesase, 
To  se  youe  broughte  so  base, 
To  playe  without  a  place. 

*  Shall  seem  expedient  on  the  new-horn  lirief. 

The  term  hrief  was  formerly  applied  to  any  kind  of 
short  document,  and  here  of  course  refers  to  the  contract. 
Expedient,  quick,  hasty. 

"  It  was,  as  farre  as  I  remember,  Pericles,  who,  being 
demanded  how  he  did,  you  may,  said  he,  judge  it  by  this, 
shewing  certaine  scroules  or  briefes  bee  had  tied  about  hia 
necke  and  armes." — Montaigne's  Essays,  by  Florio,  1603. 

'^  That  huffs  his  kicky-wicky  here  at  home. 

Kioky-wicky  is  a  ludicrous  term  for  a  jade,  metaphori- 
cally applied  to  a  woman.  Kicksee-winsee  occurs  in  one 
of  the  tracts  of  Taylor,  the  water-poet,  1630.  The  second 
folio  reads  kieksie-wicksiii. 


^  To  the  dark  house  and  the  detested  wife. 

That  is,  even  war  is  nothing  compared  either  to  the  dark 
house  or  detested  wife.  The  dark  house  is  a  phrase  usual- 
ly applied  to  the  prison  room  of  a  lunatic,  but  the  commen- 
tators here  explain  it,  the  house  which  i£  the  seat  of  gloom 
and  discontent. 

533 


NOraS  TO  ALL 'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


*>  Will  Hit  caprieic  Tmli  in  (ha. 

CaprisU),  caprice.  "Have  ycu  no  other  eapricioru  in 
your  he.id  to  intrap  my  sister  n  her  frailtie,"  Chapman's 
Widowes  Teares,  1612. 

="  /took  this  larhfoT  a  buntinij. 

"  The  bunting  is,  in  feather,  Bize,  and  form,  so  like  the 
eky-Iark,  as  to  require  nice  attention  to  discover  the  one 
from  the  other;  it  also  ascends  and  sinks  in  the  air  nearly 
in  the  same  manner;  but  it  has  little  or  no  song,  which 
gives  estimation  to  the  sky-lark,"  Dr.  Johnson. 

'■  Like  him  that  leaped  info  the  cuetard. 

The  enormous  size  of  the  custards  at  the  city  feasts  are 
noticed  by  Glapthorne  and  other  dramatists.  The  absurd 
tricks  that  were  played,  as  the  fool  leaping  into  one,  and 
otlier  extravagancies,  are  also  made  a  subject  of  satire.  So 
Ben  Jonson, — 

He  may  perchance,  in  tail  of  a  sheriff's  dinner, 
Skip  with  a  rhyme  on  the  table  from  New-aothing, 
And  take  his  Almain-leap  into  a  custard. 
Shall  make  my  lady  mayoress,  and  her  sisters, 
Laugh  all  their  hoods  over  their  shoulders. 

"  Than  you  have  or  wilt  to  deserve. 

That  is.  Than  you  have  to  deserve,  or  will  have  to  de- 
serve at  my  hand. 

S3  Mend  the  ruff^  and  sijiff. 

"The  tops  of  the  boots,"  observes  Whalley,  "in  our 
author's  time,  turned  down,  and  hung  loosely  over  the  log. 
Tlie  folding  is  what  the  clown  means  by  the  rujf.  Ecu 
Jonson  calls  it  rv£U;  and  perhaps  it  should  be  so  here. 
"  Not  having  leisure  to  put  off  my  silver  spurs,  one  of  the 
rowels  catch'd  hold  of  the  rn^le  of  my  boot,"  Every  Man 
cut  of  his  Iluviour^  Act  IV.  Sc.  6.  To  this  fashion  Bishop 
Earle  alludes  in  his  Characters,  1638,  "He  has  learut  to 
rvjfle  hifl  face  from  his  hoote  ;  and  takes  great  delight  in  hia 
walk  to  hear  hia  spurs  gingle." 

«« Move  the  stUl.peering  air. 

So  in  the  original,  explained  by  Mr.  Knight,  appearing 
still.    There  is,  probably,  some  corruption. 

"  Some  precepts  of  this  virgin. 

The  genuine  old  reading,  correctly  restored  by  Mr.  Col- 
her.     Of  ior  on  occurs  several  times  in  Shakespeare. 

"  And  huy  myself  another  of  BajazeVs  mule. 

Bajazet's  mule  was,  of  course,  dumb.  In  one  of  our  old 
Turkish  histories,  says  Steevens,  there  is  a  pompous  de- 
scription of  Bajazet  riding  on  a  mule  to  the  Divan. 

"  Men  make  ropes  in  such  a  scarre. 
This  passage  appears  to  be  hopelessly  corrupted. 

"  Since  Frenchmen  are  so  hraid. 

Jiraid,  deceitful.  Steevens  quotes  the  following  from 
Greene's  Never  too  Late,  1616: — 

Dian  rose  wilh  all  her  maids, 
iilushing  thus  at  love  his  braid*. 

Cf.  Laagtoft's  Chronicle,  cd.  Uearne,  p.  188. 
634 


"  Is  it  not  meant  damnable  inutf 

Damnable  for  damnably,  the  adjectiye  need  adverbially,  a 
very  common  practice  in  Shakespeare  and  his  contempora^ 
ries.  "  Now  so  evill  could  she  conceale  her  fire,  and  so  wil  ■ 
fuHie  persevered  she  in  it,"  Sir  P.  Sydney's  Arcadia,  1613. 

Company,  in  the  second  speech  after  this,  is  used  in  the 
sense  oi  companion. 

"  Sae  deceiv'd  me. 

So  the  original,  the  sentence,  as  is  not  nnnsual  in  Shakes 
peare,  being  elliptical.    Modern  editors  insert  he. 

*^  Hoodman  comes. 

An  allusion  to  the  old  game  of  blind-man's-buff,  which 
was  formerly  called  hoodman  blind.  "The  he odwinke 
playe,  or  hoodman  blinde,  in  some  places  called  the  blind- 
manbnf,"  Baret's  Alvearie,  1580. 

"  Icon  him.  no  (hanks  for  H. 

"  It  is  well  doone  to  practise  thy  wit,  but  I  beleeve  oui 
lord  will  cun  thee  little  thanke  for  it,"  Pierce  Penilesso  his 
Supplication  to  the  Devil],  1592. 

"  From  off  their  cassocke. 
The  cassock  was  a  soldier's  loose  outward  coat. 

«  Men  are  to  meU  with. 

Mell,  to  meddle  with.  The  meaning  here  intended  is 
obvious.  So  in  the  Coventry  mystery  of  the  Woman  takrn 
in  Adultery, — 

A  fayre  vonge  qwene  here  by  doth  dwelle, 

Both  ft'resehe  and  gay  upon  to  lokc. 
And  a  talle  man  with  her  dothe  melle, 

The  wcy  into  hyr  chawmere  ryght  evyn  he  toko. 

*^  And  (lie  armipotent  soldier. 

Armipotent,  powerful  in  arms,  mighty  in  war,  fron:  tho 
Latin  armipotens.    So  Fairfax, — 

— If  our  God,  the  Lord  armipotent, 
Those  armed  angels  in  our  aid  down  send. 


"  Still  the  fine '«  the  crown. 
From  the  common  Latin  proverb.  Finis  coronal  optu. 

*^  And  an  unhappy. 
Unliappy,  unlucky,  mischievous.    So  Fairfax, — 

Upon  his  neck  light  that  unhappy  blow, 
And  cut  the  sinews  and  the  throat  in  twain. 

«  Enter  a  gentle  astringer. 

An  astringer,  or  ostringer,  was  a  falconer.  "  Ostringer, 
a  falconer,  properly  that  keeps  a  goshawk  :  Juliana  Barns 
calls  him  an  ostrcgcre,"  Blount's  Glossographia,  16S1.  A 
former  editor,  not  understanding  tho  term,  proposes  to 
read  stranger. 

"  Muddied  in  Fortune^s  7nood. 

Mood,  tinea,  caprice.  Mr.  Collier  says,  "Mud  wan  in 
SliakCBpeare's  day  pronounced  nearly  like  mood,  and  hcnco 
the  intended  jingle,  which  Warburton,  not  adverting  to 
changed  mood  to  moat.'" 


JNOTES  TO  ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


•"  There  'i  a  cardemie  for  you. 

Cardecut,  the  fourtli  part  of  a  French  crown,  corrupted 
from  quart  cficu.  This  form  ia  of  constant  ooourroneo  in 
old  plays. 

"  lam  not  a  day  o/teaton. 

A  day  of  season,  says  Malono,  means  a  seasonable  day; 
but  a  mixture  of  sunfhine  and  hail,  of  winter  and  summer, 
is  unseasonable. 

"3  0  nature,  oessel 

Oeste,  to  end,  to  cease.    (Anglo-Norman.) 

Now  youre  goode  dayes  arn  doon, 
•    As  Daniel  proplieciea. 

Whan  Crist  cam,  of  hir  kyngdom 
The  crowne  sholde  cesse. 

Piers  Ploughman,  ed.  Wright,  p.  875. 

"  I  stood  engaged. 

That  is,  to  the  noble  lady. 
Removes,  stages. 

"  And  toll  him. 

Mason's  explanation  of  this  appears  to  be  Uie  most  rea- 
Bonable.  "  I  will  buy  me  a  son-in-law  in  a  fair,  and  pay 
loll  for  him  •  ns  for  this,  I  will  have  none  of  him." 


"  And  was  a  common  ganuster  to  the  camp. 

A  gamester  was  a  term  for  a  dissolute  person,  gener- 
ally applied  to  a  female.  So,  in  the  Second  Maiden'a 
Tragedy,- 

'T  ia  to  me  wondrous  how  you  should  spare  tlie  day 
From  amorous  clips,  much  less  the  general  season 
When  all  the  world  's  a  gamester. 


»"  Thou  art  too  fine  in  thy  evidence. 

Too  fine,  too  full  of  finesse,  too  artful.  So  in  Bacon's 
Apophthegms,  1625,  quoted  by  Malone,  "  Your  Majesty 
was  too  flue  for  my  lord  Burghloy." 


"  Good  Tom  Drum. 

This  name  was  probably  taken  from  the  old  proverbial 
phrase  of  Tom  Drum's  or  Jack  Drum's  Entertainment,  au 
instance  of  which  has  previously  occurred,  and  means  a 
sound  beating  and  turning  out  of  doors.  There  is,  of 
course,  an  obvious  allusion  to  the  adventure  of  the  drum, 
but  I  refer  to  the  compound  name. 

Odde  is  the  combo  from  whence  this  cockc  did  come, 
That  crowed  in  Venice  gainst  the  skinlesse  Jewes, 
Who  gave  him  th'  entortiiiumeiit  of  Turn  Drum. 

Voryai's  CruJitiei,  161 L 


6»6 


€iuflftli  liiglit;  iir,  im  f  nil  l^ilL 


'PHE  eonjecturea  of  the  elder  critics  respecting  the  date  of  this  charming  drama  have  been  disproved 
by  the  discovery  of  a  little  manuscript  diaiy,  contemporary  with  Shakespeare,  written  by  one  John 
Manninghara,  a  student  at  the  Middle  Temple,  who  has  recorded  the  following  most  interesting  notice 
under  the  date  of  February  2,  1001-2, — "At  our  feast  wee  had  a  play  called  Twelve  Night,  or  What 
You  Will,  much  like  the  Comedy  of  Errors,  or  Menechmi  in  Plautus,  but  most  hke  and  neere  to  that 
-n  Italian  called  Inganni.  A  good  practise  in  it  to  make  the  steward  beleeve  his  lady  widdowe  was  in 
love  with  hira,  by  counterfayting  a  lettre  as  from  his  lady,  in  generall  tennes  telling  him  what  sliee 
liked  best  in  him,  and  prescribing  his  gesture  in  smiling,  his  apparraile,  &c.,  and  then  when  he  came  to 
practise,  making  him  beleeve  they  tooke  him  to  be  mad,  &c."  This  important  memorandum,  which 
was  first  pointed  out  by  Mr.  Collier,  proves  that  Twelfth  Night  was  written  before  February,  lGOl-2, 
and  as  it  is  not  mentioned  by  Meres  in  1598,  we  may  safely  conclude  it  was  written  in  1599,  1600,  or 
1601.  If  reliance  may  be  placed  on  the  statement  that  the  "  new  map  with  the  augmentation  of  the 
Indies,"  refers  to  a  particular  plate  in  Linschoten's  "  Voyages  into  the  Easte  and  West  Indies,"  which 
appeared  at  London  in  1598,  we  may  perhaps  assign  the  date  of  the  play  to  the  following  year. 

The  primary  source  of  Twelfth-Night  is  found  in  one  of  the  novels  of  Bandello,  but  Shakespeare 
adopted  most  of  the  particulars  of  the  story  from  an  English  translation  in  Rich's  "Farewell  to  Militarie 
Profession,"  4to.  London,  1581,  which  contains  many  variations  from  the  original.  In  this  account,  a 
duko  or  sovereign  called  Apolonius,  was  wrecked  on  the  Isle  of  Cyprus  on  his  return  from  a  crusade 
Against  the  infidels,  and  having  been  hospitably  received  by  Pontus,  "  lord  and  governor  of  this  famous 
isle,"  chanced  to  inspire  his  daughter  with  an  inextinguishable  affection.  This  lady,  who  was  named 
Silla,  follows  Apolonius,  some  time  after  his  departure,  accompanied  by  only  one  servant.  She  also 
was  destined  to  be  shipwrecked,  her  servant  was  drowned,  and  she  herself  escaped  with  difficulty.  Silla 
afterwards  assumes  male  attire,  and  enters  into  the  service  of  Apolonius  as  a  page.  It  will  be  observed 
that  this  account  removes  the  improbability,  which  must  strike  every  reader  of  the  comedy,  of  Viola's 
sudden  affection  for  the  duke,  and  her  desire  to  serve  hijii.  The  commencement  of  the  second  part  of 
the  stor}',  Juliana  corresponding  to  the  Olivia  of  the  play,  is  thus  related  in  the  novel : — 

' '  At  this  verie  instaunt,  there  wiia  remainyng  in  the  cittie  a  noble  Dame  a  widdowe,  whose  husband  was  but  latol.v 
ilnoe:iseil,  one  of  the  noblest  men  that  were  in  the  partes  of  Grccia,  wlio  left  his  lady  and  wife  large  possessions  and  great 
livings.  Tliis  ladyos  name  was  called  Julina,  who  besides  the  ahoundance  of  her  wealth  and  the  greatncsse  of  her 
revenues,  had  likewise  the  soveraigntie  of  all  the  dames  of  Constantinople  for  her  beautie.  To  this  lady  Jclina,  A])olo- 
nius  became  an  earnest  suter,  and  according  to  the  manner  of  wooers,  besides  fairo  wordes,  sorrowfuU  sighes,  and 
piteous  counteuanees,  there  must  be  sending  of  loving  letters,  chaines,  braeeletes,  brouches,  ringes,  tablets,  gemmes, 
jueis,  and  presents  I  know  not  what;  so  my  duke,  who  in  the  time  that  lie  remained  in  the  He  of  Cypres,  had  no  skili 
at  all  in  the  arte  of  love,  although  it  were  more  then  half  profferred  unto  him.  was  now  become  a  scholler  in  love» 
68  637 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


Bchoole,  and  had  alreadle  learned  his  first  lesson,  that  is,  to  speake  pittifully,  to  look  ruthfully,  to  promise  largely,  to 
serve  dilig:ently,  and  to  please  carefully:  now  he  was  learning  his  second  lesson,  that  is,  to  reward  liberally,  to  give 
bountifully,  to  present  willingly,  and  to  write  lovingly.  Thua  Apolonius  was  so  busied  in  his  new  study,  that  I  warrant 
you  there  was  no  man  that  could  chalenge  him  for  plaiyng  the  truant,  he  followed  his  profession  with  so  good  a  will : 
and  who  must  bee  the  messenger  to  carrie  the  tokens  and  love  letters  to  the  lady  Julina,  but  Silvio  his  man ;  in  him 
the  duke  reposed  his  only  confidence,  to  goe  betwene  him  and  his  lady. 

''  Now,  gentlewomen,  doe  yott  thinke  there  could  have  beene  a  greater  torment  devised  wherewith  to  afflict  the 
heart  of  Silla,  then  herself  to  be  made  the  instrument  to  worke  her  owne  mishap,  and  to  plaie  the  attumey  in  a  cause 
that  made  so  much  against  herself.  Bat  Silla,  altogether  desirous  to  please  her  maister,  cared  nothing  at  all  to  offend 
herselfe,  followed  his  businesse  wi'.h  eo  good  a  will,  as  if  it  had  been  in  her  own  preferment. 

"  Julina  nowe  having  many  times  taken  the  gaze  of  this  yong  youth  Silvio,  perceivyng  him  to  bee  of  such  excellent 
perfect  grace,  was  so  intangeled  wi:h  the  often  sight  of  this  sweete  temptation,  that  she  fell  into  as  great  a  liking  with 
the  man,  as  the  maister  was  with  her  selfe :  and  on  a  time  Silvio  beyng  sent  from  his  maister,  with  a  message  to  the  lady 
Julina,  as  he  beganne  very  earnestly  to  solicite  in  his  maisters  behalfe,  Julina  interrupting  him  in  his  tale,  saied :  Silvio, 
it  is  enough  that  you  have  saied  for  your  maister;  from  henceforth  either  epeake  for  your  self,  or  say  nothing  at  all. 
Silla  abashed  to  heare  these  words,  began  in  her  mind  to  accuse  the  blindness  of  love,  that  Julina  neglecting  the  good 
of  so  noble  a  duke,  would  preferre  her  love  unto  such  a  one,  as  nature  it  selfe  had  denied  to  recompence  her  liking." 

It  is  somewhat  sicgular  that  the  Italian  play  mentioned  by  Manningham,  in  the  extract  above 
given,  should  be  found  on  examination  to  have  little  resemblance  to  Twelfth-Night  Another  play,  tlie 
Ingannati,  bears  more  similarity,  but  its  story  was  no  doubt  taken  from  Bandello.  No  source  has  hith- 
erto been  discovered  for  the  foundation  of  the  comic  portion  of  Shakespeare's  comedy.  "  In  both  the 
Italian  dramas,"  as  Mr.  Colher  observes,  "  it  is  of  the  most  homely  and  vulgar  materials,  by  the  inter- 
vention of  empirics,  braggarts,  pedants,  and  servants,  who  deal  in  the  coarsest  jokes,  and  are  guilty  of 
the  grossest  buffoonery." 

There  is  no  mention  of  the  shipwreck  in  Bandello ;  and  Skottowe  thinks  that  the  separation  of 
Sebastian  and  Viola,  in  the  play,  assimilates  more  closely  to  a  tale  in  the  Heccaiommiihi  than  to  either 
of  the  versions  of  the  story  in  Bandello  and  Rich.  Cinthio  relates  the  story  of  a  gentleman,  who,  fall- 
ing under  the  displeasure  of  the  king  of  Naples,  leaves  that  country  with  his  two  children,  a  boy  and  a 
girl,  bearing  a  strong  resemblance  to  each  other.  Their  vessel  is  wrecked,  and  their  father  is  lost;  but 
the  two  children,  getting  safely  to  shore,  are  brought  up,  unknown  to  each  other,  by  different  persons. 
Shakespeare's  Sebastian  and  Viola  are  twins  and  orphans  separated  by  shipwreck ;  each  is  ignorant 
that  the  other  had  survived,  and  both  are  indebted  to  strangers  for  their  presen'ation.    (Skottowe,  20G.) 

In  Twelfth  Night,  as  in  some  other  plays,  Shakespeare  exhibits  the  wonderful  power  of  his  dra- 
matic art  by  reconciling  the  introduction  of  the  most  fr^cinating  poetry  with  the  action  of  characters 
whose  discourse  is  replete  with  buffoonery ;  so  that,  when  the  curtain  falls,  our  admiration  is  divided 
between  the  serious  and  comic  portions  of  the  drama.  The  pathetic  eloquence  and  enchanting  graces 
of  Viola  are  familiar  to  the  most  casual  reader;  but  it  may  be  doubted  whether  the  character  of  Mal- 
volio  has  been  correctly  appreciated,  whether,  indeed,  the  poet  did  not  in  him  intend  to  figure  the 
lamentable  consequences  of  extreme  personal  vanity  in  a  person  of  really  natural  sound  sense,  not 
merely  a  vain,  sententious  fool,  as  he  is  too  often  represented  on  the  stage.  Sir  Toby  Belch  is  a  gen- 
uine English  humourist  of  the  old  school,  and  his  butt.  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek,  is,  perhaps,  still  more 
richly  comic,  always  enjoying  a  joke,  and  never  understanding  it.  The  Clown,  to  a  certain  extent,  is 
philosopliical ;  and  some  of  the  ciitics  imagine  even  an  esthetic  meaning  in  every  line  of  the  quaint 
little  song  which  concludes  the  comedy 

588 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED 


Orsino,  Duke  of  Ulyria. 
Appears,  dot  I.  so.  1 ;  so.  4.    Act  II.  sc.  4.    Act  V.  so.  1. 

Sebastian,  brother  to  Viola. 

^/|pfjr»,  Act  II.  BC.  1.    Actlll.  so.  3.    Act  IV.  so.  1 ;  sc.  3. 
Act  V.  sc.  1. 

A.NTONIO,  a  sea-captain,  friend  to  Sebastian. 
Appears,  Act  II.  Bc.  1.    Act  III.  sc.  3 ;  sc.  4.    Act  V.  bo.  1. 

A  Sea-Captain,  friend  to  Viola. 
Appears,  Act  I.  so.  2. 

Valentine,  a  gentleman  attending  on  the  Duke. 
Appears,  Act  I.  so.  1 ;  so.  4. 

Cdrio,  a  gentleman  attending  on  the  Duke. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  4.    Act  II.  sc.  4. 

Sir  Tobt  Belch,  uncle  to  Olivia. 

.Ippears,  Act  I.  bo.  8;  bc.  5.    Act  II.  sc.  8;  sc  6.    Act  III. 

s  .  1 ;  so.  2 ;  sc.  4.    Act  IV.  so.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  3.    Act  II.  sc.  3 ;  so.  5.    Act  III.  sc.  1 ; 
sc.  2;  so.  4.     Aot  IV.  sc.  1.    Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Malvolio,  steward  to  Olivia. 

ippears,  Act  I.  bc.  6.    Aot  II.  so.  2 ;  sc.  8 ;  sc.  5.     Aot  III. 

sc.  4.    Aot  IV.  BC  2.    Aot  V.  sc.  1. 


Fabian,  servant  to  Olivia. 

Appears,  Act  II.  sc.  5.     Act  III.  sc.  2 ;  so.  4.     Act  IV.  so  1 
Act  V.  80.  1. 

Clown,  servant  to  Olivia. 

Appears,  Aot  I.  sc.  5.    Act  II.  sc.  3 ;  so.  4.    Act  III.  so.  1 
Act  IV.  80.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  V.  BC.  1. 

OfScers. 
Appear,  Act  III.  sc.  4.     Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Olivia,  a  rich  Countess. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  5.    Act  III.  so.  1 ;  sc.  4.    Act  IV.  sc  1 
sc.  3.    Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Viola,  in  love  with  the  Duke. 

Appears,  Aot  I.  sc.  2;  so.  4 ;  so.  5.    Act  11.  sc.  2 ;  sc  4. 
Act  III.  BC.  1 ;  80.  4.    Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Maria,  Olivia's  waiting-woman. 

Appears,  Act  I.  sc  3 ;  sc.  5.     Act  II.  sc.  3 ;  sc.  5.    Act  III, 
so.  1 ;  sc.  2 ;  sc.  4.     Act  IV.  so.  2. 


Lords,  Priests,  Sailors,  Musicians,  and  Attendants. 


SCENE, —  4.  Cnr  in  Illtria  ;  and  the  Sea-ooast 

NEAR  IT. 

139 


iujflftli  aigljt;  nr,  i^l)«t  f  on  Wil. 


ACT    ] 


SCENE  I. — An  Apartment  in  the  Duke's 
Palace. 

Enter  Duee.,  Curto,  Lords  ;   Musiciaiis  attending. 

Duke.  K  music  be  the  food  of  love,  play  on  ; 
Give  me  excess  of  it ;  that,  surfeiting, 
1'he  appetite  may  sicken,  and  so  die. 
That  strain  again  ; — it  had  a  dying  fall : 
O,  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  sound 
That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets. 
Stealing,  and  giving  odour. — Enough  !  no  more  ; 
'T  is  not  so  sweet  now  as  it  was  before. 
O  spirit  of  love  1  how  quick  and  fresh  art  thou. 
That,  notwithstanding  thy  capacity 
Receiveth  as  the  sea,  nought  enters  there, 
Of  what  validity  a*id  pitch  soe'er, 
But  falls  into  abatement  and  low  price, 
Even  in  a  minute  !  so  full  of  shapes  is  fancy. 
That  it  alone  is  high-fantastical. 

Cur.  Will  you  go  hunt,  my  lord  ? 

Duke.  What,  Curio  2 

Cur.  The  hart. 

Duke.  Why,  so  I  do,  the  noblest  that  I  have  : 
0,  when  mine  eyes  did  see  Olivia  first, 
Meth  sught  she  purg'd  the  air  of  pestilence  ; 
That  instant  wa.s  I  turn'd  into  a  hart. 
And  my  desires,  like  fell  and  cruel  hounds, 
E'er   since   pursue  me. — How  now  ?   what  news 
from  her  I 
640 


Enter  Valentink. 

Val.   So  please   my  lord,  I  might  bot  l.fi   ad- 
mitted. 
But  from  her  handmaid  do  return  this  answer 
The  element  itself,  till  seven  years'  heat. 
Shall  not  behold  her  face  at  ample  view ; 
But,  like  a  cloistress,  she  will  veiled  walk. 
And  water  once  a  day  her  chamber  round 
With  eye-oflending  brine  :  all  this,  to  season 
A  brother's  dead  love,  which  she  would  keep  fiesh 
And  lasting  in  her  sad  remembrance. 

Duke.  O,  she  that  hath  a  heart  of  that  fine 
frame. 
To  pay  this  debt  of  love  but  to  a  brother, 
Ilow  will  she  love,  when  the  rich  golden  shaft 
Hath  kill'd  the  flock  of  all  aSections  else 
That  live  in  her  !  when  liver,  brain,  and  heart, 
Those  sovereign  thrones,  are  all  supply'd  and  fill'd, 
(Her  sweet  perfections,)  with  one  selfsame  king  1 — 
Away  before  me  to  sweet  beds  of  flowers  ; 
Love-thoughts    lie    rich,    when    canopy'd    with 
bowers.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  \\.—  The  Sea-coast. 

Enter  Viola,  Captain,  and  Sailors, 

Vio.  What  country,  friends,  is  this  ? 
Cap.  This  is  Illyria,  lady. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


SCENE   in. 


Vio.  And  what  should  I  do  in  Llyria  ? 
My  brother  he  is  in  Elysium. 
IVrchancA  he  is  not  drownVl : — What  think  you, 
sailors? 

Cap.    It  is  perchance  tliat  3'ou  yourself  were 
sav'd. 

Vio.  0  my  poor  brother !  and  so,  perchance,  may 
he  be. 

Cap.  True,  madam  ;  and  to  comfort  you  with 
chance, 
Assure  yourself,  after  our  ship  did  split. 
When  you,  and  those  poor  number  sav'd  with 

you, 
Hung  on  our  driving  boat,  I  saw  your  brother. 
Most  provident  in  peril,  bind  himself 
(Courage  and  hope  both  teaching  him  the  prac- 
tice) 
To  a  strong  mast,  that  liv'd  upon  the  sea; 
Where;  like  Arion  on  the  dolphin's  back, 
I  saw  him  hold  acquaintance  with  the  waves, 
So  long  as  I  could  see. 

Vio.  For  saj'ing  so,  there  's  gold  : 
Mine  own  escape  unfoldeth  to  my  hope. 
Whereto  thy  speech  serves  for  authonty. 
The  like  of  him.     Know'st  thou  this  country  ? 

Cap.  Ay,  madam,  well ;  for  I  was  bred  and 
born 
tfot  three  hours'  travel  from  this  very  place. 

Vio.  Who  governs  here  ? 

Cap.  A  noble  duke,  in  nature  as  in  name. 

Vto.  What  is  his  name  ? 

Cap.  Orsino. 

Vio.  Orsino !     I  have  heard  my  father  name 
him : 
He  was  a  bachelor  then. 

Cap.  And  so  is  now,  or  was  so  very  late : 
For  but  a  month  ago  I  went  from  hence, 
And  then  't  was  fresh  in  murmur,  (as,  you  know. 
What  gi'eat  ones  do,  the  less  vt-ill  prattle  of,) 
That  he  did  seek  the  love  of  fair  Olivia. 

Vio,  What 's  she  ? 

Cap.  A  virtuous  maid,  the  daughter  of  a  count 
That  died  some  twelvemonth  since  ;  then  leaving 

her 
lu  the  protection  of  his  son,  her  brother. 
Who  shortly  also  died  :  for  whose  dear  love, 
They  say,  she  hath  abjured  the  sight 
And  company  of  men. 

Vio.  0,  that  I  serv'd  that  lady  : 

And  might  not  be  deliver'd  to  the  world. 
Till  I  had  made  mine  own  occasion  mellow 
What  my  estate  is. 


Cap.  That  were  hard  to  compass, 

Because  she  will  admit  no  kind  of  suit-, 

No,  not  the  duke's. 

Vio.  There  is  a  fair  behaviour  in  thee,  captain 
And  though  that  nature  with  a  beauteous  wall 
Doth  oft  close  in  pollution,  yet  of  thee 
I  will  believe  thou  hast  a  mind  that  suits 
With  this  thy  fair  and  outward  character. 
I  piithoe, — and  I  '11  pay  thee  bounteously, — 
Conceal  me  what  I  am  ;  and  be  my  aid 
For  such  disguise  as,  haply,  shall  become 
The  form  of  my  intent.     I  '11  serve  this  duke  ; 
Thou  shalt  present  me  as  an  eunuch  to  him  : 
It  may  be  worth  thy  pains  ;  for  I  can  sing, 
And  speak  to  him  in  many  sorts  of  music, 
That  will  allow  me  very  worth  his  service. 
Wliat  else  may  hap,  to  time  I  will  commit ; 
Only  shape  thou  thy  silence  to  my  wit. 

Cap.  Be  you  his  eunuch,  and  your  mute  I  'h 
be ; 
When  my  tongue  blabs,  then  let  mine  eyes  no'. 
see ! 

Vio.  I  thank  thee  :   Lead  me  on.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  m.— .4  Room  in  Olivia'*  Souse. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch  and  Maria. 

Sir  To.  What  a  plague  means  my  niece,  to  take 
the  death  of  her  brother  thus  ?  I  am  sure  care  ' 
an  enemy  to  life. 

Mar.  By  my  troth,  Sir  Toby,  you  must  cc  me  in 
earlier  a'nights  ;  your  cousin,  my  lady,  takes  great 
exceptions  to  your  ill  hours. 

Sir  To.  Why,  let  her  except  before  excepted.' 

Mar.  Ay,  but  you  must  confine  yourself  within 
the  modest  limits  of  order. 

Sir  To.  Confine  ?  I  '11  confine  myself  no  finer 
than  I  am.  These  clothes  are  good  enough  to  diink 
in,  and  so  be  these  boots  too  ;  an  they  be  not,  let 
them  hang  themselves  in  their  own  straps. 

Mar.  That  quaffing  and  drinking  will  undo  you ; 
I  heard  my  lady  talk  of  it  yesterday ;  and  of  a 
foolish  knight,  that  you  brought  in  one  night  here, 
to  be  her  wooer. 

Sir  To.  W^ho  ?  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek  ? 

Mar.  Ay,  he. 

Sir  To.  He  's  as  tall  a  man  as  any 's  in  Illyria. 

Mar.  What 's  that  to  the  purpose  ? 

Sir  To.  W^hy,  he  has  three  thous.".nd  ducats  a 
year. 

Mar.  Ay,  but  he  '11  have  but  a  year  in  all  these 
ducats ;  he  '"  a  very  fool,  and  a  prodigal. 

641 


TWELFIH  NIGHT. 


BCENE    lU. 


Sir  To.  Fie,  that  you  li  say  so  !  lie  plays  o'  the 
viol-de-gamboys,  and  speaks  three  or  four  languages 
word  for  word  without  book,  and  hath  all  the  good 
gifts  of  nature. 

Mar.  He  hath ,  indeed,  all  most  natural :  for 
besides  that  he  's  a  fool,  he  's  a  great  quarreller ; 
and  but  that  he  hath  the  gift  of  a  coward  to  allay 
the  gust  he  hath  in  quarrelling,  't  is  thought 
among  the  prudent  he  would  quickly  have  the 
gift  of  a  grave. 

Sir  To.  By  this  hand,  they  are  scoundrels  and 
subtractors  that  say  so  of  him.     Who  are  they  ? 

Mar.  They  that  add,  moreover,  he  's  drunk 
nightly  in  your  company. 

Sir  To.  With  drinking  healths  to  my  niece  :  I  '11 
drink  to  her  as  long  as  there  is  a  passage  in  my 
throat,  and  drink  in  Illjria  !  He  's  a  coward,  and 
a  coystril,'  that  will  not  drink  to  my  niece  till  his 
brain.s  turn  o'  the  toe  like  a  parish  top.'  What, 
wench  i  Castiliano-vulgo ;  for  here  comes  sir  Andrew 
Ague-face. 

Snter  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek. 

Sir  And.  Sir  Toby  Belch  !  how  now,  sir  Toby 
Belch ! 

Sir  To.  Sweet  sir  Andrew  ! 

Sir  And.  Bless  you,  fair  shrew. 

Mar.  And  you  too,  sir. 

Sir  To.  Accost,  sir  Andrew,  accost. 

Sir  And.  What 's  that  ? 

Sir  To.  My  niece's  chambermaid. 

Sir  And.  Good  Mistress  Accost,  I  desire  better 
acquaintance. 

Mar.  My  name  is  Mary,  sir. 

Sir  And.  Good  mistress  Mary  Accost, — 

Sir  To.  You  mistake,  knight ;  accost  is,  front 
her,  board  her,  woo  her,  assail  her. 

Sir  And.  By  my  troth,  I  would  not  undertake 
her  in  this  company.  Is  that  the  meaning  of 
accost  ? 

Mar.  Fare  you  well,  gentlemen. 

Sir  To.  An  thou  let  part  so,  sir  Andrew,  'would 
thou  mightst  never  draw  sword  again. 

Sir  And.  An  you  part  so,  mistress,  I  would  I 
might  never  draw  sword  again.  Fair  lady,  do  you 
think  you  have  fools  in  hand  ? 

Mar.  Sir,  I  have  not  you  by  the  hand. 

Sir  And.  Marry  but  you  shall  have ;  and  here  's 
my  hand. 

Mar.  Now,  sir,  thought  is  free  :  I  pray  you, 
bring  your  hand  to  the  buttery -bar,  and  let  it 
drink. 

642 


Sir  And.  Wherefore,  sweetheart  1  what 's  your 
metaphor  ? 

Mar.  It 's  dry,  sir. 

Sir  And.  Why,  I  think  so ;  I  am  not  such  an 
ass  but  I  can  keep  my  hand  dry  But  what 's 
your  jest  ? 

Mar.  A  dry  jest,  sir. 

Sir  And.  Are  you  full  of  them  ? 

Mar.  Ay,  sir  ;  I  have  them  at  my  fingers'  ends  : 
marry,  now  I  let  go  your  hand,  I  am  barren. 

[Exit  Maria. 

Sir  To.  O  knight,  thou  lack'st  a  cup  of  canaiy  : 
When  did  I  see  thee  so  put  down  1 

Sir  And.  Never  in  your  life,  I  think ;  unless 
you  see  canary  put  me  down.  Methinks  some- 
times I  have  no  more  wit  than  a  Christian,  or 
an  ordinary  man  has :  but  I  am  a  great  eater  of 
beef,  and  I  believe  that  does  harm  to  my  wit. 

Sir  To.  No  question. 

Sir  And.  An  I  thought  that,  I  'd  forswear  it. 
I  '11  ride  home  to-morrow.  Sir  Toby. 

Sir  To.  Pourquoy,  my  dear  knight  ? 

Sir  And.  What  is  pourquoy  ?  do  or  not  do  ?  I 
would  I  had  bestowed  that  time  in  the  tongues 
that  I  have  in  fencing,  dancing,  and  bear-baiting : 
O,  had  I  but  followed  the  arts ! 

Sir  To.  Then  hadst  thou  an  excellent  head  of 
hair. 

SirAnd.Whj,  would  that  have  mended  my  hair  1 

Sir  To.  Past  question ;  for  thou  see'st  it  will 
not  curl  by  nature. 

Sir  And.  But  it  becomes  me  well  enough,  does 't 
not? 

Sir  To.  Excellent ;  it  hangs  like  flax  on  a  dis- 
taff; and  I  hope  to  see  a  housewife  take  thee 
between  her  legs,  and  spin  it  off. 

Sir  And.  'Faith,  I  '11  home  to-morrow.  Sir  Toby 
your  niece  will  not  be  seen ;  or,  if  she  be,  it 's 
four  to  one  she  '11  none  of  me  :  the  count  himseli 
here  hard  by,  woos  her. 

Sir  To.  She  '11  none  o'  the  count ;  she  '11  not 
match  above  her  degree,  neither  in  estate,  years, 
nor  wit ;  I  have  heard  her  swear  't.  Tut,  there  's 
life  in  't,  man. 

Sir  And.  I  '11  st.iy  a  month  longer.  I  am  a 
fellow  o'  the  strangest  mind  i'  the  world  ;  I  delight 
in  masques  and  revels  sometimes  altogether. 

Sir  To.  Art  thou  good  at  these  kickshaws, 
knight  ? 

Sir  And.  As  any  man  in  Illpia,  whatsoever  he 
be,  under  the  degree  of  my  betters ;  and  yet  ] 
will  not  compare  with  an  old  man. 


ACT  I. 


TWELFfll  NIGHT. 


SCENE  rv V. 


Sir  To.  What  is  thy  excellence  in  a  galliard, 
knight  ? 

Sir  And.  'Faith,  I  can  cut  a  caper. 

Sir  To.  And  I  can  cut  the  mutton  to  't. 

Sir  And.  And  I  think  I  have  the  back-trick, 
siniply  as  strong  as  any  man  in  Illyria. 

Sir  To.  Wherefore  are  these  things  hid  ? 
wherefore  have  these  gifts  a  curtain  before  'em  ? 
are  they  like  to  take  dust,  like  mistress  Mall's 
picture  i*  why  dost  thou  not  go  to  church  in  a 
galliard,  and  come  home  in  a  coranto  ?  My  very 
walk  should  be  a  jig ;  I  would  not  so  much  as 
make  water  but  in  a  sink-a-pace.  What  dost  thou 
moan  ?  is  it  a  world  to  hide  virtues  in  ?  I  did 
think,  by  the  excellent  constitution  of  thy  leg,  it 
was  form'd  under  the  star  of  a  galliard. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  't  is  strong,  and  it  does  indif- 
ferent well  in  a  flame-colour'd  stock.  Shall  we 
set  about  some  revels  ? 

Sir  To.  What  shall  we  do  else  ?  were  we  not 
born  under  Taurus  ? 

Sir  And.  Taurus  ?  that 's  sides  and  heart. 

Sir  To.  No,  sir ;  it  is  legs  and  thighs.  Let  me 
Bee  thee  caper  :  ha  !  higher :  ha,  ha  1 — excellent ! 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE  rv.— ^  Jioom  in  the  Duke's  Fahce. 

Enter  Valentine,  and  Viola  in  man's  attire. 

Val.  If  the  duke  continue  these  favours  toward 
you,  Cesario,  you  are  like  to  be  much  advanc'd  ; 
he  hath  known  you  but  three  days,  and  already 
you  are  no  stranger. 

Vio.  You  either  fear  his  humour,  or  my  negli- 
gence, that  you  call  in  question  the  continuance  of 
his  love.     Is  he  inconstant,  sir,  in  his  favours  ? 

Val.  No,  believe  me. 

Enter  Duke,  Curio,  and  Attendants. 

Vio.  I  thank  you.     Here  comes  the  count. 

Duke.  Who  saw  Cesario,  ho  ? 

Via.  On  your  attendance,  my  lord,  here. 

Duke.  Stand  you  awhile  aloof. — Cesario, 
Thou  know'st  no  less  but  all ;  I  have  unclasp'd 
To  thee  the  book  even  of  my  secret  soul : 
Therefore,  good  youth,  address  thy  gait  unto  her ; 
Be  not  deny'd  access ;  stand  at  her  doors. 
And  lell  them,  there  thy  fixed  foot  shall  grow, 
Till  thou  have  audience. 

Vio.  Sure,  my  noble  lord, 

If  she  be  so  abandon'd  to  her  sorrow, 
As  it  is  spoke,  she  never  will  admit  me. 


Duke.  Be  clamorous,  and  leap  all  civil  bounds, 
Rather  than  make  unprofitcd  retuin. 

Vio.  Say,  I  do  speak  with  her,  my  lord  :  What 
then  ? 

Duke.  O,  then  unfold  the  passion  of  my  love ; 
Sur|)nse  her  with  discourse  of  my  dear  faith : 
It  shall  become  thee  well  to  act  my  woes ; 
She  will  attend  it  better  in  thy  youth, 
Than  in  a  nuncio  of  more  grave  aspect. 

Vio.  I  think  not  so,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Dear  lad,  believe  it ; 

For  they  shall  yet  belie  thy  happy  years. 
That  say,  thou  art  a  man  :  Diana's  lip 
Is  not  more  smooth  and  rubious ;  thy  small  pipe 
Is  as  the  maiden's  organ,  shiill  and  sound. 
And  all  is  semblative  a  woman's  part. 
I  know  thy  constellation  is  right  apt 
For  this  atl'air: — Some  four,  or  five,  attend  him  ; 
All,  if  you  will ;  for  I  myself  am  best 
When  least  in  company  : — Prosper  well  in  this. 
And  thou  shalt  live  as  freely  as  thy  lord, 
To  call  his  fortunes  thine. 

Vio.  I  '11  do  my  best 

To  woo  your  lady  ;  yet,  [asz'rfe]  a  barful  strife  ! 
Whoe'er  I  woo,  myself  would  be  his  wife. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.— ^  Room  in  Olivia's  House. 

Enter  Maria  and  Clown. 

Mar.  Nay,  either  tell  me  where  thou  hast  been, 
or  I  will  not  open  my  lips  so  wide  as  a  bristle  may 
enter,  in  way  of  thy  excuse  :  my  lady  will  hang 
thee  for  thy  absence. 

Clo.  Let  her  hang  me  :  he  that  is  well  hang'd 
in  this  world  needs  to  fear  no  colours.' 

Mar.  Make  that  good. 

Clo.  He  shall  see  none  to  fear. 

Mar.  A  good  lenten  answer.  I  can  tell  thee 
where  that  saying  was  bom,  of,  I  fear  no  colours. 

Clo.  Where,  good  mistress  Mary  ? 

Mar.  In  the  wars ;  and  that  may  you  be  bold 
to  say  in  your  fooleiy. 

Clo.  Well,  God  give  them  wisdom  that  have  it ; 
and  those  that  are  fools,  let  them  use  their  talents. 

Mar.  Yet  you  will  be  hang'd,  for  being  so  long 
absent ;  or,  to  be  tum'd  away ;  is  not  that  as  good 
as  a  hanging  to  you  ? 

Clo.  Many  a  good  hanging  prevents  a  bad 
marriage;  and,  for  turning  away,  let  summer  bear 
it  out. 

Mar.  You  are  resolute,  then  ? 

643 


ACT    I. 


TWELFIU  NIGHT. 


Clo.  Nol  so,  neither  ;  but  I  am  resolv'd  on  two 
points. 

Mar.  That  if  one  break*  the  other  will  hold ;  or, 
if  both  break,  your  gaskins  fall. 

Clo.  Apt,  in  good  faith  ;  very  apt !  Well,  go 
thy  way  ;  if  sir  Toby  would  leave  drinking,  thou 
welt  as  witty  a  piece  of  Eve's  flesh  as  any  in 
Illyria. 

Mar.  Peace,  you  rogue,  no  more  o'  that ;  here 
comes  my  lady :  make  your  excuse  wisely,  you 
were  best. 

[Exit. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Malvolio. 

Clo.  "Wit,  an  ^'t  be  thy  will,  put  me  into  good 
fooling !  Those  wits  that  think  they  have  thee  do 
very  oft  prove  fools ;  and,  I  that  am  sure  I  lack 
thee,  may  pass  for  a  wise  man :  For  what  says 
Quinapalus  ?  Better  a  witty  fool  than  a  foolish 
wit. — God  bless  thee,  lady  ! 

OIL  Take  the  fool  away. 

Clo.  Do  you  not  hear,  fellows  ?  Take  away  the 
lady. 

Oli.  Go  to,  you  're  a  dry  fool ;  I  '11  no  more  of 
you :  besides,  you  grow  dishonest. 

Clo.  Two  faults,  madonna,  that  drink  and  good 
counsel  will  amend  :  forgive  the  dry  fool  drink, — 
then  is  the  fool  not  dry;  bid  the  dishonest  man 
mend  himself, — if  he  mend,  he  is  no  longer  dis- 
honest ;  if  he  cannot,  let  the  botcher  mend  him. 
Anything  that 's  mended  is  but  patch'd  :  virtue 
that  transgresses  is  but  patched  with  sin  ;  and  sin 
that  amends  is  but  patched  with  virtue :  If  that 
this  simple  syllogism  will  serve,  so ;  if  it  will  not. 
What  remedy  1  As  there  is  no  true  cuckold  but 
calamity,  so  beauty  's  a  flower : — the  lady  bade 
lake  away  the  fool ;  therefore,  I  say  again,  take 
her  away. 

Oli.  Sir,  I  bade  them  take  away  you. 

Clo.  Misprision  in  the  highest  degree  ! — Lady, 
Cucullus  nonfacit  monachum  ;  that's  as  much  to 
say  as,  I  wear  not  motley  in  my  brain.  Good 
madonna,  give  me  leave  to  prove  you  a  fool. 

Oil.  Can  you  do  it  ? 

Clo.  Dexterously,  good  madonna. 

Oli.  Make  your  proof. 

Clo.  I  must  catechise  you  for  it,  madonna :  Good 
my  mouse  of  virtue,  answer  me. 

Oli.  Well,  sir,  for  want  of  other  idleness,  I  '11 
bide  your  proof. 

Clo.  Good  madonna,  why  mourn'st  thou  ? 

Oli.  Good  fool,  for  my  brother's  death. 
644 


Clo.  I  think  his  soul  is  in  he_,  madonna. 

Oli.  I  know  his  soul  is  in  heaven,  fool, 

Clo.  The  more  fool,  madonna,  to  mourn  for  y,>ur 
brother's  soul  being  in  heaven. — Take  away  ttiv^ 
fool,  gentlemen. 

Oli.  What  think  you  of  this  fool,  Malvolio  ? 
doth  he  not  mend  ? 

Mai.  Yes;  and  shall  do,  till  the  pangs  of  death 
shake  him  :  Infirmity,  that  decays  the  wise,  doth 
ever  make  the  better  fool. 

Clo.  God  send  you,  sir,  a  speedy  infirmity,  for 
the  better  increasing  your  folly !  Sir  Toby  will  be 
sworn  that  I  am  no  fox ;  but  he  'will  not  pass  his 
word  for  twopence  that  you  are  no  fool. 

Oli.  How  say  you  to  that,  Mflvolio  ? 

Mai.  I  marvel  your  ladyship  takes  delight  in 
such  a  barren  rascal :  I  saw  him  put  down  the 
other  day  with  an  ordinary  fool  that  has  no  more 
brain  than  a  stone.  Look  you  now,  he  's  out  of 
his  guard  already  ;  unless  you  linigh  and  ministei 
occasion  to  him,  he  is  gagg'd.  I  protest  I  take 
these  wise  men,  that  crow  so  at  these  set  kind  of 
fools,  to  be  no  better  than  the  fools'  zanies.' 

Oli.  O,  you  are  sick  of  self-love,  Malvolio,  and 
taste  with  a  distemper'd  appetite.  To  be  generous, 
guiltless,  and  of  free  disposition,  is  to  take  tliose 
things  for  bird-bolts  that  you  deem  cannon-bullets. 
There  is  no  slander  in  an  allow'd  fool,  though  he 
do  nothing  but  rail ;  nor  no  railing  in  a  known 
discreet  man,  though  he  do  nothing  but  re- 
prove. 

Clo.  Now  Mercuiy  endue  thee  with  leasing,* 
for  thou  speak'st  well  of  fools  ! 

Re-enter  Makia. 

Mar.  Madam,  there  is  at  the  gate  a  young 
gentleman  much  desires  to  speak  with  you. 

Oli.  From  the  count  Orsino,  is  it  ? 

Mar.  I  know  not,  madam  ;  't  is  a  fair  young 
man,  and  well  attended. 

Oli.  Who  of  my  people  hold  him  in  delay  ? 

Mar.  Sir  Toby,  madam,  your  kinsman. 

OIL  Fetch  him  off,  I  pray  you  ;  he  speaks 
nothing  but  madman :  Fie  on  him  !  [7i'xi7  Maria.] 
Go  you,  Malvolio  :  if  it  be  a  suit  from  the  count, 
I  am  sick,  or  not  at  home  ;  what  you  will,  to  dis- 
miss it.  [Exit  Malvolio.]  Now  you  see,  sir,  how 
your  fooling  grows  old,  and  people  dislike  it. 

Clo.  Thou  hast  spoke  for  us,  madonna,  as  if 
thy  eldest  son  should  bo  a  fool ;  whose  skull  Jove 
cram  with  brains  1  for  here  he  comes,  one  of  thy 
kin,  has  a  most  weak^io  mater. 


ACT    I. 


tw1':lfth  night. 


Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch. 

OU.  By  raino  honour,  half  drunk. — What  is  he 
flt  the  gate,  cousin  ? 

Sir  To.  A  gentleman. 

OIL  A  gentleman  ?  what  gentleman  ? 

Sh-  To.  'T  is  a  gentleman  here — A  plague 
r.'  these  pickle-herrings! — How  now,  sot? 

Clo.  Good  sir  Toby,— 

on.  Cousin,  cousin,  how  have  you  come  so 
early  by  this  lethargy  ? 

Sir  To.  Lechery  1  I  defy  lechery  :  There  's  one 
at  the  gate. 

OU.  Ay,  many ;  what  is  he  ? 

Sir  To.  Let  him  be  the  devil,  an  he  will,  I  care 
not :  give  me  faith,  say  L     Well,  it 's  all  one. 

[Exit. 

OU.  What 's  a  drunken  man  like,  fool  ? 

Clo.  Like  a  drown'd  man,  a  fool,  and  a  mad- 
man ;  one  draught  above  heat  makes  him  a 
fool ;  the  second  mads  him ;  and  a  third  drowns 
him. 

on.  Go  thou  and  seek  the  crowner,  and  let  him 
sit  o'  my  coz ;  for  he  's  in  the  third  degi'ee  of 
drink,  he  's  drown'd :  go,  look  after  him. 

Clo.  He  is  but  mad  yet,  madonna ;  and  the 
fiiol  shall  look  to  the  madman.  [Exit  Clown. 

Re-enter  Malvolio. 

Mai.  Madam,  yond  young  fellow  swears  he  will 
speak  with  you.  I  told  him  you  were  sick ;  he 
takes  on  him  to  understand  so  much,  and  therefore 
comes  to  speak  with  you.  I  told  him  you  were 
asleep  ;  he  seems  to  have  a  foreknowledge  of  that 
too,  and  therefore  comes  to  speak  with  you.  What 
is  to  be  said  to  him,  lady  ?  he  's  fortified  against 
any  denial. 

OU.  Tell  him  he  shall  not  speak  with  me. 

Mai.  W  as  been  told  so  ;  and  he  says,  he  '11 
stand  at  your  door  like  a  sheriflTs  post,'  or  be 
the  supporter  to  a  bench,  but  he  '11  speak  with  you. 

on.  What  kind  of  man  is  he  ? 

Mai.  Why,  of  mankind. 

OU   What  manner  of  man  ? 

Mai.  Of  very  ill  manner ;  he  '11  speak  with 
you,  will  you,  or  no. 

OU.  Of  what  personage,  and  years,  is  he  ? 

Mai.  Not  yet  old  enough  for  a  man,  nor  young 
enough  for  a  boy ;  as  a  squash  is  before  't  is  a 
pcascod,  or  a  codling'"  when  't  is  almost  an 
apple  :  'l  is  with  him  in  standing  water,  between 
boy  and  man.     He  is  very  well  favour'd.  and  he 


speaks  very  shrewishly ;  one  would  think  liu  moth- 
er's milk  were  scarce  out  of  him. 

OU.  Let  him  approach :  Call  in  my  geutle- 
woman. 

Mai.  Gentlewoman,  my  lady  calls.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  Maria. 

on.  Give  me  my  veil :  come,  throw  ii  o"er  my 
face.     We  '11  once  more  hear  Orsino's  embassy. 

Enter  Viola. 

Vio.  The  honourable  lady  of  the  house,  which 
is  she  ? 

on.  Speak  to  me,  I  shall  answer  for  her : 
Your  will  ? 

Vio.  Most  radiant,  exquisite,  and  unmatchable 
beauty,  I  pray  you  tell  me  if  this  be  the  lady  of 
the  house,  for  I  never  saw  her :  I  would  be  loth 
to  cast  away  my  speech :  for,  besides  that  it  is 
e.xcellently  well  penned,  I  have  taken  great  pains 
to  con  it.  Good  beauties,  let  me  sustain  no  scorn ; 
I  am  very  comptible,  even  to  the  least  siniste' 
usage. 

on.  Whence  came  you,  sir  ? 

Vio.  I  can  say  little  more  than  I  have  studied, 
and  that  question  's  out  of  my  part.  Good  gentle 
one,  give  me  modest  assurance  if  you  be  the  lady 
of  the  house,  that  I  may  proceed  in  my  speech. 

on.  Are  you  a  comedian  ? 

Vio.  No,  my  profound  heart ;  and  yet,  by  the 
very  fangs  of  malice  I  swear  I  am  not  that  I 
play.     Are  you  the  lady  of  the  house  ? 

on.  If  I  do  not  usurp  myself,  I  am. 

Vio.  Most  certain,  if  you  are  she  you  do  usurp 
yourself;  for  what  is  yours  to  bestow  is  not 
yours  to  reserve.  But  this  is  from  my  commission  : 
I  will  on  with  my  speech  in  your  praise,  and  tlien 
show  you  the  heart  of  my  message. 

OU.  Come  to  what  is  important  in  't :  I  forgive 
you  the  praise. 

Vio.  Alas,  I  took  great  pains  to  study  it,  and 
't  is  poetical. 

on.  It  is  the  more  hke  to  be  feigned ;  I  pray 
you,  keep  it  in.  I  heard  you  were  saucy  at  my 
gates;  and  allow'd  your  apjjroach,  rather  to 
wonder  at  you  than  to  hear  you.  If  you  be  not 
mad,  be  gone  ;  if  you  have  reason,  be  .brief:  't  is 
not  that  time  of  moon  with  me  to  make  one  in  so 
skipping  a  dialogue. 

Mar.  Will  you  hoist  sail,  sir  ?  here  lies  your  way. 

Vio.  No,  good  swabber;  I  am  to  hull"  here  a 
little  longer. — Some  mollification  for  your  giant, 

64B 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


SCEKK    V 


sweet  lady.     Tell  me  your  mind ;  I  am  a  mes- 
senger. 

Oil.  Sure,  you  have  some  hideous  matter  to 
deliver,  when  the  courtesy  of  it  is  so  fearful. 
Speak  your  office. 

Vio.  It  alone  concerns  your  ear.  I  bring  no 
overture  of  war,  no  taxation  of  homage ;  I  hold 
the  olive  in  my  hand :  my  words  are  as  full  of 
peace  as  matter. 

on.  Yet  you  began  rudely.  What  are  you? 
what  would  you  ? 

Vio.  The  rudeness  that  hath  appeared  in  me, 
have  I  learn'd  fi'om  my  entertainment.  What  I 
am,  and  what  I  would,  are  as  secret  as  maiden- 
head : — to  your  eare,  divinity  ;  to  any  other's, 
profanation. 

OIL  Give  us  the  place  alone  :  we  will  hear  this 
divinity  I  [Exit  Maria.]  Now,  sir,  what  is  your 
text? 

Vio.  Most  sweet  lady, — 

Oli.  A  comfortable  doctrine,  and  much  may  be 
.said  of  it.    WTiere  lies  your  text  ? 

Via.  In  Orsino's  bosom. 

Oli.  In  his  bosom  ?  In  what  chapter  of  his 
bosom  ? 

Vio.  To  answer  by  the  method,  in  the  first  of 
his  heart. 

Oli.  0,  I  have  read  it ;  it  is  heresy.  Have  you 
no  more  to  say  ? 

Vio.  Good  madam,  let  me  see  your  face. 

Oli.  Have  you  any  commission  from  your  lord 
to  negotiate  with  my  face  ?  You  are  now  out  of 
your  text :  but  we  will  draw  the  curtain,  and 
show  you  the  picture.  [  Unveiling^  Look  you,  sir, 
such  a  one  I  was  this  present:  Is  't  not  well 
done? 

Vio.  Excellently  done,  if  God  did  all. 

Oli.  'T  is  in-grain,  sir;  't  will  endure  wind  and 
weather. 

Vio.  'T  is   beauty  truly  blent,  whose  red  and 
wliite 
Nature's  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on : 
Lady,  you  are  the  cruell'st  she  alive, 
If  you  will  lead  these  graces  to  the  grave, 
And  leave  the  world  no  copy. 

Oli.  O,  sir,  I  will  not  be  so  liard-hcartcd  ;  I  will 
give  out  divers  schedules  of  my  beauty.  It  shall 
be  inventoried ;  and  every  particle,  and  utensil, 
labell'd  to  my  will  :  as,  item,  two  lips  indifferent 
red  ;  item,  two  grey  eyes,  with  lids  to  them  ;  item, 
one  neck,  one  chin,  and  so  forth.  Were  you  sent 
hither  to  praise"  me  ? 


Vio.    I  see   you   what  you  are :  you  are    too 
proud ; 
But,  if  you  were  the  devil,  you  are  fair. 
My  lord  and  master  loves  you ;  0  such  love 
Could    be   but   recompens'd,    though    you    w^.n: 

crown'd 
The  nonpareil  of  beauty ! 

Oli.  How  does  he  love  me  ? 

Vio.  With  adorations,  fertile  tears. 
With  groans  that  thunder  love,  with  sighs  of  fire. 

Oli.  Your  lord  does  know  my  mind,  I  cannot 
love  him  : 
Yet  I  suppose  him  virtuous,  know  him  noble. 
Of  great  estate,  of  fresh  and  stainless  youth ; 
In  voices  well  divulg'd,  free,  learn'd,  and  valiant, 
And  in  dimension,  and  the  shape  of  nature, 
A  gracious  person  ;  but  yet  I  cannot  love  him  ; 
He  might  have  took  his  answer  long  ago. 

Vio.  If  I  did  love  you  in  my  master's  flame, 
With  such  a  sufTring,  such  a  deadly  life, 
In  your  denial  I  would  find  no  sense, 
I  would  not  understand  it. 

Oli.  WTiy,  what  would  you  ? 

Vio.  Make  me  a  willow  cabin  at  your  gate, 
And  call  upon  my  soul  within  the  house ; 
Write  loyal  cantons  of  contemned  love. 
And  sing  them  loud  even  in  the  dead  of  night ; 
Holla  your  name  to  the  reverberate  hills, 
And  make  the  babbling  gossip  of  the  air 
Cry  out,  Olivia  I  O,  you  should  not  rest 
Between  the  elements  of  air  and  earth. 
But  you  should  pity  me. 

Oli.   You    might   do   much :   What  is   yoiu 
parentage  ? 

Vio.  Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well : 
I  am  a  gentleman. 

Oli.  Get  you  to  your  lord  ; 

I  cannot  love  him :  let  him  send  no  more ; 
Unless,  perchance,  you  come  to  me  again. 
To  tell  me  how  he  takes  it.     Fare  you  well : 
I  thank  you  for  your  pains :  spend  this  for  me. 

Vio.  I  am  no  fee'd  post,  lady ;  keep  your  purse ; 
My  master,  not  myself,  lacks  recompense. 
Love  make  his  heart  of  flint,  Oiat  you  tiiall  love ; 
And  let  your  fervour,  like  m.y  master's,  be 
Plac'd  in  contempt !    Farewell,  fair  cruelty.    \^Exii 

Oli.  What  is  your  parentage  ? 
"  Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well : 
I  am  a  gentleman." — I  '11  bo  sworn  thou  art ; 
Thy  tongue,  thy  face,  thy  limbs,  actions,  and  spirit, 
Do  give  thee  five-fold  blazon  : — Not  too  fast : — 
soft !  soft ! 


TWELFl'll  NIGHT. 


SCENK    I II. 


Unless  the  master  were  the  man. — How  now  ? 
Even  so  quickly  may  one  catch  the  plague  ? 
Methiuks,  I  feel  this  youth's  perfections, 
With  an  invisible  and  subtle  stealth, 
To  creep  in  at  mine  eyes.     Well,  let  it  be. — 
What,  ho,  Malvolio  !— 

Re-enter  Malvolio. 

Jfal.  Here,  madam,  at  your  ser\nce. 

Oli.  Kun  after  that  same  peevish  messenger, 
The  county's  man  :  he  left  this  ring  behind  him. 


Would  I,  or  not ;  tell  him,  I  '11  none  of  it. 
Desire  him  not  to  flatter  with  his  lord. 
Nor  hold  him  up  with  hopes ;  I  am  not  for  him  : 
If  that  the  youth  will  coiue  this  way  to-morrow, 
I  'II  give  him  reasons  for  'L     Hie  thee,  Malvolio. 
Mai.  Madam,  I  will.  [Exit 

Oli.  I  do  I  know  not  what :  and  fear  to  find 
Mine  eye  too  great  a  flatterer  for  ray  mind. 
Fate,  show  thy  force.    Ourselves  we  do  not  owe ; ' 
What  is  decreed  must  be  ;  and  be  this  so  ! 

\Eiit 


ACT   II. 


SCENE  l.—The  Sea-coast. 

Enter  Antonio  and  Sebastian. 

Ant.  Will  you  stay  no  longer  3  nor  will  you  not 
that  I  go  with  you  ? 

Scb.  By  your  patience,  no :  my  stars  shine 
darkly  over  me ;  the  malignancy  of  my  fate  might, 
perhaps,  distemper  yours ;  therefore,  I  shall  crave 
of  you  your  leave  that  I  may  bear  my  evils  alone  : 
It  were  a  bad  recompense  for  your  love  to  lay  any 
of  them  on  you. 

Ant.  Let  me  yet  know  of  you  whither  you  are 
bound. 

Seb.  No,  'sooth,  sir ;  my  determinate  voyage  is 
mere  extravagancy.  But  I  perceive  in  you  so 
excellent  a  touch  of  modesty,  that  you  will  not 
extort  from  me  what  I  am  willing  to  keep  in ; 
therefore  it  charges  me  in  manners  the  rather  to 
express  myself.  You  must  know  of  me,  then, 
Antonio,  my  name  is  Seb.istian,  which  I  call'd 
Rodorigo ;  my  fother  was  that  Sebastian  of  Messa- 
line,  whom  I  know  you  have  heard  of:  he  left 
behind  him,  myself  and  a  sister,  both  bom  in  an 
hour.  If  the  heavens  had  been  pleas'd,  'would  we 
had  so  ended  !  but  you,  sir,  alter'd  that ;  for,  some 
hour  before  you  took  me  from  the  breach  of  the 
Bea,  was  my  sister  drowu'd. 

Ant.  Alas,  the  d.ay  ! 

Seb.  A  lady,  sir,  though  it  was  said  she  much 
resembled  me,  was  yet  of  many  accounted  beau- 
tiful :  but,  though  I  could  not,  with  such  estimable 
wonder,  overfar  beheve  that,  yet  thus  far  I  will 
boldly  publish  her, — she  bore  a  mind  that  envy 


could  not  but  call  fair :  she  is  drown'd  already,  sir, 
with  salt  water,  though  I  seem  to  drown  hei 
remembrance  again  with  more. 

Ant.  Pardon,  me,  sir,  your  bad  entertainment. 

Seb.  0  good  Antonio,  forgive  me  your  trouble 

Ant.  If  you  will  not  murther  me  for  iny  love, 
let  me  be  your  servant. 

Seb.  If  you  will  not  undo  what  you  have  done, 
that  is,  kill  him  whom  you  have  recover'd,  desire 
it  not.  Fare  ye  well  at  once :  my  bosom  is  full 
of  kindness ;  and  I  am  yet  so  near  the  manners  ol 
my  mother,  that,  upon  the  least  occasion  more, 
mine  eyes  will  tell  tales  of  me.  I  am  bound  to 
the  count  Orsino's  court :  farewell.  [Exit. 

Ant.  The  gentleness  of  all  the  gods  go  with 
thee  ! 
I  have  many  enemies  in  Oreino's  court, 
Else  would  I  very  shortly  see  thee  there  : 
But,  come  what  may,  I  do  adore  thee  so, 
That  danger  shall  seem  sport,  and  I  will  go. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  J1.—A  street. 

Enter  Viola  ;  '^[ai.vouo  following. 

Mai.  Were  not  you  e'en  now  with  the  countesa 
Ohvia  ? 

Vio.  Even  now,  sir ;  on  a  moderate  pace  I  have 
since  arnv  d  but  hither. 

Mai.  She  returns  this  ring  to  you,  sir ;  you 
might  have  saved  me  my  pains,  to  have  taken  it 
away  ycurself.      She    adds,   moreover,   that  you 

547 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


SCENE    111. 


phoLild  put  your  lord  iuto  a  desperate  assurance 
she  will  none  of  him  :  And  one  thing  more  :  that 
you  be  never  so  hardy  to  come  again  ia  his  affairs 
unless  it  be  to  report  your  lord's  taking  of  this. 
Receive  it  so. 

Vio.  She  took  the  ring  of  me.     I  '11  none  of  it. 
Mai.  Come,  sir,  you  peevishly  threw  it  to  her ; 
and  her  will  is  it  should  be  so  return'd  :  if  it  be 
worth  stooping  for,  there  it  lies  in  your  eye ;  if 
not,  be  it  his  that  finds  it.  [JSxit. 

Vio.  I  left  no  ring  with  her  :  What  means  this 
lady  ? 
Fortune  forbid  my  outside  have  uot  charm'd  her ! 
She  made  good  view  of  me ;  indeed,  so  much 
That,  methought,  her  eyes  had  lost  her  tongue," 
For  she  did  speak  in  starts  distractedly. 
She  loves  me,  sure;  the  cunning  of  her  passion 
Invites  me  in  this  churlish  messenger. 
None  of  my  lord's  ring  !  why,  he  sent  her  none. 
I  am  the  man  : — If  it  be  so,  (as  't  is,) 
Poor  lady,  she  were  better  love  a  dream. 
Disguise,  I  see  thou  art  a  wickedness. 
Wherein  the  pregnant  enemy  does  much. 

How  easy  is  it  for  the  proper-false 

In  women's  waxen  hearts  to  set  their  forms  ! 

Alas,  our  frailty  is  the  cause,  not  we  ; 

For,  such  as  we  are  made  of,  such  we  be. 

How  will   this  fadge  ?      My  master  ,  loves  her 
dearly  : 

And  I,  poor  monster,  fond  as  much  on  him  ; 

And  she,  mistaken,  seems  to  dote  on  me  : 

What  will  become  of  this  ?     As  I  am  man. 

My  state  is  desperate  for  my  master's  love  ! 

As  I  am  woman,  now,  alas  the  day  ! 

What  thriftless  sighs  shall  poor  Olivia  breathe  ! 

O  time,  thou  must  untangle  this,  not  I ; 

It  is  too  hard  a  knot  for  me  t'  untie.  [Exit. 

SCENE  HI.— ^  Boom  in  Olivia's  ffouse. 
FnierSiR  Tody  Belch  and  Sir  Andrew  Aoue- 

CIIEEK. 

Sir  To.  Approach,  sir  Andrew :  not  to  be  a- 
bed  after  midnight  is  to  be  up  betimes;  and 
diluculo  surgere,  thou  know'st, — 

Sir  And.  Nay,  by  my  troth,  I  know  not :  but 
I  know,  to  be  up  late  is  to  bo  up  late. 

Sir  To.  A  false  conclusion  ;  I  hate  it  as  an  un- 
fill'd  can.  To  be  up  after  midnight,  and  to  go  to 
bed  then,  is  early :  bo  that,  to  go  to  bed  after 
midnight  is  to  go  to  bed  betimes.  Do  not  our 
lives  consist  of  the  four  elements  ?" 
M8 


Sir  And.  'Faith,  so  they  say ;  but,  I  think,  it 
rather  consists  of  eating  and  drinking. 

Sir  To.  Thou  'rt  a  scholar  ;  let  us  therefore  eat 
and  drink. — Marian,  I  say  ! — a  stoop  of  wine  1 

Enter  Clown. 

Sir  And.  Here  comes  the  fool,  i'  faith. 
Clo.  How  now,  my  hearts  1    Did  you  never  see 
the  picture  of  we  three  ?" 

Sir  To.  Welcome,  ass.  Now  let 's  have  a  catch. 
Sir  And.  By  my  troth,  the  fool  has  an  e.xcellent 
breast.  I  had  rather  than  forty  shillings  I  had 
such  a  leg ;  and  so  sweet  a  breath  to  sing,  as  the 
fool  has.  In  sooth,  thou  wast  in  very  gracious 
fooling  last  night,  when  thou  spok'st  of  Pigrogro- 
mitus,  of  the  Vapians  passing  the  equinoctial  of 
Queubus ;  't  was  very  good,  i'  faith.  I  sent  thee 
sixpence  for  thy  leman."     Had'st  it  ? 

Clo.  I  did  impeticos  thy  gratillity  ;  for  Mal- 
volio's  nose  is  no  whipstock.  My  lady  has  a 
white  hand,  and  the  Mynnidons  are  no  bottle-ale 
houses. 

Sir  And.  Excellent !  Why,  this  is  the  best 
fooling,  when  all  is  done.     Now,  a  song. 

Sir  To.  Come  on  ;  there  is  sixpence  for  you : 
let 's  have  a  song. 

Sir  And.  There  's  a  testril  of  me  too ;  if  one 
knight  give  a  [way  sixpence,  so  will  I  give  another. 
Go  to  :  a  song.] 

Clo.  Would  you  have  a  love-song,  or  a  song  of 
good  life  1 

Sir  To.  A  love  song,  a  love  song ! 

Sir  And.  Ay,  ay  ;  I  care  not,  for  good  life. 

SONG. 

Clo.  0  mistress  mine,  wliere  are  you  roaming, 
0  stay  and  hear  ;  your  true  love  's  coming, 

That  can  sing  both  liigh  and  low  : 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting ; 
Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meeting. 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 


Sir  And.  Excellent  good,  i'  fiiith. 
Sir  To.  Good,  good. 

Clo.  What  is  love  ?  't  is  not  hereafter ; 

Present  mirth  liatli  present  laughter ; 

What 's  to  come  is  still  unsure  : 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty ; 
Tlien  come  kiss  mo,  sweet  and  twenty. 

Youth  'u  a  stufl"  will  not  cuduro. 

Sir  And.   A  mellifluous  voice,  as  I  am  trus 
knight. 

Sir  To.  A  contagious  breath. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


SCENE    lU. 


Sir  And.  Very  sweet  and  contagious,  i'  faith. 

Sir  To.  To  hear  by  the  nose,  it  is  dulcet  in 
conta^on.  But  shall  we  make  the  welkin  dance 
indeed  ?  Shall  we  rouse  the  night-owl  in  a  catch, 
that  will  draw  three  souls  out  of  one  weaver  ?'° 
Shall  we  do  that  ? 

Sir  And.  An  you  love  me,  let 's  do  't :  I  am  a 
dog  at  a  catch. 

Clo.  By  'r  lady,  sir,  and  some  dogs  will  catch 
well. 

Sir  And.  Most  certain  :  let  our  catch  be, 
"  Thou  knave." 

Clo.  "  Hold  thy  peace,  thou  knave,"  knight  ? 
I  shall  be  constrain'd  in  't  to  call  thee  knave, 
knight. 

Sir  And.  'T  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  con- 
strained one  to  call  me  knave.  Begin,  fool ;  it 
begins,  "  Hold  thy  peace." 

Clo.  I  shall  never  begin,  if  I  hold  my  peace. 

Sir  And.  Good,  i'  faith  !    Come,  begin. 

[Thei/  sing  a  catch. 

Enter  Maria. 

Mar.  What  a  cat  terwauling  do  you  keep  here  ! 
If  ray  lady  have  not  call'd  up  her  steward,  Mal- 
volio,  and  bid  him  turn  you  out  of  doors,  never 
trust  me. 

Sir  To.  My  lady 's  a  Catalan,  we  are  politicians ; 
Malvolio  's  a  Peg-a-Ramsay,"  and  "  Three  meiry 
men  be  we."  Am  not  I  consanguineous  ?  am  I 
not  of  her  blood  «  Tilly-valley  !  lady  !="  "  There 
dwelt  a  man  in  Babylon,  lady,  lady  1" 

l^Sinr/ing. 

Clo.  Beshrew  me,  tlie  knight  's  in  admirable 
fooling. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  he  does  well  enough,  if  he  be 
dispos'd,  and  so  do  I  too ;  he  does  it  with  a  better 
gi'ace,  but  I  do  it  more  natural. 

Sir  To.  "  0,  the  twelfth  day  of  December,"— 

[Singing. 

Mar.   For  the  love  o'  God,  peace. 

Enter  Malvolio. 

Mai.  My  masters,  are  you  mad  ?  or  what  are 
you  ?  Have  you  no  wit,  manners,  nor  honesty,  but 
to  gabble  like  tinkers  at  this  time  of  night  ?  Do 
ye  make  an  alehouse  of  my  lady's  house,  that 
ye  squeak  out  your  coziere'  catches  without  any 
mitigation  or  remorse  of  voice  ?  Is  there  no  respect 
of  place,  persons,  nor  time,  in  you  ? 

Sir  To.  We  did  keep  time,  sir,  in  our  catches. 
Bneck  up.'" 


Mai.  Sir  Toby,  I  must  be  round  wiih  you.    My 

lady  bade  mo  tell  you,  that,  though  she  harboure 
you  as  her  kinsman,  she  's  nothing  alli'd  to  your 
disorders.  If  you  can  separate  yourself  and  your 
misdemeanors,  you  are  welcome  to  the  house  ;  if 
not,  an  it  would  please  you  to  take  leave  of  her, 
she  is  very  willing  to  bid  you  farewell. 

Sir  To.  "  Farewell,  dear  heart,  since  I  must 
needs  be  gone." 

Mar.  Nay,  good  sir  Toby. 

Clo.  "  His  eyes  do  show  his  days  are  almos* 
done." 

Mai.  Is  't  even  so  ? 

Sir  To.  "  But  I  will  never  die." 

Clo.  Sir  Toby,  there  you  lie. 

Mai.  This  is  much  credit  to  you. 

Sir  To.  "  Shall  I  bid  him  go  ?" 

Clo.  "  What  an  if  you  do  ?" 

Sir  To.  "  Shall  I  bid  him  go,  and  spare  not  J" 

Clo.  "  0  no,  no,  no,  no,  you  dare  not." 

Sir  To.  Out  o'  time  ?  sir,  ye  lie. — Art  any 
more  than  a  steward  ?  Dost  thou  think,  because 
thou  art  virtuous,  there  shall  be  no  more  cakes 
and  ale  ? 

Clo.  Yes,  by  saint  Anne ;  and  ginger  shall  be 
hot  i'  the  mouth  too. 

Sir  To.  Thou  'rt  i'  the  right.— Go,  sir,  rub 
your  chain  with  crumbs  •}' — A  stoop  of  wine, 
Maria  ! 

Mai.  Mistress  Mary,  if  you  priz'd  my  lady's 
favour  at  anything  more  than  contempt,  you 
would  not  give  means  for  this  unci\'il  rule ;  she 
sh.all  know  of  it,  by  this  hand.  [Exit. 

Mar.  Go  shake  your  ears. 

Sir  And.  T  were  as  good  a  deed  as  to  drink 
when  a  man  's  a  hungry,  to  challenge  him  the 
field  ;  and  then  to  break  promise  with  him,  and 
make  a  fool  of  him. 

Sir  To.  Do  't,  knight ;  I  '11  write  thee  a  chal- 
lenge ;  or  I  '11  deliver  thy  indignation  to  him  b_v 
word  of  mouth. 

Mar.  Sweet  sir  Toby,  be  patient  for  to-night ; 
since  the  youth  of  the  count's  was  to-day  with  my 
lady,  she  is  much  out  of  quiet.  For  monsieur 
Malvolio,  let  me  alone  with  him  If  I  do  not  gull 
him  into  a  nayword,  and  make  nim  a  common 
recreation,  do  not  think  I  have  wit  enough  to  lie 
straight  in  my  bed  :  I  know  I  can  do  it. 

Sir  To.  Possess  us,  possess  us ;  tell  us  some- 
thing of  him. 

Mar.  Marry,  sir,  sometimes  he  is  a  kind  o( 
Puritan. 

549 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


Sir  And.  O,  if  I  thought  that,  I  'd  beat  bim 
like  a  dog. 

Sir  To.  "What,  for  being  a  Puritan  ?  thy  ex- 
quisite reason,  dear  knight  ? 

Sir  And.  I  have  no  exquisite  reason  for  't,  but 
[  have  reason  good  enough. 

Mar.  The  devil  a  Puritan  that  he  is,  or  any- 
thing constantly  but  a  time-pleaser ;  an  affection'd 
ass,  that  cons  state  without  book,  and  utters  it  by 
great  swaths :  the  best  persuaded  of  himself,  so 
cramm'd,  as  he  thinks,  with  excellences,  that  it  is 
his  ground  of  faith  that  all  that  look  on  him  love 
him  ;  and  on  that  vice  in  him  will  my  revenge 
find  notable  cause  to  work. 

Sir  To.  What  wilt  thou  do  ? 

3far.  I  will  drop  in  his  way  some  obscure 
epistles  of  love ;  wherein,  by  the  colour  of  his 
beard,  the  shape  of  his  leg,  the  manner  of  his 
gait,  the  expressure  of  bis  eye,  forehead,  and 
complexion,  he  shall  find  himself  most  feelingly 
personated  :  I  can  write  very  Kke  my  lady,  your 
niece ;  on  a  forgotten  matter  we  can  hardly  make 
distinction  of  our  hands. 

Sir  To.  Excellent !  I  smell  a  device. 

Sir  And.  I  have  't  in  my  nose  too. 

Sir  To.  He  shall  think,  by  the  letters  that 
thou  wilt  drop,  that  they  come  from  my  niece, 
aud  that  she  's  in  love  with  him. 

Mar.  My  purpose  is,  indeed,  a  horse  of  that 
colour. 

Sir  And.  And  your  horse  now  would  make 
him  an  a.ss. 

Mar.  Ass,  I  doubt  not. 

Sir  And.  O,  't  will  be  admirable. 

Mar.  Sport  royal,  I  warrant  you  :  I  know  my 
physic  will  work  with  him.  I  will  plant  you 
two,  and  let  the  fool  make  a  third,  where  he  shall 
find  the  letter ;  observe  Lis  construction  of  it. 
For  this  night,  to  bed,  and  dream  on  the  event. 
Farewell. 

[Exit. 

Sir  To.  Good  night,  Penthesilea. 

Sir  And.  Before  me,  she  's  a  good  wench. 

Sir  To.  She  's  a  beagle,  true  bred,  and  one  that 
adores  me  :   What  o'  that  ? 

Sir  And.  I  was  ador'd  once  too. 

Sir  To.  Let  's  to  bed,  knight.— Thou  hadst 
need  send  for  more  money. 

Sir  And.  If  I  cannot  recover  your  niece,  I  am 
ft  foul  way  out. 

Sir  To.  Send  for  money,  knight ;  if  thou  hast 
her  not  i'  the  end,  call  ine  Cut." 
SRO 


Sir  And.  If  I  do  not,  never  trust  me,  take  il 
how  you  will. 

Sir  To.  Come,  come ;  I  '11  go  bum  soree  sack  : 
't  is  too  late  to  go  to  bed  now.  Come,  knight : 
come,  knight.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  IV.— ^  Room  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 
Enter  Duke,  Viola,  Curio,  and  others. 

Duke.  Give  me  some  nmsic  : — Now,  good  mor- 
row, friends : — 
Now,  good  Cesario,  but  that  piece  of  song. 
That  old  and  antique  song  we  heard  last  night ; 
Methought,  it  did  relieve  my  passion  much  ; 
More  than  light  airs  and  recollected  terms, 
Of  these  most  brisk  and  giddy-paced  times  : 
Come,  but  one  verse. 

Cur.  He  is  not  here,  so  please  your  lordship 
That  should  sing  it. 

Duke.  Who  was  it? 

Cur.  Feste,  the  jester,  my  lord  ;  a  fool,  that  the 
lady  Olivia's  father  took  much  delight  in  :  he  is 
about  the  house. 

Duke.  Seek  him  out,  and  play   the  tune  the 
while.  [Exit  Cur. — M-^sir. 

Come  hither,  boy  :    If  ever  thou  shalt  love, 
In  the  sweet  pangs  ot  it  icmomber  me  : 
For,  such  as  I  am  all  true  lovers  are ; 
Unstaid  and  skittish  in  all  motions  else, 
Save  in  the  constant  image  of  the  creature 
That  is  belov'd. — How  dost  thou  like  this  tune  ? 

Vio.  It  gives  a  very  echo  to  the  seat 
Where  Love  is  thron'd. 

Duke.  Thou  dost  speak  masterly  : 

My   life  upon  't,  young   though   thou  art,  tliine 

eye 
Hath  stay'd  upon  some  favour  that  it  loves ; 
Hath  it  not,  boy? 

Vio.  A  little,  by  your  favour. 

Duke.  What  kind  of  woman  is  't  ? 

Vio.  Of  your  complexion. 

Duke.  She  is  not  worth  thee  then.    What  years, 
i'  faith  ? 

Vio.  About  your  years,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Too  old,  by  Heaven  :  Let  still  the  womaa 
take 
An  elder  than  herself;  so  wears  she  to  him. 
So  sways  she  level  in  her  husband's  heart 
For,  boy,  however  we  do  praise  ourselves, 
Our  fancies  are  more  giddy  and  unfinn, 
More  longing,  wavering,  sooner  lost  and  worn, 
Than  women's  are. 


ACT    U, 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


Vio.  I  think  it  well,  ray  lord. 

Duke.  Then  let  thy  love  be  younger  than  thy- 
self, 
()v  thy  aft'ection  cannot  hold  the  bent; 
For  women  are  as  roses,  whose  fair  flower, 
1  Icing  once  display'd,  doth  fall  that  very  hour. 

Vio.  And  so  they  are :  alas,  that  they  are  so ; 
To  die,  even  when  they  to  perfection  grow  1 

Re-enter  Curio  and  Clown. 

Bxike.  O  fellow,  come,  the  song  we  had  last 
night : 
Mark  it,  Cesario ;  it  is  old  and  plain  : 
The  spinsters  and  the  knitters  in  the  sun, 
And  the  free  maids  that  weave  their  thread  with 

bones. 
Do  use  to  chant  it ;  it  is  silly  sooth. 
And  dallies  with  the  innocence  of  love, 
Like  the  old  age. 

Clo.  Are  you  ready,  sir  ? 

Duke.  Ay ;  piithee  sing.  [Miisic. 

SONG. 
CtO.    Come  away,  como  away,  death, 
And  in  .sad  cypress  let  me  be  laid  ;'* 

Fly  away,  fly  away,  breatli ; 
I  am  blain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 
My  Bhroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yew, 

0  prepare  it ; 
My  part  of  death  no  one  so  true 
Did  share  it. 

Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet, 
On  my  black  cofBn  lot  there  be  strown ; 

Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 
My  poor  corpse,  where  my  bones  shall  be  thrown  : 
A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save. 

Lay  uie,  O,  where 
Sad  true  lover  never  find  my  grave. 
To  weep  there. 

Duke.  There 's  for  thy  pains. 

Clo.  No  pains,  sir ;  I  take  pleasure  in  singing,  sir. 

Duke.  I  '11  pay  thy  pleasure  then. 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  and  pleasure  will  be  paid,  oni. 
time  or  another. 

Duke.  Give  me  now  leave  to  leave  thee. 

Clo.  Now  the  melancholy  god  protect  thee ; 
and  the  tailor  make  thy  doublet  of  changeable 
ta.^lata,  for  thj  mind  is  a  very  opal ! — I  would  have 
;iien  of  such  constancy  put  to  sea,  that  their  busi- 
'.ess  might  be  everything,  and  their  intent  every- 
where ;  for  that 's  it  that  always  makes  a  good 
voy.nge  of  nothing. — Farewell.  \^Exil  Clown. 

Duke   Le::  all  the  rest  give  place. 

\_Exeunt  Curio  and  Attendants. 


Once  more,  Cesario, 
Get  thee  to  yon'  same  sovereign  cruelty  : 
Tell  her,  my  love,  more  noble  than  the  world, 
Prizes  not  quantity  of  dirty  lands ; 
The  parts  that  fortune  hath  bestow'd  upon  her, 
Tell  her,  I  hold  ;is  giddily  as  fortune ; 
But 't  is  that  miracle,  and  queen  of  gems, 
That  nature  pranks  her  in,  attracts  my  soul. 

Vio.  But  if  she  cannot  love  you,  sir  1 

Duke.  I  cannot  be  so  answer'd. 

Vio.  'Sooth,  but  you  must. 

Say,  that  some  lady,  as,  perhaps,  there  is. 
Hath  for  your  love  as  great  a  pang  of  heart 
As  you  have  for  Olivia :  you  cannot  love  her ; 
You  tell  her  so  :  Must  she  not  then  be  answer'd  I 

Duke.  There  is  no  woman's  sides 
Can  bide  the  beating  of  so  strong  a  passion 
As  love  doth  give  my  heart :  no  woman's  heart 
So  big,  to  hold  so  much ;  they  lack  retention. 
Alas,  their  love  may  be  call'd  appetite, — 
No  motion  of  the  liver,  but  the  palate,— 
That  suffers  surfeit,  cloyment,  and  revolt ; 
But  mine  is  all  as  hungry  as  the  sea. 
And  can  digest  as  much :  make  no  compare 
Between  that  love  a  woman  can  bear  me, 
And  that  I  owe  Olivia. 

Vio.  Ay,  but  I  know, — 

Duke.  What  dost  thou  know  ? 

Vio.  Too  well  what  love  women  to  men  may 
owe : 
In  faith,  they  are  as  true  of  heart  as  we. 
My  f^ither  had  a  daughter  lov'd  a  man. 
As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  were  I  a  woman, 
I  should  your  lordship. 

Duke.  And  what 's  her  history  ? 

Vio.  A  blank,  my  lord  :  She  never  told  her 
love, 
But  let  concealment,  like  a  worm  i'  the  bud. 
Feed  on  her  damask  cheek :  she  pin'd  in  thougbt- 
And,  with  a  green  and  yellow  melancholy. 
She  sat,  like  Patience  on  a  monument. 
Smiling  at  grief.     Was  not  this  love,  indeed  ? 
We  men  may  say  more,  swear  more :  but,  indeed, 
Our  shows  are  more  than  will ;  for  still  we  prove 
Much  in  our  vows,  but  little  in  our  love. 

Duke.  But  died  thy  sister  of  her  love,  my  boy  \ 

Vio.  I   am   all   ibe   daughters   of  my   father's 
house. 
And  all  the  brothers  too ; — and  yet  I  know  not. — 
Sir,  shall  I  to  .this  lady  ? 

Duke.  Ay,  that's  the  theme. 
To  her  in  haste  ;  give  her  this  jewel ;  say 

661 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


My  love  can  give  no  place,  Lide  no  denay. 


\Exeunt. 


SCENE  v.— Olivia'*  Garden. 


Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch,  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek, 
and  Fabian. 

Sir  To.  Come  thy  ways,  signior  Fabian. 

Fab.  Nay,  I  '11  come  ;  if  I  lose  a  scruple  of  this 
sport,  let  me  be  boiled  to  death  with  melancholy. 

Sir  To.  Wouldst  thou  not  be  glad  to  have  the 
niggardly  rascally  sheep-biter  come  by  some 
notable  shame? 

Fab.  I  would  exult,  man :  you  know,  he 
brought  me  out  o'  favour  with  my  lady  about  a 
bear-baiting  here. 

Sir  To.  To  anger  him,  we  '11  have  the  bear 
again ;  and  we  will  fool  him  black  and  blue : — 
Shall  we  not,  sir  Andrew  ? 

Sir  And.  An  we  do  not,  it  is  pity  of  our  lives. 

Enter  Maria. 

Sir  To.  Here  comes  the  little  villain : — How 
now,  my  metal  of  India  ? 

Mar.  Get  ye  all  three  into  the  box-tree  :  Mal- 
volio  's  coming  down  this  walk.  He  has  been 
yonder  i'  the  sun,  practising  behaviour  to  his  own 
shadow,  this  half-hour :  observe  him,  for  the  love 
of  mockery,  for,  I  know,  this  letter  will  make  a 
contemplative  idiot  of  him.  Close,  in  the  name 
of  jesting!  [The  men  hide  themselves.^  Lie  thou 
there  ;  [throws  down  a  letter]  for  here  comes  the 
trout  that  must  bo  caught  with  tickling. 

[Exit  Maria. 

Enter  Malvolio. 

Mai.  'T  is  but  fortune ;  all  is  fortune.  Maria 
once  told  me  she  did  affect  me :  and  I  have  heard 
herself  come  thus  near,  that,  should  she  fancy, 
it  should  be  one  of  my  complexion.  Besides,  she 
uses  me  with  a  more  exalted  respect  than  any 
one  else  that  follows  her.  What  should  I  think 
on't? 

Sir  To.  Here 's  an  overweening  rogue  1 

Fab.  0,  peace!  Contemplation  makes  a  rare 
tuikey-cock  of  hira  !  how  he  jets  under  his  advanc'd 
plumes ! 

Sir  And.  'Slight,  I  could  so  beat  the  rogue  : — 

Sir  To.  Peace,  I  say. 

Mai.  To  be  count  Malvolio; — 

Sir  To.  All,  rogue ! 

>S'(>  A)id.  I'ihtol  him,  pistol  hira. 


Sir  To.  Peace,  peace  ! 

Mai.  There  is  example  for  't ;  the  lady  of  th 
Strachy"  married  the  yeoman  of  the  wardrobe. 

Sir  And.  Fie  on  him,  Jezebel 

Fab.  0,  peace !  now  he 's  deeply  in ;  look,  how 
imagination  blows  him. 

Mai.  Having  been  three  months  married  to  lier, 
sitting  in  my  state, — 

Sir  To.  0,  for  a  stone-bow,^  to  hit  him  in  the 
eye! 

Mai.  Calling  my  officers  about  me,  in  my 
branch'd  velvet  gown ;  having  come  fi-om  a  day- 
bed,  where  I  have  left  Olivia  sleeping : 

Sir  To.  Fire  and  brimstone  ! 

Fab.  0,  peace,  peace ! 

Mai.  And  then  to  have  the  humour  of  state : 
and  after  a  demure  travel  of  regard, — telling  them 
I  know  my  place,  as  I  would  they  should  do 
theirs, — to  ask  for  my  kinsman  Toby : 

Sir  To.  Bolts  and  shackles ! 

Fab.  O,  peace,  peace,  peace  !  now,  now  I 

Mai.  Seven  of  my  people,  with  an  obedient 
start,  make  out  for  him :  I  frown  the  while :  and, 
perchance,  wind  up  my  watch,  or  play  with  my 
some  rich  jewel.  Toby  approaches ;  court'sies 
there  to  me  : 

Sir  To.  Shall  this  fellow  live  ? 

Fab.  Though  our  silence  be  drawn  from  us  by 
th'  cars,  yet  peace. 

Mai.  I  extend  my  hand  to  him  thus,  quenching 
my  familiar  smile  with  an  austere  regard  of  control : 

»S(V  To.  And  does  not  Toby  take  you  a  blow  o' 
the  lips,  then  ? 

Mai.  Saying,  "  Cousin  Toby,  my  fortunes  hav- 
ing cast  me  on  your  niece,  give  me  this  prerogative 
of  speech :" — 

Sir  To.  What,  what  ? 

Mai.  "  You  must  amend  your  drunkenness." 

Sir  To.  Out,  scab  ! 

Fab.  Nay,  patience,  or  we  break  the  sinews  of 
our  plot. 

Mai.  "Besides,  you  waste  the  treasure  of  your 
time  with  a  foolish  kniglit:" 

Sir  And.  That 's  me,  I  warrant  you. 

Mai.  "  One  sir  Andrew :" 

Sir  And.  I  knew  't  was  I ;  for  many  do  call  mo 
fool. 

Mai.  What  employment  have  wo  hero  ? 

[Taking  up  the  letter 

Fab.  Now  is  the  woodcock  near  the  gin. 

Sir  To.  O  peace !  and  the  spirit  of  humours 
intimate  reading  aloud  to  him  1 


t.(n  II. 


TWELFTU  NIGHT. 


BCENB    V 


Mai.  By  iny  life,  this  is  my  lady's  hand :  these 
bo  her  very  C's,  her  U%  and  her  T's ;  and  thus 
makes  she  her  great  /"s.  It  is,  in  contempt  of 
question,  her  hand. 

Sir  And.  Her  C's,  her  U's,  and  her  T's  :  Why 
that? 

Mai.  [reids.]  "To  the  unknown  belov'd,  this, 
and  my  good  wishes  :"  her  very  phrases ! — By 
your  leave,  wax. — Soft ! — and  the  impressure  her 
Lucrece,  with  which  she  uses  to  seal :  t'  is  my 
lady :  To  whom  should  this  be  ? 

Fab.  This  wins  him,  liver  and  all. 

Mai.  [reads.l   "Jove  knows,  I  love: 
But  who  J 
Lips  do  not  move; 
No  man  must  know. 

"  No  man  must  know." — Vfhat  follows  ? — the 
number  's  alter'd  ! — "  No  man  must  know  :" — If 
this  should  be  thee,  Malvolio  ? 

Sir  To.  Marry,  hang  thee,  brock !"' 

Mai.   **  I  ^'^J  command,  where  I  adore  : 
But  silence,  like  a  Lucrece  kuife, 
With  bloodless  stroke  my  heart  doth  gore  ; 
M,  0,  A,  I,  doth  sway  my  life." 

Fab.  A  fustian  liJdle  ! 

Sir  To.  Excellent  wench,  say  I. 

Mai.  "  M,  O,  A,  I,  doth  sw.ay  my  life."— Nay, 
but  first, — let  me  see, — let  me  see, — let  me  see. 

Fab.  What  dish  a'  poison  has  she  dressed  him ! 

Sir  To.  And  with  what  wing  the  stanieP' 
checks  at  it ! 

Mai.  "I  may  command  where  I  adore."  W^hy, 
she  may  command  me :  I  serve  her,  she  is  my 
lady.  Why,  this  is  evident  to  any  formal  capacity. 
There  is  no  obstruction  in  this; — And  the  end, — 
What  should  that  alphabetical  position  portend  ? 
If  I  could  make  that  resemble  something  in  me, — 
Softly!— i/;  0,A,L— 

Sir  To.  O,  ay  !  make  up  that : — he  is  now  at  a 
cold  scent. 

Fab.  Sowter  will  cry  upon  't,  for  all  this,  though 
it  be  as  rank  as  a  fox. 

Mai.  M, — Malvolio  ; — M, — why,  that  begins 
my  name. 

Fab.  Did  not  I  s.ay  he  would  work  it  out  ?  the 
cur  is  excellent  at  faults. 

Mai.  M, — But  then  there  is  no  consonancy  in 
(he  sequel ;  that  suffers  under  probation  :  A  should 
follow,  but  0  does. 

Fab.  And  0  shall  end,  I  hope. 
Sir  To.  Ay,  or  I  '11  cudgel  him,  and  make  him 
cry,  0. 


Mai.  And  then  /comes  behind. 

Fab.  Ay,  an  you  had  any  eye  behind  you,  you 
might  see  more  detraction  at  your  heels,  than  for- 
tunes before  you. 

Mai.  M,  0,  A,  I: — This  simulation  is  not  an 
the  former :  and  yet,  to  crush  this  a  hltle,  it  would 
bow  to  me,  for  every  one  of  these  letters  are  in  my 
name.     Soft,  here  follows  prose. — 


"If  this  fall  into  thy  hand,  revolve.  In  my  stars  I  am 
above  thee ;  but  be  not  afraid  of  greatness :  Some  are  born 
great,  some  achieve  greatness,  and  some  have  greatness 
thrust  upon  them.  Thy  fates  open  their  hands ;  let  thy 
blood  and  spirit  embrace  them.  And,  to  inure  thyself  to 
what  thou  art  like  to  be,  cast  thy  humble  slough,  and  ap- 
pear fresh.  Be  opposite  with  a  kinsman,  surly  with  ser- 
vants: let  thy  tongue  tang  arguments  of  state;  put  thysell 
into  the  trick  of  singularity:  she  thus  advises  thee  that 
sighs  for  thee.  Eemcmber  who  commended  thy  yellow 
stockings ;  and  wished  to  see  thee  ever  cross-gartered :  ] 
say,  remember.  Go  to ;  thou  art  made,  if  thou  desirest  to 
be  60 ;  if  not,  let  me  see  thee  a  steward  still,  the  fellow  of 
servants,  and  not  worthy  to  touch  fortune's  fingers.  Fare- 
well.    She  that  would  alter  services  with  tlico, 

"  The  Fortctnate  Unhappy." 


Daylight  and  champain  discovers  not  more :  this 
is  open.  I  will  be  proud,  I  will  read  politic 
authors,  I  will  baffle  Sir  Toby,  I  vrill  wash  off 
gross  acquaintance,  I  will  be  point  device,^  the 
veiy  man.  I  do  not  now  fool  myself  to  let 
imagination  jade  me ;  for  every  reason  excites 
to  this,  that  my  lady  loves  me.  She  did  com 
mend  my  yellow  stockings  of  late,  she  did  praise 
my  leg  being  cross-gartered ;  and  in  this  she 
manifests  herself  to  my  love,  and,  with  a  kind  of 
injunction,  drives  mo  to  these  habits  of  her  liking. 
I  thank  my  stars  I  am  happy.  I  will  be  strange, 
stout,  in  yellow  stockings,  and  cross-gartered,  even 
with  the  swiftness  of  putting  on.  Jove,  and  my 
stars,  be  praised ! — Here  is  yet  a  postscript. 
"  Thou  canst  not  choose  but  know  who  I  am.  If 
thou  enterlainest  my  love,  let  it  appear  in  thy  smi- 
ling ;  thy  smiles  become  thee  well :  therefore  in 
my  presence  still  smile,  dear  my  sweet,  I  prithee." 
Jove,  I  thank  thee. — I  will  smile  :  I  will  do  every- 
thing that  thou  wilt  have  me.  [Fxit. 

Fab.  I  will  not  give  my  part  of  this  sport 
for  a  pension  of  thousands  to  be  paid  from  the 
Sophy. 

Sir  To.  I  could  marry  this  wench  for  thia 
device : 

Sir  And.  So  could  I  too. 

Sir  To.  And  ask  no  other  dowry  with  her,  but 
such  another  jest. 

663 


ACT  m. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


SCENi;    I, 


Re-enter  Maria. 

Sir  And.  Nor  I  neither. 

Fah.  Here  comes  my  noble  gull-catcher. 

Sir  To.  Wilt  thou  set  thy  foot  o'  my  neck  1 

Sir  And.  Or  o'  mine  either  ? 

Sir  To.  Shall  I  play  my  fteedom  at  tray-trip,'" 
nnd  become  thy  bond-slave  ? 

Sir  And.  V  faith,  or  I  either  ? 

Sir  To.  Why,  thou  bast  put  him  in  such  a 
dream,  that  when  the  image  of  it  leaves  him  he 
must  run  mad. 

Mar.  Nay,  but  say  true ;  does  it  work  upon 
him? 


Sir  To.  Like  aqua-vit«  with  a  midwife. 

Mar.  If  you  will  then  see  the  fiuits  of  the  sport, 
mark  his  fii-st  approach  before  my  lady :  he  will 
come  to  her  in  yellow  stockings,  and  't  is  a  colour 
she  abhors ;  and  cross-gartered,  a  fashion  she  de- 
tests; and  he  will  smile  upon  her,  which  will  now 
be  so  unsuitable  to  her  disposition,  being  addicted 
to  a  melancholy  as  she  is,  that  it  cannot  but  turn 
him  into  a  notable  contempt :  if  you  will  see  it, 
follow  me. 

Sir  To.  To  the  gates  of  Tartar,  thou  most  ex 
cellent  devil  of  wit. 

Sir  And.  I  '11  make  one  too. 

\^Exeunt. 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I.— Olivia's  Garden. 
Enter  Viola,  and  Clo-mi  with  a  tabor. 

Via.  Save  thee,  friend,  and  thy  music  :  Dost 
thou  hve  by  thy  tabor? 

Clo.  No,  sir,  I  live  by  the  church. 

Vio.  Art  thou  a  churchman  ? 

Clo.  No  such  matter,  sir :  I  do  live  by  the 
church ;  for  I  do  live  at  my  house,  and  my  house 
doth  stand  by  the  church. 

Vio.  So  thou  mayst  say,  the  king  lies  by  a 
besrsrar,  if  a  besrsar  dwell  near  him  :  or  the  church 
stands  by  thy  tabor,  if  thy  tabor  stand  by  the 
church. 

Clo.  You  have  said,  sir. — To  see  this  age  ! — A 
sentence  is  but  a  cheveril  glove"  to  a  good  wit :  How 
quickly  the  wrong  side  may  be  turned  outward  ? 

Vio.  Nay,  that's  certain  ;  they  that  dally  nicely 
with  words  may  quickly  make  them  wanton. 

Clo.  I  would,  therefore,  my  sister  had  had  no 
name,  sir. 

Vio.  Wliy,  man  ? 

Clo.  Why,  sir,  her  name 's  a  word  ;  and  to  dally 
with  that  word  might  make  my  sister  wanton : 
But,  indeed,  words  are  very  rascals,  since  bonds 
disgraced  them. 

Vio.  Thy  rea-son,  man  3 

Clo.  Troth,  sir,  I  can  yield  you  none  without 
words ;  nnd  words  are  grown  so  false,  I  am  loth  to 
prove  reason  with  them. 


Vio.  I  warrant  thou  art  a  merry  fellow,  and 
carest  for  nothing. 

Clo.  Not  so,  sir,  I  do  care  for  something :  but 
in  my  conscience,  sir,  I  do  not  care  for  you ;  if 
that  be  to  care  for  nothing,  sir,  I  would  it  would 
make  you  invisible. 

Vio.  Art  not  thou  the  lady  Olivia's  fool  ? 

Clo.  No,  indeed,  sir ;  the  lady  Olivia  has  no 
folly :  she  will  keep  no  fool,  sir,  till  she  be 
manied ;  and  fools  are  as  like  husbands  as  pil- 
chards are  to  herrings,"  the  husband  's  the  bigger ; 
I  am,  indeed,  not  her  fool,  but  her  corrupter  of 
words. 

Vio.  I  saw  thee  late  at  the  count  Orsino's. 

Clo.  Foolery,  sir,  does  walk  about  the  orb, 
like  the  sun ;  it  shines  everywhere.  I  would  be 
sorry,  sir,  but  the  fool  should  bo  as  ofl  with  your 
master,  as  with  my  mistress :  I  think  I  saw  your 
wisdom  there. 

Vio.  Nay,  an  thou  pass  upon  me,  I  '11  no  more 
with  thee.     Hold,  there  's  expenses  for  thee. 

Clo.  Now  Jove,  in  his  next  commodity  of  hair, 
send  thee  a  beard  ! 

Vio.  By  my  troth,  I  '11  tell  thee,  I  am  almost 
sick  for  one ;  though  I  would  not  have  it  grow  on 
my  chin.     Ls  thy  lady  within  ? 

Clo.  Would  not  a  pair  of  these  have  bred,  sir  ? 

Vio.  Yes,  being  kept  together,  and  put  to  use. 

Clo.  I  woild  pl.ay  lord  Pandarus  of  Plirygia, 
air,  to  bring  a  Cressida  to  this  Troilus. 


Ct  HI. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


BCENE    1. 


Vio.  I  understand  you,  sir ;  't  is  well  begg'd. 

Clo.  Tho  matter,  I  hope,  is  not  great,  sir,  beg^ng 
fjut  a  beggar :  Cressida  was  a  beggar.  My  lady 
IS  within,  sir.  I  will  conster  to  them  whence 
you  come  ;  who  you  are,  and  what  you  would, 
are  out  of  my  welkin  :  I  might  say,  element ;  but 
the  word  is  over-worn.  [Exil. 

Vio.   This  fellow  is  wise  enough  to  play  the 
fool ; 
And  to  do  that  well  craves  a  kind  of  wit : 
He  must  observe  their  mood  on  whom  he  jests. 
The  quality  of  persons,  and  the  time  ; 
And,  like  the  haggard,  check  at  every  feather 
That  comes  before  his  eye.    This  is  a  practice 
As  full  of  labour  as  a  wise  man's  art : 
For  folly,  that  he  wisely  shows,  is  fit ; 
But  wise  men,  folly-fall'n,  quite  taint  their  wit. 

Enter  Sir  Tobt  Belch  and  Sir  Andrkw  Ague- 
cheek. 

Sir  To.  Save  you,  gentleman. 

Vio.  And  you,  sir. 

Sir  And.  Dieu  vous  garde,  monsieur. 

Vio.  El  vous  aussi ;  voire  servileur. 

Sir  And.  I  hope,  sir,  you  are ;  and  I  am  yours. 

Sir  To.  Will  you  encounter  the  house  ?  my 
niece  is  desirous  you  should  enter,  if  your  trade  be 
to  her. 

Vio.  I  am  bound  to  your  niece,  sir :  I  mean, 
she  is  the  list"  of  my  voyage. 

Sir  To.  Taste  your  legs,  sir ;"  put  them  to 
motion. 

Vio.  My  legs  do  better  understand  me,  sir,  than 
I  understand  what  you  mean  by  bidding  me  taste 
my  legs. 

Sir  To.  I  mean  to  go,  sir,  to  enter. 

Vio.  I  will  answer  you  with  gait  and  entrance : 
But  we  are  prevented. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Maria. 

Most  excellent  accomplished   lady,  the   heavens 
rain  odours  on  you  ! 

Sir  And.  That  youth  's  a  rare  courtier  !  "  Rain 
odours !"  well  I 

Vio.  My  matter  hath  no  voice,  lady,  but  to  your 
own  most  pregnant  and  vouchsafed  ear. 

Sir   And.    "  Odours,    pregnant,    and    vouch- 
safed :"— 
1  'II  get  'era  all  three  all  ready. 

Oli.  Let  the  garden  door  be  shut,  and  leave  me  to 
my  hearing.  [Exeunt  Sir  To.,  Sir  And.,  and  Mar. 
Give  me  your  hauJ,  sir. 


Vio.  My  duty,  madam,  and  most  humble  Kr- 

vice. 
Oli.  What  is  your  name  ? 
Vio.  Cesario  is  your  servant's  name,  fair  prin- 
cess. 
Oli.  My   servant,   sir  !     'T  was   nevei    merry 
world, 
Since  lowly  feigning  was  call'd  compliment  : 
You  're  servant  to  the  count  Orsino,  youth. 

Vio.  And  he  is  yours,  and  his  must  needs  be 
yours  ; 
Your  servant's  servant  is  your  servant,  madam. 
Oli.  For  him,  I  think   not  on   him  :   for   k's 
thoughts. 
Would  they  were  blanks,  rather  than  fill'd  with 
me  ! 
Vio.    Madam,    I   come    to   whet  your  gentle 
thoughts 
On  his  behalf : — 

Oli.  O,  by  your  leave,  I  pray  you  ; 

I  bade  you  never  speak  again  of  him  : 
But,  would  you  undertake  another  suit, 
I  had  rather  hear  you  to  solicit  that. 
Than  music  from  the  spheres. 
Vio.  Dear  lady, — 

Oli.  Give  me  leave,  beseech  you :  I  did  send 
After  the  last  enchantment  you  did  here, 
A  ring  in  chase  of  you  :  so  did  I  abuse 
Myself,  my  servant,  and,  I  fear  me,  you : 
Under  your  hard  construction  must  I  sit. 
To  force  that  on  you,  in  a  shameful  cunning. 
Which  you  knew  none  of  yours.     What  might 

you  think  ? 
Have  you  not  set  mine  honour  at  the  stake. 
And  baited  it  with  all  th'  unmuzzled  thoughts 
That  tyrannous  heart  can  think  ?     To  one  of  your 

receiving'' 
Enough  is  shown  ;  a  Cyprus,  not  a  bosom. 
Hides  my  heart :    So  let  me  hear  you  speak. 
Vio.  I  pity  you. 

Oli.  That 's  a  degree  to  love. 

Vio.  No,  not  a  grise  ;"*  for  't  is  a  vulgar  proof^ 
That  very  oft  we  pity  enemies. 

Oli.  Why,  then,  methinks,  't  is  time  to  smile 
again : 
O  world,  how  apt  the  poor  are  to  be  proud  ! 
If  one  should  be  a  prey,  how  much  the  better 
To  fall  before  the  lion  than  the  wolf  ! 

[Clock  strikes. 
The  clock  upbraids  me  with  the  waste  of  time. — 
Be  not  afraid,  good  youth,  I  will  not  have  you  : 
And  yet,  when  wit  and  youth  is  come  to  harvest, 

565 


TWTILFTH  NIGHT. 


Your  wife  is  like  to  reap  a  proper  man  : 
There  lies  your  way,  due  west. 

Vio.  Then  westward-hoe  : 

Grace,  and  good  disposition,  'tend  your  ladyship  I 
You  '11  nothing,  madam,  to  my  lord  by  me  ? 

Oli.  Stay: 
I  prithee  tell  me  what  thou  think'st  of  me. 

Vio.  That  you  do  think  you  are  not  what  you 
are. 

Oil.  If  I  think  so,  I  think  the  same  of  you. 

Vio.  Then  think   you  right;   I  am  not  what 
I  am. 

Oli.  I  would  you  were  as  I  would  have  you 
be! 

Vio.  Would  it  be  better,  madam,  than  I  am, 
I  wihh  it  might ;  for  now  I  am  your  fool. 

Oli.  O,  what  a  deal  of  scorn  looks  beautiful 
In  the  contempt  and  anger  of  his  lip  ! 
A  murth'rous  guilt  shows  not  itself  more  soon 
Than  love  that  would  seem  hid :  love's  night  is 

noon. 
Cesario,  by  the  roses  of  the  spring, 
By  maidhood,  honour,  truth,  and  everything, 
I  love  thee  so,  that,  maugre  all  thy  pride. 
Nor  wit,  nor  reason,  can  my  passion  hide. 
Do  not  extort  thy  reasons  from  this  clause. 
For.  that  I  woo,  thou  therefore  hast  no  cause  : — 
But  rather,  reason  thus  with  reason  fetter  ; — ■ 
Love  sought  is  good,  but  given  unsought  is  better. 

Vio.  By  innocence  I  swear,  and  by  my  youth, 
I  have  one  heart,  one  bosom,  and  one  truth. 
And  that  no  woman  has  ;  nor  never  none 
Shr.ll  mistress  be  of  it,  save  I  alone. 
And  so  adieu,  good  madam  ;  never  more 
Will  I  my  master's  tears  to  you  deplore. 

Oli.  Yet  come  again  :  for  thou,  perhaps,  mayst 
move 
That  heart,  which  now  abhors,  to  like  his  love. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— yl  Boom  in  Olivia's  House. 

Enter  Sir  Tody  Belch,  Sir  Andrew  AcuE-cnEEK, 
and  Fabian. 

Sir  And.  No,  faith,  I  '11  not  st.ay  a  jot  longer. 
»S'()'  To.    Thy  reason,   dear   venom,   give   thy 

reason. 
Fab.    Y'^ou  must  needs  yield   your  reason,  sir 

Andrew. 
Sir  And.    Marry,   I  saw  your  niece  do  more 
favours  to  the  count's  serviugman,  than  ever  she 
bcstcwe<l  upon  me ;  I  saw  't  i'  the  orchard. 

556 


Sir  To.  Did  she  see  thee  the  while,  old  boy  ? 
tell  me  that. 

Sir  And.  As  plain  as  I  see  you  now. 

Fab.  This  was  a  great  argument  of  love  in  her 
toward  you. 

Sir  And.  'Slight !  will  you  make  an  ass  o'  me  1 

Fab.  I  will  prove  it  legitimate,  sir,  upon  th 
oaths  of  judgment  and  reason. 

Sir  To.  And  they  have  been  grand  jury-men, 
since  before  Noah  was  a  sailor. 

Fab.  She  did  show  favour  to  the  youth  in  your 
sight,  only  to  exasperate  you,  to  awake  your  dor- 
mouse valour,  to  put  fire  in  your  heart,  and  brim- 
stone in  your  liver  :  You  should  then  have 
accosted  her ;  and  vnth  some  excellent  jests,  fire- 
new  fi'om  the  mint,  you  should  have  banged  the 
youth  into  dumbness.  This  was  looked  for  at 
your  hand,  and  this  was  baulked  :  the  double  gilt 
of  this  opportunity  you  let  time  wash  ofi",  and 
you  are  now  sailed  into  the  north  of  my  lady's 
opinion ;  where  you  will  hang  like  an  icicle  on 
a  Dutchman's  beard,  unless  you  do  redeem  it  by 
some  laudable  attempt,  either  of  valour  or  policy. 

Sir  And.  An  't  be  any  way,  it  must  be  with 
valour ;  for  policy  I  hate :  I  had  as  lief  be  a 
Brownist  as  a  politician. 

Sir  To.  Why,  then,  build  me  thy  fortunes 
upon  the  basis  of  valour.  Challenge  me  the 
count's  youth  to  fight  with  him  ;  hurt  him  in 
eleven  places  ;  my  niece  shall  take  note  of  it : 
and  assure  thyself,  tberc  is  no  love-broker  in  the 
world  can  more  prevail  in  man's  commendation 
with  woman,  than  report  of  valour. 

Fab.  There  is  no  way  but  this,  sir  Andrew. 

Sir  And.  Will  either  of  you  bear  me  a  challenge 
to  him  ? 

Sir  To.  Go,  wiite  it  in  a  martial  hand  :  be  curst 
and  brief ;  it  is  no  matter  how  witty,  so  it  be  elo- 
quent and  full  of  invention ;  taunt  him  with  the 
licence  of  ink :  if  thou  thou'st  him  some  thrice," 
it  shall  not  bo  amiss  ;  and  as  many  lies  as  will  lie 
in  thy  sheet  of  paper,  although  the  sheet  were  big 
enough  for  the  bed  of  Ware  in  England,  set  'em 
down ;  go  about  it.  Let  there  bo  gall  enough  in 
thy  ink  ;  though  thou  write  with  a  goose-pen,  no 
matter :   About  it. 

Sir  And.  Whore  shall  I  find  you  ? 

Sir  To.  Wo  '11  call  thee  at  the  cicbiculo.     Go. 
[Exit  Sir  Andrew. 

Fab.  Th's  is  a  dear  manakin  to  you,  sir  Toby. 

Sir  To.  I  have  been  dear  to  him,  lad ;  some  twc 
thousand  strong,  or  so. 


ACT    lU. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


HOENE    III 17 


Fah.  We  shall  have  a  rare  letter  from  him  :  hut 
you'll  not  deliver 't? 

Sir  To.  Never  trust  me  theu ;  and  hy  all 
means,  stir  on  the  youth  to  an  answer.  T  think 
oxen  and  wain-ropes  cannot  hale  them  together. 
For  Andrew,  if  he  were  opened,  and  you  find  so 
much  blood  in  his  liver  as  will  clog  the  foot  of  a 
floa,  I  '11  eat  the  rest  of  the  anatomy. 

Fab.  And  his  opposite,  the  youth,  bears  in  his 
visage  no  great  presage  of  cruelty. 

Enter  Maria. 

Sir  To.  Look  where  the  youngest  wren  of  nine'' 
comes. 

Mar.  If  you  desire  the  spleen,  and  will  laugh 
yourself  into  stitches,  follow  me :  yond'  gull  Mal- 
volio  is  turned  heathen,  a  very  renegado ;  for  there 
is  no  Christian  that  means  to  be  saved  by  believing 
rightly,'  can  ever  believe  such  impossible  passages 
of  grossness.     He  's  in  yellow  stockings. 

Sir  To.  And  cross-gartered  ? 

Mar.  Most  villainously;  like  a  pedant  that 
keeps  a  school  i'  the  church. — I  have  dogged  him 
like  his  raurtherer :  He  does  obey  every  point  of 
the  letter  that  I  dropped  to  betray  him.  He  does 
smile  his  face  into  more  lines  than  are  in  the  new 
map  with  the  augmentation  of  the  Indies  :  you 
have  not  seen  such  a  thing  as  't  is ;  I  can  hardly 
forbear  hurling  things  at  him.  I  know  my  lady 
will  strike  him  ;  if  she  do,  he  '11  smile,  and  take  't 
for  a  gieat  favour. 

Sir  To.  Come,  bring  us,  bring  us  where  he  is. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  m.— ^  Street. 
Enter  Antonio  and  Sebastian. 

Sch.  I  would  not  by  my  will  have  troubled  you ; 
But,  since  you  make  your  pleasure  of  your  pains, 
I  will  no  further  chide  you. 

Ant.  I  could  not  stay  behind  you ;  my  desire. 
More  sharp  than  filed  steel,  did  spur  me  forth ; 
And  not  all  love  to  see  you,  (though  so  much 
As  might  have  drawn  one  to  a  longer  voyage,) 
But  jealousy  what  might  befal  your  travel, 
Being  skilless  in  these  parts ;  which,  to  a  stranger, 
(Juguided,  and  unfriended,  often  prove 
Rough  and  unhospitable.     My  willino-  love, 
The  rather  by  these  arguments  of  fear. 
Set  fortL  in  your  pursuit. 

Seh.  My  kind  Antonio, 

I  can  PO  other  answer  make,  but,  thanks. 


And  thanks :  and  ever  oft  good  turns 
Aie  shuffled  off  with  .such  uncurrent  pay  , 
But,  were  my  worth,  as  is  my  conscience,  firm, 
You  should  find  better  dealing.     WL'at's  to  do? 
Shall  we  go  see  the  reliques  of  this  town  ? 

Aiit.   To-morrow,  sir ;    best,  first,  go  see  your 
lodging. 

Sch.  I  am  not  weary,  and  't  is  long  to  night; 
I  pray  you  let  us  satisfy  our  eyes. 
With  the  memorials,  and  the  things  of  fame. 
That  do  renown  this  city. 

Ant.  'Would  you'd  pardon  me  ; 

I  do  not  without  danger  walk  these  streets: 
Once,  in  a  sea-fight,  'gainst  the  count  his  galleys, 
I  did  some  service;  of  such  note,  indeed. 
That,  were  I  ta'en  here,  it  would  scarce  be  answer'd. 

Seh.  Belike,  you  slew  great  number  of  his  people. 

Ant.  The  offence  is  not  of  such  a  blooity  nature 
Albeit  the  quality  of  the  time,  and  quarrel, 
Might  well  have  given  us  bloody  argument. 
It  might  have  since  been  answer'd  in  repaying 
What  we  took  from  them  ;  which,  for  traffic's  sake, 
Most  of  our  city  did  :  only  myself  stood  out : 
For  which,  if  I  be  lapsed  in  this  place, 
I  shall  pay  dear. 

Seh.  Do  not  then  walk  too  open. 

Ant.  It  doth  not  fit  me.     Hold,  sir,  here's  my 
purse ; 
In  the  south  suburbs,  at  the  Elephant, 
Is  best  to  lodge :  I  will  bespeak  our  diet. 
Whiles   you    beguile    the   time,    and    feed    your 

knowledge 
With  viewing  of  the  town ;  there  shall  you  havo 
me. 

Sch.  Why  I  your  puree  ? 

Ant.  Haply,  )'our  eye  shall  light  upon  some  toy 
You  have  desire  to  purchase ;  and  your  store, 
I  think,  is  not  for  idle  markets,  sir. 

Seh.  I  '11  be  your  purse-bearer,  and  leave  you 
For  an  hour. 

Ant.  To  the  Elephant. — 

Seh.  I  do  remember.   \Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— Olivia's  Garden. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Maria. 

Oli.   I  have  sent  after  him.      He  says  he  II 
come; 
How  shall  I  feast  him  ?  what  bestow  of  him  ? 
For  youth  is   bought  more  oft,  than  begg'd   oi 

borrow'd. 
I  speak  too  loud. — 

557 


TWELFIH  NIGHT. 


bC'KNB    IV. 


Where  is  Malvolio  ? — he  is  sad,  and  ci\'il, 

And  suits  well  for  a  servant  with  my  fortunes ; — 

Where  is  Malvolio  ? 

Mar.  He 's  coming,  madam ;  but  in  very  strange 
nanner.     He  is  sure  possess'd,  madam. 

OU.  Why,  what 's  the  matter  ?  does  he  rave  ? 

Mar.  No,  madam,  he  does  nothing  but  smile : 
your  ladyship  were  best  to  have  some  guard  about 
you,  if  he  come ;  for,  sure,  the  man  is  tainted  in 
his  wits. 

OIL  Go  call  him  hither. — I  am  as  mad  as  he. 
If  sad  and  merry  madness  equal  be. 

Enter  Malvolio. 

How  now,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  Sweet  lady,  ho,  ho!  [^Smiles fantastically. 

on.  Smilest  thou  ? 
I  sent  for  thee  upon  a  sad  occasion. 

Mai.  Sad,  lady?  I  could  be  sad:  This  does 
make  some  obstmction  in  the  blood,  this  cross- 
gartering.  But  what  of  that  ?  if  it  please  the  eye 
of  one,  it  is  with  me  as  the  very  true  sonnet  is : 
"  Please  one,  and  please  all." 

OIL  Why,  how  dost  thou,  man  ?  what  is  the 
matter  with  thee  ? 

Mai.  Not  black  in  my  mind,  though  yellow  in 
my  legs :  It  did  come  to  his  hands,  and  commands 
shall  be  executed.  I  think,  we  do  know  the  sweet 
Roman  hand. 

OIL  Wilt  thou  go  to  bed,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  To  bed  ?  ay,  sweetheart ;  and  I  '11  come  to 
thee. 

OU.  God  comfort  thee !  Why  dost  thou  smile 
so,  and  kiss  thy  hand  so  oft  ? 

Mar.  How  do  you,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  At  your  request  ?  Yes ;  nightingales  an- 
swer daws. 

Mar.  Why  appear  you  with  this  ridiculous  bold- 
ness before  my  lady  ? 

Mai.  "  Be  not  afraid  of  greatness :" — 't  was  well 
writ. 

OU.  What  meanest  thou  by  that,  Malvolio  S 

Mai.  "  Some  are  born  great," — 

OIL  Ha? 

Mai.  "  Some  achieve  greatness," — 

OU.  What  say'st  thou  ? 

Mai.  "And  some  have  greatness  thnist  upon 
them." 

OIL  Heaven  restore  thee ! 

Mai.  "Remember,  who  commended  thy  yellow 
stockings ;" — 

OIL  'Ihy  yellow  stockings  ? 

fi68 


Mai.  "And  wished  to  see  tliee  cross-gartered." 
OIL  Cross-gartered  2 

Mai.  "  Go  to :  thou  art  made,  if  thou  desirest  to 
be  so ;" — 

OIL  Am  I  made  ? 

Mai.  "  If  not,  let  me  see  thee  a  servant  still." 

OIL  Why,  this  is  very  Midsummer  madness. 

Enter  Servant. 

Ser.  Madam,  the  young  gentleman  of  the  count 
Orsino's  is  returned ;  I  could  hardly  entreat  him 
back :  he  attends  your  ladyship's  pleasure. 

OIL  I  '11  come  to  him.  [Exit  Servant.]  Good 
Maria,  let  this  fellow  be  looked  to.  Where  's  my 
cousin  Toby  ?  Let  some  of  my  people  have  a  spe- 
cial care  of  him ;  I  would  not  have  him  miscarry 
for  the  half  of  my  dowry. 

[Exeunt  Olivia  and  Maria. 

Mal.  Oh,  ho !  do  you  come  near  me  now  ?  no 
worse  man  th.an  sir  Toby  to  look  to  me?  This 
concurs  directly  with  the  letter :  she  sends  him  on 
purpose,  that  I  may  appear  stubborn  to  him ;  for 
she  incites  me  t«  that  in  the  letter.  "  Cast  thy 
humble  slough,"  says  she  ; — "  be  opposite  with  a 
kinsman,  surly  with  sen'ants, — let  thy  tongue 
tang  with  arguments  of  state, — put  thyself  into 

the   trick  of  singularity ;" and,   consequently, 

sets  down  the  manner  how ;  as,  a  sad  face,  a 
reverend  carriage,  a  slow  tongue,  in  the  habit  of 
some  sir  of  note,  and  so  forth.  I  have  limed  her ; 
but  it  is  Jove's  doing,  and  Jove  make  me  thankful ! 
And,  when  she  went  away  now,  "  Let  this  fellow 
be  looked  to:"  Fellow!  not  Malvolio,  nor  after 
my  degree,  but  fellow."  Why,  everything  adheres 
together ;  that  no  drachm  of  a  scruple,  no  scruple 
of  a  scruple,  no  obstacle,  no  incredulous  or  unsat'e 
circumstance, — What  can  be  said  ?  Nothing,  that 
can  be,  can  come  between  me  and  the  full  prospect 
of  my  hopes.  Well,  Jove,  not  I,  is  the  doer  of  this, 
and  he  is  to  be  thanked. 

Re-mter  Maria,  with  Sir  Toby  Belch  and 
Fabian. 

Sir  To.  Which  way  is  he,  in  the  name  of 
sanctity?  If  all  the  devils  in  hell  be  drawn  in 
little,  and  Legion  himself  possessed  him,  yet  I  '11 
speak  to  him. 

Fab.  Hero  he  is,  hero  ho  is : — How  is  't  with 
you,  sir?  how  is  't  with  you,  man? 

Mal.  Go  off:  I  discard  you;  let  mo  enjoy  my 
private ;  go  olf. 

Mar.  Lo,  how  hollow  the  fiend  speak*  within 


TWELFni  NKiHT. 


SOKNR  rv. 


nim  !  did  not  I  tell  you  ? — Sir  Toby,  in\  lady 
prays  you  to  h;ivo  a  care  of  him. 

Mai.  All,  ha !  does  she  so  ? 

Sir  To.  Go  to,  go  to ;  peace,  peaca,  we  must 
deal  gently  with  him ;  let  me  alone.  How  do 
you,  MiUvolio  ?  how  is 't  with  you  ?  What,  man  ! 
defy  the  devil :  consider,  he  's  an  enemy  to  man- 
kind. 

Mai.  Do  you  know  what  you  say  ? 

Mar.  La  you,  an  you  speak  ill  of  the  devil, 
how  he  takes  it  at  heart !  Pray  God,  ho  be  not 
bewitched  ! 

Fab.  Carry  his  water  to  the  wise  woman. 

Mar.  Marry,  and  it  shall  be  done  to-morrow 
morning,  if  I  live.  My  lady  would  not  lose  him 
for  more  than  I  '11  say. 

Mai.  How  now,  mistress  ? 

Mar.  0  lord ! 

Sir  To.  Prithee,  hold  thy  peace ;  this  is  not  the 
way:  Do  you  not  see  you  move  him  ?  let  me  alone 
with  him. 

Fah.  No  way  but  gentleness ;  gently,  gently : 
the  fiend  is  rough,  and  will  not  be  roughly  used. 

Sir  To.  Why,  how  now,  my  bawcock  ?  how 
dost  thou,  chuck? 

Mai.   Sir? 

Sir  To.  Ay,  Biddy,  come  with  me.  What, 
man ;  it  is  not  for  gravity  to  play  at  cherry-pit" 
with  Satan :  Hang  him,  foul  collier  I 

Mar.  Get  him  to  say  his  prayers ;  good  sir  Toby, 
get  him  to  pray. 

Mai.  My  prayers,  minx  ? 

Mar.  No,  I  warrant  you,  he  will  not  he.ar  of 
godliness. 

Mai.  Go,  hang  yourselves  all !  you  are  idle 
shallow  things :  I  am  not  of  your  element ;  you 
shall  know  more  hereafter.  \Exit. 

Sir  To.  Is 't  possible  ? 

Fah.  If  this  were  played  upon  a  stage  now,  I 
could  condemn  it  as  an  improbable  fiction. 

Sir  To.  His  very  genius  hath  taken  the  iufec- 
liou  of  the  device,  man. 

Mar.  Nay,  pursue  him  now ;  lest  the  device 
take  air,  and  taint. 

Fah.  Why,  we  shall  make  him  mad,  indeed. 

Mar.  The  house  will  be  the  quieter. 

Sir  To.  Come,  we  '11  have  him  in  a  dark- 
room, and  bound.  My  niece  is  already  in  the 
belief  that  he  's  mad;  we  may  carry  it  thus,  for 
our  pleasure,  and  his  penance,  till  our  very  pas- 
time, tired  out  of  breath,  prompt  us  to  have 
mercy  on  him :  at  which  time  we  will  bring  the 


device  to  tl^p  bar,  and  crown  thee  for  a  finder  of 
madmen.     But  see,  but  fee. 

Enter  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek. 

Fah.  More  matter  for  a  May  morning. 

Sir  And.  Here  's  the  challenge,  read  it ;  1 
warrant  there  's  vinegar  and  pepper  in  't. 

Fab.  Is 't  so  saucy  ? 

Sir  And.  Ay,  is  't,  I  warrant  him  :  do  but 
read. 

Sir  To.  Give  me.  [/Jforf^.j  "  Youth,  what- 
soever thou  art,  thou  art  but  a  scurvy  fellow." 

Fab.  Good,  and  valiant. 

Sir  To.  "  Wonder  not,  nor  admire  not  in  thy 
mind,  why  I  do  call  thee  so,  for  I  will  show  thee 
no  reason  for  't." 

Fab.  A  good  note :  that  keeps  you  from  the 
blow  of  the  law. 

Sir  To.  "  Thou  comest  to  the  lady  Olivia,  and 
in  my  sight  she  uses  thee  kindly :  but  thou  liest 
in  thy  throat,  that  is  not  the  matter  I  challenge 
thee  for." 

Fab.  Veiy  brief,  and  exceeding  good — senseless." 

Sir  To.  "  I  will  waylay  thee  going  home ; 
where  if  it  be  thy  chance  to  kill  me," 

Fab.  Good. 

Sir  To.  "Thou  killest  me  like  a  rogue  and  a 
villain." 

Fah.  Still  you  keep  o'  the  windy  side  of  the 
law :  Good. 

Sir  To.  "  Fare  thee  well ;  and  God  have  mercy 
upon  one  of  our  souls !  He  may  have  mercy  upon 
mine ;  but  my  hope  is  better,  and  so  look  to  thy 
self.  Thy  friend,  as  thou  usest  him,  and  thy 
sworn  enemy,  Andrew  Ague-cheek." 

If  this  letter  move  him  not,  his  legs  can- 
not :  I  '11  give  't  him. 

Mar.  You  may  have  very  fit  occasion  for  't ; 
he  is  now  in  some  commerce  with  my  lady,  and 
will  by  and  by  depart. 

Sir  To.  Go,  sir  Andrew :  scout  me  for  him  at 
the  corner  of  the  orchard,  like  a  bum-bailie :  so 
soon  as  ever  thou  seest  him,  draw ;  and,  as  thou 
drawest,  swear  horrible ;  for  it  comes  to  pass  oft, 
that  a  terrible  oath,  \vith  a  swaggering  accent 
sharply  twanged  off,  gives  manhood  more  appro- 
bation than  ever  proof  itself  would  have  earned 
him.     Away. 

Sir  And.  Nay,  let  me  alone  for  swearing. 

"  [Eri'. 

Sir  To.  Now  will  not  I  deliver  his  letter:  for 
the  beha\aour  of  the  young  gentleman  givc;s  hiro 


TWELrrH  NIGUT. 


out  to  be  of  good  capacity  and  breeding ;  bis  em- 
ployment between  bis  lord  and  my  niece  confirms 
no  less ;  therefore  this  letter,  being  so  excellently 
ignorant,  will  breed  no  terrcr  in  the  youth,  be  vdW 
find  it  comes  from  a  clod-pole.  But,  sir,  I  vnW 
deliver  his  challenge  by  word  of  mouth ;  set  upon 
Ague-cheek  a  notable  report  of  valour ;  and  drive 
the  gentleman  (as  I  know  his  youth  will  aptly 
receive  it)  into  a  most  hideous  opinion  of  his  rage, 
skill,  fury,  and  impetuosity.  This  will  so  fright 
them  both,  that  they  will  kill  one  another  by  the 
look,  like  cockatrices. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Viola. 

Fah.  Here  he  comes  with  your  niece :  give  them 
way,  till  he  take  leave,  and  presently  after  him. 

Sir  To.  I  will  meditate  the  while  upon  some 
horrid  message  for  a  challenge. 

\_Exeiint  Sib  Tobv,  Fabian,  and  Maria. 

OIL  I  have  said  too  much  unto  a  heart  of  stone. 
And  laid  mine  honour  too  unchary  on  't: 
There  's  something  in  me  that  reproves  my  fault ; 
But  such  a  headstrong  potent  fault  it  is, 
That  it  but  mocks  reproof. 

Vio.  With  the  same  'haviour  that  your  passion 
bears. 
Go  on  my  master's  griefs. 

on.  Here,  wear  this  jewel  for  me,  't  is  my  picture ; 
Refuse  it  not,  it  hath  no  tongue  to  vex  you : 
And,  I  beseech  you,  come  again  to-moiTow. 
What  shall  you  ask  of  me  that  I  '11  deny ; 
That  honour,  sav'd,  may  upon  asking  give  ? 

Vio.  Nothing  but  this,  your  true  love  for  my 
master. 

OIL  How  with  mine  honour  may  I  give  him  that 
Which  I  have  given  to  you  ? 

Vio.  I  will  acquit  you. 

OIL  Well,  come  again  to-morrow :  Fare  thee  well ; 
A  fiend  like  thee  might  bear  my  soul  to  hell.  \^Exit. 

Re-enter  Sir  Toby  Belch  and  Fabian. 

Sir  To.  Gentleman,  God  save  thee. 

Vio.  And  you,  sir. 

Sir  To.  That  defence  thou  hast,  betake  thee 
to  't :  of  what  nature  the  wrongs  are  thou  hast 
done  him,  I  know  not;  but  tliy  interceptor,  full  cf 
despight,  bloody  as  the  hunter,  attends  thee  at  the 
orchard  end:  dismount  thy  tuck,  be  yare  in  thy 
preparation,  for  thy  a.ssailant  is  quick,  skilful,  and 
deadly. 

Vio.  You  mistake,  -sir,  I  am  sure;  no  man  hath 
any  quarrel  to  me:  my  remenrbrance  is  very  fi'oo 


and  clear  from  any  image  of  offence  done  to  any  man. 

Sir  To.  You  '11  find  it  otherwise,  I  assure  you : 
therefore,  if  you  hold  your  life  at  any  price,  betake 
you  to  your  guard ;  for  your  opposite  hath  in  him 
what  youth,  strength,  skill,  a  id  wrath,  can  furnish 
man  withal. 

Vio,  I  pray  you,  sir,  what  is  he  3 

Sir  To.  He  is  knight,  dubbed  with  unbacked 
rapier,  and  on  carpet  consideration;  but  he  is  a 
devil  in  private  brawl ;  souls  and  bodies  hath  ha 
divorced  three ;  and  his  incensement  at  this  moment 
is  so  implacable,  that  satisfaction  can  be  none  but 
by  pangs  of  death  and  sepulchre :  hob-nob"  is  hia 
word ;  give  't,  or  take  't. 

Vio.  I  will  return  again  into  the  house,  and 
desire  some  conduct  of  the  lady.  I  am  no  fighter. 
I  have  heard  of  some  kind  of  men  that  put  quar- 
rels purposely  on  others,  to  taste  their  valour: 
belike,  this  is  a  man  of  that  quirk. 

Sir  To.  Sir,  no ;  his  indignation  derives  itself 
out  of  a  very  competent  injury;  theietbre,  get  you 
on,  and  give  him  his  desire.  Back  you  shall  not 
to  the  house,  unless  you  undertake  that  with  me 
which  with  as  much  safety  you  might  answer  him  : 
therefore,  on,  or  strip  your  sword  stark  naked  ;  for 
meddle  you  must,  that 's  certain,  or  forswear  to 
wear  iron  about  you. 

Vio.  This  is  as  uncivil  as  strange.  I  beseech 
you,  do  me  this  courteous  office,  as  to  know  of  the 
knight  what  my  offence  to  him  is ;  it  is  something 
of  my  negligence,  nothing  of  my  purpose. 

Sir  To.  I  will  do  so.  Signior  Fabian,  stay  you 
by  this  gentleman  till  my  return.    [Exit  Sir  Tobt. 

Vio.  Pray  you,  sir,  do  you  know  of  this  matter  ? 

Fah.  I  know  the  knight  is  incensed  against  you, 
even  to  a  mortal  arbitrement;  but  nothing  of  the 
circumstance  more. 

Vio.  I  beseech  you,  what  manner  of  man  is  he  ? 

Fab.  Nothing  of  that  wonderful  promise,  to 
read  him  by  his  form,  as  you  are  like  to  find  him 
in  the  proof  of  his  valour.  He  is,  indeed,  sir,  the 
most  skilful,  bloody,  and  fatal  opposite  that  you 
could  possibly  have  found  in  any  part  of  Illyria. 
Will  you  walk  towards  him  ?  I  will  make  your 
peace  with  him,  if  I  can. 

Vio.  I  shall  he  much  bound  to  you  for  't :  I 
am  one  that  would  ratlier  go  with  sir  priest  than 
sir  knight :  I  care  not  who  knows  so  much  of  my 
mottle.  [Exeunt 

Re-enter  Sir  Toby,  loith  Sir  Andrew. 
Sir  To.  Why,  man,  bo  's  a  very  devil ;  1  have 


ACT    lU. 


TWELFTH  NIC. ill. 


not  seen  such  a  virago.  I  had  a  pass  with  him, 
rapier,  scabbard,  and  all,  and  he  gives  me  the 
stuck-in,  with  such  a  mortal  motion,  that  it  is 
inevitable ;  and  on  the  answer,  he  pays  j'ou  as 
surely  as  your  feet  hit  the  ground  they  step  ou  : 
They  say  he  has  been  fencer  to  the  Sophy. 

Sir  And.  Pox  on  't,  I  '11  not  meddle  with  him. 

Sir  Tob.  Ay,  but  he  will  not  now  be  pacified  : 
Fabian  can  scare  hold  him  yonder. 

Sir  And.  Plague  on  't ;  an  I  thought  ho  had 
been  valiant,  and  so  cunning  in  fence,  I  'd  have 
seen  him  damned  ere  1  'd  have  challenged  him. 
Let  him  let  the  matter  slip,  and  I  '11  give  him  my 
horse,  grey  Capilet. 

Sir  To.  I  '11  make  the  motion :  Stand  liere, 
make  a  good  show  on  't ;  this  shall  end  without 
the  perdition  of  souls  :  Marry,  I'll  ride  your  horse 
as  well  as  I  ride  you.  [^Aside. 

Re-enter  Fabian  and  Viola. 

I  have  Lis  horse  \to  Fab.]  to  take  up  the  quarrel ; 
I  have  persuaded  him  the  youth  's  a  devil. 

Fab.  He  is  as  horribly  conceited  of  him ;  and 
p.ants,  and  looks  pale,  as  if  a  bear  were  at  his  heels. 

Sir  Tob.  There  's  no  remedy,  sir  ;  he  will  fight 
with  you  for  his  oath's  sake  :  marry,  he  hath  bet- 
ter bethought  him  of  his  quaiTel,  and  he  finds  that 
now  scarce  to  be  worth  talking  of;  therefore  draw, 
for  the  supportance  of  his  vow ;  he  protests  he  will 
not  hurt  you. 

Vio.  Pray  God  defend  me !  A  little  thing 
would  make  me  tell  them  how  much  I  lack  of  a 
man.  \^Aside. 

Fab.  Give  ground,  if  you  see  him  furious. 

Sir  To.  Come,  sir  Andrew,  there  's  no  remedy ; 
the  gentleman  will,  for  his  honour's  sake,  have  one 
bout  with  you  :  he  cannot  by  the  duello  avoid  it ; 
but  he  has  promised  me,  as  he  is  a  gentleman  and 
a  soldier,  he  will  not  hurt  you.     Come  on :  to  't. 

Sir  And.  Pray  God,  he  keep  Ms  oath.    [^Draws. 

Enter  Antonio. 

Vio.  I  do  assure  you  't  is  against  my  will. 

[Draws. 
Ant.  Put  up  your  sword  ; — If  this  young  gen- 
tleman 
Have  done  offence,  I  take  the  fault  on  me  ; 
If  you  oflend  him,  I  for  him  defy  you.     [Drawinf/. 
Sir  To.  You,  sir  ?  why,  what  are  you  ? 
Ant.  One,  sir,  that  for  his  love  dares  yet  do 
more 
Than  you  have  heard  him  brag  to  you  he  will. 

71 


Sir  To.  Nay,  if  you  be  an  undertaker,"  I  am 
for  you.  \Drnws. 

Enter  two  Oflucers. 

Fub.  O  good  sir  Toby,  hold ;  here  come  the 
officers. 

Sir  To.  I  '11  be  with  you  anon.     [To  Antonio. 

Vio.  Pray,  sir,  put  your  sword  up,  if  you  please. 

[To  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  And.  Marry,  will  I,  sir ; — and,  for  that  I 
promised  you,  I  '11  be  as  good  as  my  Avord  :  He 
will  bear  you  easily,  and  reins  well. 

1  Off.  This  is  the  man  ;  do  tliy  office. 

2  Off.  Antonio,  I  arrest  thee  at  the  suit 
Of  count  Orsino. 

Ant.  You  do  mistake  me,  sir. 

1  Off.  No,  sir,  no  jot ;  I  know  your  favour  well, 
Though  now  you  have  no  sea-cap  on  your  head. 
Take  him  away ;  he  knows  I  know  him  well. 

Ant.  I  must  obey. — This  comes  with  seeking 
you ; 
But  there  's  no  remedy ;  I  shall  answer  it. 
What  will  you  do  ?     Now  my  necessity 
Makes  me  to  ask  you  for  my  purse :  It  giieves  me 
Much  more,  for  what  I  cannot  do  for  you. 
Than  wnat  befols  myself     You  stand  amaz'd  ; 
But  be  of  comfort. 

2  Off.  Come,  sir,  away. 

Ant.  I  must  entreat  of  you  some  of  that  money. 

Vio.  Wliat  money,  sir  ? 
For  the  fair  kindness  you  have  show'd  me  here. 
And,  part,  being  prompted  by  your  present  trouble. 
Out  of  my  lean  and  low  ability 
I  '11  lend  you  something :  my  having  is  not  much ; 
I  '11  make  division  of  my  present  with  you  : 
Hold,  there  's  half  my  coffer. 

Ant.  Will  you  deny  me  now  ? 

Is  't  possible  that  my  deserts  to  you 
Can  lack  persuasion  ?     Do  not  tempt  my  miscrj'. 
Lest  that  it  make  me  so  unsound  a  man 
As  to  upbraid  you  with  those  kindnesses 
That  I  have  done  for  you. 

Vio.  I  know  of  none  ; 

Nor  know  I  you  by  voice,  or  any  feature  : 
I  hate  ingratitude  more  in  a  man 
Than  lying,  vainness,  babbling,  drunkenness, 
Or  any  taint  of  ^ice,  whose  strong  corruption 
Inhabits  our  fi'ail  blood. 

Ant.  O  heavens  themselves  ! 

2  Off.  Come,  sir,  I  pray  you,  go. 

Ant.  Let  me  speak  a  little.     This  youth  that 
you  see  here, 

fi61 


ACT    W 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


SCEKE    1. 


I  snatcli'd  one  half  out  of  ths  jaws  of  death  ; 
Reliev'd  him  -nnth  such  sanctity  of  love, — 
And  to  his  image,  which  methought  did  promise 
Most  venerable  worth,  did  I  devotion. 

1  Off.  What 's  that  to  us  ?    The  time  goes  by ; 
away. 

Ant.  But,  O,  how  vild  an  idol  proves  this  god ! — 
Thou  hast,  Sebastian,  done  good  feature  shame. — 
In  nature  there 's  no  blemish  but  the  mind  ; 
None  can  be  call'd  deform'd  but  the  unkind. 
Virtue  is  beauty ;  but  the  beauteous  evil 
Are  empty  trunks,  o'erflourish'd  by  the  devil. 

1  Of.  The  man  grows  mad ;  away  with  him. 
Come,  come,  sir. 

Ant.  Lead  me  on.     [Sxeunt  Officers  with  Ant. 

Vio.  Methinks,  his  words  do  from  such  passion  fly, 
That  he  believes  himself;  so  do  not  L 
Prove  true,  imagination,  O,  prove  true. 
That  I,  dear  brother,  be  now  ta'en  for  you  1 

Sir  To.  Come  hither,  knight ;  come  hither, 
Fabian ;  we  'II  whisper  o'er  a  couplet  or  two  of 
Diost  sage  saws. 


Vio.  He  nam'd  Sebastian  ;  I  my  brother  know 
Yet  living  in  my  glass ;  even  such,  and  so. 
In  favour  was  my  brother,  and  he  went 
Still  in  this  fashion,  colour,  ornament. 
For  him  I  imitate.     O,  if  it  prove, 
Tempests  are  kind,  and  salt  waves  fi'esh  in  love ! 

[Hxit. 

Sir  To.  A  very  dishonest  paltry  boy,  and  more 
a  coward  than  a  hare :  his  dishonesty  appeal's  in 
leaving  his  friend  here  in  necessity,  and  denying 
him ;  and  for  his  cowardship  ask  Fabian. 

Fab.  A  coward,  a  most  devout  coward,  reli- 
gious in  it. 

Sir  And.  'Slid,  I  '11  after  him  again,  and  beat 
him. 

Sir  To.  Do,  cuff  him  soundly,  but  never  draw 
thy  sword. 

Sir  And.  An  I  do  not, —  \I!.rit. 

Fah.  Come,  let 's  see  the  event. 

Sir  To.  I  dare  lay  any  money  't  will  be  nothing 
yet.  \Exeui\t. 


ACT   lY. 


SCENE  I.— The  Street  hefyre  Olivia's  House. 

Fnter  Sebastian  avd  Clown. 

C'fo.  WiU  you  make  me  believe  that  I  am  not 

sent  for  you  3 

Seb.  Go  to,  go  to,  thou  art  a  foolish  fellow ; 
Let  me  be  clear  of  thee. 

Clo.  Well  held  out^  i'  faith  1  No,  I  do  not  know 
you ;  nor  I  am  not  sent  to  you  by  my  lady,  to  bid 
you  come  speak  with  her ;  nor  your  name  is  not 
master  Cesario ;  nor  this  is  not  my  nose  neither. — 
Nothing  that  is  so,  is  so. 

Seb.  I  prithee  vent  thy  folly  somewhere  else : 
Thou  know'st  not  me. 

Clo.  Vent  my  folly  !  ho  has  heard  that  word  of 
some  great  m:m,  and  now  applies  it  to  a  fool. 
Vent  my  folly  !  I  am  afraid  this  great  lubber  the 
world  will  prove  a  cockney.^* — I  prithee  now, 
UDgird  thy  strangeness,  and  tell  me  what  I  shall 
vent  to  my  lady  ;  sha'.l  I  vent  to  her  tk»t  thou 
an  coming  J 
S62 


Seb.  I  prithee,  foolish  Greet,  depart  from  me ; 
There  's  money  for  thee  ;  if  you  tarry  longer 
I  shall  give  worse  payment. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  thou  hast  an  open  hand  : — 
These  wise  men  that  give  fools  money  get  them- 
selves a  good  report  after  fourteen  years  pur- 
chase.^' 

Enter  Sir  Andrew,  Sir  Toby,  and  Fabian. 

Sir  And.  Now,  sir,  have  I  met  you  again  ? 
there  's  for  you.  [Striking  Sebastian. 

Seb.  Why,  there  's  for  thee,  and   fhere,  and 
there : 
Are  all  the  people  mad  3      [Beating  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  To.  Hold,  sir,  or  I  '11  throw  your  dagger 
o'er  the  houoe. 

Clo.  This  will  I  tell  my  lady  straight :  I  would 
not  be  in  some  of  your  coats  for  twopence.     [Exit. 

Sir  To.  Come  on,  sir ;  hold.         [Holding  Seb. 

Sir  And.  Nay,  let  him  alone,  I  '11  go  another 
way  to  work  with  him  ;  I  '11  have  an  action  of 


ACT    IV. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


battery  against  him,  if  there  be  auy  law  in  lUyria ; 
though  1  struck  him  first,  yet  it's  no  matter  for 
that. 

Seb.  Let  go  thy  hand. 

Sir  To.  Come,  sir,  I  will  not  let  you  go.  Come, 
my  young  soldier,  put  up  your  iron  :  you  are  well 
fleshed ;  come  on. 

f>eb.  I  will  be  free  from  thee.     What  wouldst 
thou  now  ? 
If  thou  dar'st  tempt  me  further,  draw  thy  sword. 

[Draws. 
Sir  To.  Wliat,  what  ?     Nay,  then  I  must  have 
an  ounce  or  two  of  this  malapert  blood  from  you. 

[Draws. 

Enter  Olivia. 

Oli.  Hold,  Toby ;   on  thy  life,  I  charge  thee, 
hold. 

Sir  To.  Madam  ? 

Oli.  Will  it  be  ever  thus  ?    Ungracious  wretch. 
Fit  for  the  mountains  and  the  barbarous  caves, 
Where  manners  ne'er  were  preach'd !  out  of  my 

sight ! 
Be  not  offended,  dear  Cesario  ! — 
Rudesby,  begone  ! — I  prithee,  gentle  friend, 

[Exeunt  Sir  To.,  Sir  And.,  and  Fab. 
Let  thy  fair  wisdom,  not  thy  passion,  sway 
In  this  uncivil  and  unjust  extent* 
Against  thy  peace.     Go  with  me  to  my  house  ; 
And  hear  thou  there  how  many  fruitless  pranks 
This  ruffian  hath  botch'd  up,  that  thou  thereby 
Mayst  smile  at  this  :  thou  shalt  not  choose  but  go ; 
Do  not  deny.     Beshrew  his  soul  for  me, 
He  started  one  poor  heart  of  mine  in  thee. 

Seb.  What   relish   is  in  this  ?   how   runs   the 
stream  3  , 

Or  I  am  mad,  or  else  this  is  a  dream  : 
Let  fancy  still  my  sense  in  Lethe  steep  ; 
K  it  be  thus  to  dream,  still  let  me  sleep ! 

Oli.  Nay,  come,  I  prithee :   'Would  thou  'dst 
be  rul'd  by  me  ! 

Seh.  Madam,  I  will. 

Oli,  O,  say  so,  and  so  be  !       [Exeunt. 

SCENE  H.—A  Room  in  Olivia's  House. 

Enter  Maria  and  Clown. 

Ma".  Nay,  I  prithee  put  on  this  gown,  and  this 
beard  make  him  believe  thou  art  sir  Topas  the 
curate  ,  do  it  quickly  :  I  '11  call  sir  Toby  the 
whilst.  [Exit  Maria. 

Clo.  Well,  I  '11  put  it  on,  and  I  will  dissemble 


myself  in  't;  and  I  wou!d  I  were  the  first  that 
ever  dissembled  in  such  a  gown.  I  am  not  tall 
enough  to  become  the  function  well ;  nor  lean 
enough  to  be  thought  a  good  student :  but  to  be 
said,  an  honest  man,  and  a  good  -housekeeper,  goes 
as  fairly,  as  to  say,  a  careful  man,  and  a  gieat 
scholar.    The  competitors  enter. 

Enter  Sir  Toby  Belch  and  Maria. 

Sir  To.  Jove  bless  thee,  master  parson. 

Clo.  Bonos  dies,  sir  Toby  :  for  as  the  old  hemiil 
of  Prague,  that  never  saw  pen  and  ink,  very  wit- 
tily said  to  a  niece  of  king  Gorboduc,  "  That  that 
is,  is :"  so  I,  being  master  parson,  am  master 
parson :  For  what  is  that,  but  that  ?  and  is, 
but  is? 

Sir  To.  To  him,  sir  Topas. 

Clo.  What,  hoa,  I  say, — Peace  in  this  prison  ! 

Sir  To.  The  knave  counterfeits  well ;  a  good 
knave. 

Mai.  [in  an  inner  chamber.^    Who  calls  there  ? 

Clo.  Sir  Topas  the  curate,  who  comes  to  visit 
Malvolio  the  lunatic. 

Mai.  Sir  Topas,  sir  Topas,  good  sir  Topas,  go  to 
my  lady. 

Clo.  Out,  hyperbolical  fiend  !  how  vexest  thou 
this  man  !  talkest  thou  nothing  but  of  ladies  ? 

Sir  To.  Well  said,  master  parson. 

Mai.  Sir  Topas,  never  was  man  thus  wronged  : 
good  sir  Topas,  do  not  think  I  am  mad  ;  they 
have  laid  me  here  in  hideous  darkness. 

Clo.  Fie,  thou  dishonest  Sathan !  I  call  thee  by 
the  most  modest  terms ;  for  I  am  one  of  those 
gentle  ones  that  will  use  the  devil  himself  ■B'ith 
courtesy.     Say'st  thou,  that  house  is  dark  3 

Mai.  As  hell,  sir  Topas. 

Clo.  Why  it  hath  bay-windows,^'  transparent 
as  barricadoes,  and  the  clear  stones  towards  the 
south-north  are  as  lustrous  as  ebony ;  and  yet 
complainest  thou  of  obstruction  ? 

Mai.  I  am  not  mad,  sir  Topas ;  I  say  to  you, 
this  house  is  dark. 

Clo.  Madman,  thou  errest :  I  say,  there  is  no 
darkness  but  ignorance  ;  in  which  thou  art  more 
puzzled  than  the  Egyptians  in  their  fog 

Mai.  I  say,  this  house  is  as  dark  as  ignorance, 
though  ignorance  were  as  dark  as  hell ;  and  I  say, 
there  was  never  man  thus  abused  :  I  am  no  more 
mad  than  you  are  ;  make  the  trial  of  it  in  any 
constant  question. 

Clo.  What  is  the  opinion  of  I'ythagoras  con- 
ceruing  wild-fowl  ? 

663 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


BCKNE   III. 


Mai.  That  the  soul  of  our  grandam  might  haply 
inhabit  a  bird. 

Clo.  What  thinkest  thou  of  his  opinion  ? 

Mai.  I  think  nobly  of  the  soul,  and  no  -way 
approve  his  opinion. 

Clo.  Fare  thee  well :  Remain  thou  still  in 
darkness :  Thou  shalt  hold  the  opinion  of  Pytha- 
goras, ere  I  will  allow  of  thy  wits  ;  and  fear  to 
kill  a  woodcoclc,  lest  tliou  dispossess  the  soul  of 
thy  gi-andani.     Fare  thee  well. 

Mai.  Sir  Topas,  sir  Topas, — 

Sir  To.  My  most  exquisite  sir  Topas ! 

Clo.  Nay,  I  am  for  all  waters. 

Mar.  Thou  mightest  have  done  this  without 
thy  beard  and  gown  ;  he  sees  thee  not. 

Sir  To.  To  him  in  thine  own  voice,  and  bring 
me  word  how  thou  findest  him  :  I  would  we  were 
well  rid  of  this  knavery.  If  he  may  be  conve- 
niently delivered,  I  would  he  were ;  for  I  am  now 
BO  fiir  in  offence  with  my  niece,  that  I  cannot 
pursue  with  any  safety  this  sport  to  the  upshot. 
Come  by  and  by  to  my  chamber. 

[Exeunt  Sir  Toby  and  Maria. 

Clo.  "  Hey  Robin,  Jolly  Robin,* 

Tell  me  how  thy  lady  does."      [Singing. 

Mai.  Fool, — 

Clo.  "  My  lady  is  unkind,  perdy." 

Mai.  Fool, — 

Clo.  "  Alas,  why  is  she  so  ?" 

Mai.  Fool,  I  say  ; — 

Clo.  "  She  loves  another"— Who  calls,  ha  ? 

Mai.  Good  fool,  as  ever  thou  wilt  deserve  well 
at  my  hand,  help  me  to  a  candle,  and  pen,  ink, 
and  paper  ;  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  will  live  to  be 
thankful  to  thee  for  't. 

Clo.  Master  Malvolio ! 

Mai.  Ay,  good  fool. 

Clo.  Alas,  sir,  how  fell  you  besides  your  five 
wits  ? 

Mai.  Fool,  there  was  never  man  so  notoriously 
abused  :  I  am  as  well  in  my  wits,  fool,  as  thou 
art. 

Clo.  But  as  well  ?  then  you  are  mad,  indeed,  if 
you  be  no  better  in  your  wits  than  a  fool. 

Mai.  They  hav«  here  propertied  me ;  keep  me 
ra  darknerjs,  send  ministers  to  me,  asses,  and  do  all 
they  can  to  face  me  out  of  my  wits. 

Clo.  Ad\-ise  you  what  you  say ;  the  n^nister  is 
here. — Malvolio,  Malvolio,  thy  wits  the  heavens 
restore  1  endeavour  thyself  to  sleep,  and  leave  thy 
rain  bibblc-babble."' 

Mai.  Sir  Topas, 

Bfl4 


Clo.  Maintain  no  words  with  him,  good  fellow 
— Who,  I,  sir  ?  not  I,  sir.  God  b'  wi'  you,  good 
sir  Topas. — Marry,  amen. —  I  will,  sir,  I  will. 

Mai.  Fool,  fool,  fool,  I  s:\y, — 

Clo.  Alas,  sir,  be  patient.    What  say  you,  sn- 
I  am  shent  for  speaking  to  you. 

Mai.  Good  fool,  help  me  to  some  light,  and  sou  e 
paper ;  I  tell  thee,  I  am  as  well  in  my  wits  as  any 
man  in  Illyria. 

Clo.  Well-a-day,  that  you  were,  sir  1 

Mai.  By  this  hand,  I  am  :  Good  fool,  some  ink, 
paper,  and  light,  and  convey  what  I  will  set  down 
to  my  lady;  it  shall  advantage  thee  more  than 
ever  the  bearing  of  letter  did. 

Clo.  I  will  help  you  to  't.  But  tell  me  true, 
are  you  not  mad  indeed  ?  or  do  you  but  coun- 
terfeit ? 

Mai.  Believe  me,  I  am  not ;  I  tell  thee  true. 

Clo.  Nay,  I  '11  ne'er  believe  a  madman,  till  I 
see  his  brains.  I  will  fetch  you  light,  and  paper 
and  ink. 

Mai.  Fool,  I  '11  requite  it  iu  the  highest  degree 

I  prithee,  be  gone. 

Clo.  I  am  gone,  sir. 

And  anon,  sir, 
I  'U  be  T\ith  you  agiiin, 

In  n  trice. 

Like  to  the  old  vice. 
Your  need  to  sustain ; 

Who  with  dagger  of  latli," 
In  his  rage  and  his  wrath, 

Cries  ah,  ali  1  to  the  devil : 
Like  a  mad  lad, 
Pare  thy  nails,  dad, 

Adieu,  goodman  devil.  [Enl 

SCENE  ni.— Olivia's  Garden. 

Enter  Sebastian. 

Seh.  This  is  the  air  ;  that  is  the  glorious  sun  : 
This  peari  she  gave  me,  I  do  feel 't,  and  see  't : 
And  though  't  is  wonder  that  enwraps  me  thus, 
Yet 't  is  not  madness.     Where  's  Antonio  then  ? 
I  could  not  find  him  at  the  Elephant : 
Yet  there  ho  was ;  and  there  I  found  this  credit. 
That  ho  did  range  the  town  to  seek  me  out. 
His  counsel  now  might  do  me  golden  service  : 
For  though  my  soul  disputes  well  with  my  sense, 
That  this  may  be  some  error,  but  no  madness. 
Yet  doth  this  accident  and  flood  of  fortune 
So  far  exceed  all  instance,  all  discouree, 
Tiiat  I  am  ready  to  di.strust  mine  eyes. 
And  wTanglo  with  my  reason,  that  persuades  mo 


ACT    V. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


SCENE    I. 


To  auy  otlier  trust,  but  that  I  am  mad, 
Or  else  the  lady  's  mad  ;  yet,  if 't  were  so, 
Slie  could  not  sway  her  Louse,  command  her  fol- 
lowers. 
Take  and  give  back  affairs,  and  their  despatch, 
With  such  a  smooth,  discreet,  and  stable  bearinr^. 
As,  I  perceive,  she  does :  there  's  something  in  't 
That  is  deceivable.    But  here  the  lady  comes. 

Enter  Olivia  and  a  Priest. 

OIL  Blame  not  this  baste  of  mine :  If  you  mean 
well. 
Now  go  with  me,  and  with  this  holy  mau, 
Into  the  chantiy  by ;  there,  before  him, 


And  underneath  that  consecrated  roof. 
Plight  mo  the  full  jissurance  of  your  faith; 
That  my  most  jealous  and  too  doubtful  soul 
May  live  at  peace :  He  shall  conceal  it. 
Whiles  you  are  willing  it  shall  come  to  note, 
What  time  we  will  our  celebration  keep 
According  to  my  birth, — What  do  you  say  ? 
Sd).  I  '11  follow  this  good  man,  and  go  with 
ycu; 
Ajid,  having  sworn  trath,  ever  will  be  true. 

OIL   Then   lead   the  way,  good  father  : — And 
heavens  so  shine. 
That  they  may  fairly  note  this  act  of  mine. 

[Exeurd. 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  I.— The  Street  before  01i\ia's  House. 
Enter  Clown  and  Fadiajt. 

Fab.  Now,  as  thou  lov'st  me,  let  me  see  his 
letter. 

Clo.  Good  master  Fabian,  grant  me  another 
request. 

Fab.  Anything. 

Clo.  Do  not  desire  to  see  this  letter. 

Fab.  This  is,  to  give  a  dog,  and  in  recompense 
desire  ray  dog  again. 

Enter  Duke,  Viola,  and  Attendants. 

Duke.  Belong  you  to  the  lady  Oliria,  friends  ? 

Clo.  Ay,  sir;  we  are  some  of  her  trappings. 

Duke.  I  know  thee  well :  How  dost  thou,  my 
good  fellow  ? 

Clo.  Trul}',  sir,  the  better  for  my  foes,  and  the 
wc^rse  for  my  friends. 

Duke.  Just  the  contrary ;  the  better  for  thy 
fiiends. 

Clo.  No,  sir,  the  worse. 

Duke.  How  can  that  be  ? 

Clo.  MaiTy,  sir,  they  praise  me,  and  make  an 
ass  of  mo ;  now  my  foes  tell  mo  plainly  I  am  an 
Hss :  so  that  by  my  foes,  sir,  I  profit  in  the  know- 
ledge of  myself;  and  by  my  fiiends  I  am  abused  : 
so  that,  conclusions  to  be  as  kisses,"  if  your  four 
negatives  make  your  two  affiiTnatives,  wliy,  then 


the  worse  for  my  friends  and  the  better  for  my 
foes. 

Duke.  ^Vhy,  this  is  excellent. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  sir,  no ;  though  it  please  you 
to  be  one  of  my  friends. 

Duke.   Thou  shalt  not  be  the  worse  for  me 
there  's  gold. 

Clo.  But  that  it  would  be  double  dealing,  sir,  I 
would  you  could  make  it  another. 

Duke.  O,  you  give  me  ill  counsel. 

Clo.  Put  your  grace  in  your  pocket,  sir,  for  this 
once,  and  let  your  flesh  and  blood  obey  it. 

Duke.  Well,  I  will  be  so  much  a  sinner  to  be  a 
double  dealer ;  there 's  another. 

Clo.  Primo,  secundo,  iertio,  is  a  good  play ;  and 
the  old  saying  is,  the  third  pays  for  all ;  the  trij>- 
lex,  sir,  is  a  good  tripping  measure ;  or  the  bells  of 
St.  Bennet,  sir,  may  put  you  in  mind  ;  One,  two 
three. 

Duke.  You  can  fool  no  more  money  out  of  me 
at  this  throw :  if  you  will  let  your  lady  know  1 
am  here  to  speak  with  her,  and  bring  her  along 
with  you,  it  may  awake  my  bounty  further. 

Clo.  Marrj-,  sir,  lullaby  to  your  bounty,  till  1 
come  again.  I  go,  sir ;  but  I  would  not  have  you 
to  think  that  my  desire  of  having  is  the  sin  ol 
covetousness ;  but,  as  you  say,  sir,  let  your  bounty 
take  a  nap,  I  will  awake  it  anon. 

[Exit  Clown. 
666 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


sc3ini  I. 


Enter  Antonio  and  Officers. 

Vio.  Here  comes  the  man,  sir,  that  did  rescue 

me. 
Duke.  That  face  of  his  I  do  remember  well ; 
i'et  when  I  saw  it  last,  it  was  besmear'd 
As  black  as  Vulcan,  in  the  smoke  of  war : 
A  bawbling  vessel  was  he  captain  of. 
For  shallow  draught,  and  bulk,  unprizable ; 
With  which  such  scathftiP'  grapple  did  he  make 
With  the  most  noble  bottom  of  our  fleet, 
That  very  envy,  and  the  tongue  of  loss. 
Cried   fame  and   honour  on   him. — What  's  the 

matter  ? 
1  Off.  Orsino,  this  is  that  Antonio 
That   took  the   Phcenix,   and    her   fraught,  from 

Candy; 
And  this  is  he  that  did  the  Tiger  board. 
When  your  young  nephew  Titus  lost  his  leg: 
Here  in  the  streets,  desperate  of  shame  and  state. 
In  private  brabble  did  we  apprehend  him. 

Vlo.  He  did  me  kindness,  sir ;  drew  on  my  side. 
But,  in  conclusion,  put  strange  speech  upon  me. 
I  know  not  what 't  was,  but  distraction. 

Duke.  Notable  pirate !  thou  salt-water  thief ! 
What    foolish    boldness    brought    thee    to   their 

mercies. 
Whom  thou,  in  terms  so  bloody,  and  so  dear. 
Hast  made  thine  en'^mies  ? 

Ant.  Oreino,  Tioble  sir. 

Be  pleas'd  that  I  shake  off  these  names  you  give 

me: 
Antonio  never  yet  was  thief,  or  pirate. 
Though,  I  confess,  on  base  and  gTound  enough, 
Orsiuo's  enemy.     A  witchcraft  drew  me  hither: 
That  most  ingrateful  boy  there,  by  your  side, 
From  the  rude  sea's  enrag'd  and  foamy  mouth 
Did  I  redeem ;  a  wreck  past  hope  he  was : 
His  life  I  gave  him,  and  did  thereto  add 
My  love,  without  retention  or  restraint, 
All  his  in  dedication :  for  his  sake, 
1)1(1  I  expose  myself,  pure  for  his  love. 
Into  the  datigf^r  of  this  adverse  town  ; 
L)r(;w  to  defend  him  when  ho  was  beset; 
Where  being  apprehended,  his  false  cunning, 
(Not  meaning  to  partake  with  me  in  danger,) 
Taught  him  to  face  me  out  of  his  acquaintance. 
And  grew  a  twenty-yeai-s-removed  thing. 
While  one  would  wink  ;    denied  mo  mine  own 

purse, 
Which  I  had  recommended  to  his  use 
Not  half  an  hour  before. 
666 


Vio.  How  can  this  be  ? 

Duke.  When  came  he  to  this  town  ? 

Ant.  To-day,  my  lordf  and  for  three  monthf 
before, 
(No  interim,  not  a  minute's  vacancy,) 
Both  day  and  night  did  we  keep  company. 

Enter  Olivia  and  Attendants. 

Duke.  Here  comes  the  countess;  now  heaven 
walks  on  earth. — 
But  for  thee,  fellow,  fellow,  thy  words  are  madness : 
Three  months  this  youth  hath  tended  upon  me ; 
But  more  of  that  anon. — Take  him  aside. 

on.  What  would  my  lord,  but  that  he  may  not 
have. 
Wherein  Olivia  may  seem  serviceable  ? — 
Cesario,  you  do  not  keep  promise  with  me. 

Vio.  Madam? 

Dvke.  Gracious  01i\na, — 

OH.   MTiat  do  you  say,  Cesario  ? — Good  my 
lord, — 

Vio.  !Mv  lord  would  speak,  my  duty  hu;hes  me. 

Oli.  If  it  be  aught  to  the  old  tune,  my  lord. 
It  is  as  f^it  and  fulsome  to  mine  ear 
As  howliug  after  music. 

Duke.  Still  so  cruel  1 

OH.  Still  so  constant,  lord. 

Duke.  What !  to  perverseness  ?  you  unciWl  lady, 
To  whose  ingi'fite  and  unauspicious  altare 
My  soul    the    faithfull'st   oflerings    hath   breatliM 

out. 
That  e'er  devotion  tender'd !  Wliat  shall  I  do  ? 

Oli.  Even  what  it  please  my  lord,  that  shall  be- 
come him. 

Duke.  Why  should  I  not,  had  I  the  heart  to 
do  it. 
Like  to  the  Eg}'ptian  thief,  at  point  of  death. 
Kill  what  I  love ;"  a  savage  jealousy. 
That  sometime  savours  nobly? — But  hear  me  this: 
Since  you  to  non-regardance  cast  my  faith, 
And  that  I  partly  know  the  instrument 
That  screws  me  from  my  true  place  in  your  favour. 
Live  you,  the  marble-breasted  tyrant,  still; 
But  this  your  minion,  whom  I  know  you  love. 
And  whom,  by  heaven  I  swear,  I  tender  dearly, 
Him  will  I  tear  out  of  that  cruel  eye. 
Where  he  sits  crowned  in  his  m;ister's  spite 
Come,  boy,  with  me ;    my  thoughts  are   ripe   iu 

mischief ; 
I  '11  sacrifice  the  lamb  that  I  do  love. 
To  spite  a  raven's  heart  within  a  dove.        \Going. 
Vio.  And  I,  most  iocmd,  apt,  and  will.ngly, 


ACT   V. 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


BCENFC   I. 


To  do  you  rest,  a  thousand  deaths  would  die. 

[Followinff. 

Oil.  Where  goes  Cesario  3 

Vio.  After  him  I  love, 

M(<re  than  I  love  these  eyes,  more  than  my  life, 
M<ire,  by  all  mores,  than  e'er  I  shall  love  wife  : 
If  I  do  feign,  you  witnesses  above, 
Punish  my  life  for  tainting  of  my  love  ! 

OH.  Ah  me,  detested  !  how  am  I  beguil'd  ! 

Vio.  Who  does  beguile  you  ?  who  does  do  you 
wrong  ? 

Oli.  Hast  thou  forgot  thyself?  Is  it  so  long? 
Call  forth  the  holy  father.        [Exit  an  Attendant. 

Duke.  Come  away.  [To  Viola. 

Oli.  Wliither,  my  lord  ?  Cesario,  husband,  stay. 

Duke.  Husband? 

Oli.  Ay,  husband,  can  he  that  deny  ? 

Duke,  ller  husband,  sirrah  ? 

Vio:  No,  my  lord,  not  I. 

Oli.  Alas,  it  is  the  baseness  of  thy  fear 
That  makes  thee  strangle  thy  propriety  : 
Fear  not,  Cesario,  take  thy  fortunes  up  : 
Bo  that    thou  know'st    thou  art,  and  then  thou 

art 
As  great  as  that  thou  fear'st. — O,  welcome,  father ! 

Re-enter  Attendant  and  Priest. 

Father,  I  charge  thee,  by  thy  reverence, 
Here  to  unfold  (though  lately  we  intended 
To  keep  in  darkness  what  occasion  now 
Ueveals  before  't  is  ripe)  what  thou  dost  know. 
Hath  newly  pass'd  between  this  youth  and  me. 

Priest.  A  contract  of  eternal  bond  of  love, 
Confirm'd  by  mutual  joinder  of  your  hands. 
Attested  by  the  holy  close  of  lips, 
Strengthen'd  by  interchangement  of  your  rings  ; 
And  all  the  ceremony  of  this  compact 
SealVl  in  my  function,  by  my  testimony  : 
Since  when,  my  watch  hath  told  me,  toward  my 

grave 
I  have  travell'd  but  two  hours. 

Duke.  0,  thou  dissembling  cub  !  what  wilt  thou 

.    ^'' 
When  time  hath  sow'd  a  grizzle  on  thy  case  V* 

Or  will  not  else  thy  craft  so  quickly  grow, 

That  thine  own  trip  shall  be  thine  overthrow  ? 

Fai-cwoll,  and  take  her  ;  but  direct  thy  feet 

Where  thou  and  I  henceforth  may  never  meet. 

Vio.  My  lord,  I  do  protest, — 

Oli.  0,  do  not  swear ; 

Hold    little    faith,    though    thou   hast   too  much 

fear 


Enter  Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek,  mth  his  head 
broken. 

Sir  And.  For  the  love  of  God,  a  surgeon  ;  send 
one  presently  to  sir  Toby. 

OIL  Wliat  's  the  matter  ? 

Sir  And.  He  has  broke  my  head  across,  and 
has  given  sir  Toby  a  bloody  coxcomb  too  :  for  the 
love  of  God,  your  help ;  I  had  rather  than  forty 
pound  I  were  at  home. 

Oli.  Who  has  done  this,  sir  Andrew  ? 

Sir  And.  The  count's  gentleman,  one  Cesario  : 
we  took  him  for  a  coward,  but  he  's  the  very  devil 
incardinate. 

Duke.  My  gentleman,  Cesario  ? 

Sir  And.  Od's  lifelings,  here  he  is  : — You  broke 
my  head  for  nothing ;  and  that  that  I  did,  I  was 
set  on  to  do  't  by  sir  Toby. 

Vio.  Why  do  you  speak  to  me  ?     I  never  hurt 
you : 
You  drew  your  sword  upon  me  without  cause ; 
But  I  bespake  you  fair,  and  hurt  you  not. 

Sir  And.  If  a  bloody  coxcomb  be  a  hurt,  you 
have  hurt  me ;  I  think  you  set  nothing  by  a 
bloody  coxcomb. 

Enter  Sir  Tobt  BELCn,  drunk,  led  hy  the  Clown. 

Here  comes  sir  Toby  halting,  you  shall  hear  more: 
but  if  he  had  not  been  in  drink,  he  would  have 
tickled  you  othergates  than  he  did. 

Duke.  How  now,  gentleman  ?  how  is  't  with 
you  ? 

Sir  To.  That 's  all  one ;  he  has  hurt  me,  and 
there  's  the  end  on  't. — Sot,  didst  see  Dick  surgeon, 
sot? 

Clo.  0,  he  's  drunk,  sir  Toby,  an  hour  agone  ; 
his  eyes  were  set  at  eight  i'  the  morning. 

Sir  To.  Then  he  's  a  rogue  and  a  passy  measures 
pavin  ; "  I  hate  a  drunken  rogue. 

Oli.  Away  with  him  :  Who  hath  made  this 
havoc  with  them  ? 

Sir  And.  I  '11  help  you,  sir  Toby,  because  we  'II 
be  dressed  together. 

Sir  To.  Will  you  help  an  a,ss-head,  and  a  cox- 
comb, and  a  knave?  a  thin-faced  knave,  a  gull  ? 

Oli.  Get  him  to  bed,  and  let  his  hurt  be  look'd 
to.  [Exeunt  Clown,  Sir  To.,  and  Sir  Antd. 

Enter  Sebastian. 

Seh.   I   am   sorry,  madam,  I  have  hurt  yoni 
kinsman ; 
But  had  it  been  the  brother  of  my  blood, 

S67 


ACT  V.                                                 TWELFTH  NIGHT.                                              kce.nb  i. 

I  must  liave  done  no  less,  with  wit,  and  safety. 

Hath  been  between  this  lady  and  this  lord. 

You  throw  a  strange  regard  upon  me,  and  by  that 

Seb.  So  comes  it,  lady,  you  have  been  mistook  : 

I  do  perceive  it  hath  offended  you  ; 

\To  Olivia. 

Pardon  me,  sweet  one,  even  for  the  vows 

But  nature  to  her  bias  drew  in  that. 

We  made  each  other  but  so  late  ago. 

You  would  have  been  contracted  to  a  maid ; 

Bnl-e.  One  face,  one  voice,  one  habit,  and  two 

Nor  are  you  therein,  by  my  hfe,  deceiv'd. 

persons ; 

You  are  betroth'd  both  to  a  maid  and  man. 

A  natural  perspective,  that  is,  and  is  not. 

Duke.  Be  not  amaz'd;  right  noble  is  his  blood. — 

Scb.  Antonio,  0  my  dear  Antonio  ! 

K  this  be  so,  as  yet  the  glass  seems  true. 

How  have  the  hours  rack'd  and  tortur'd  me, 

I  shall  have  share  in  this  most  happy  wreck : 

Since  I  have  lost  thee  ! 

Boy,  thou  hast  said  to  me  a  thousand  times. 

Ant.  Sebastian  are  you  ? 

[To  Viola. 

Scb.                 Fear'st  thou  that,  Antonio  ? 

Thou  never  shouldst  love  woman  like  to  me. 

Ant.  How  have  you  made  division  of  yourself  ? — 

Vio.  And  all  those  sayings  will  I  over-swear ; 

An  apple,  cleft  in  two,  is  not  more  twin 

And  all  those  swearings  keep  as  ti-ue  in  soul, 

Than  these  two  creatures.     Which  is  Sebastian  ? 

As  doth  that  orbed  continent  the  fire 

on.  Most  wonderful ! 

That  severs  day  from  night. 

Seh.  Do  I  stand  there  ?  I  never  had  a  brother  : 

Dul-c.                       Give  me  thy  hand  ; 

Nor  can  there  be  that  deity  in  my  nature, 

And  let  me  see  thee  in  thy  woman's  weeds. 

Of  here  and  everywhere.     I  had  a  sister, 

Vio.  The  captain,  that  did  bring  me  fii-st  on 

Whom   the   blind   waves   and   surges   have   de- 

shore, 

vour'd  : — • 

Hath  my  maid's  garments  :  he,  upon  some  action, 

Of  charity,  what  kin  are  you  to  me  ?     \To  Viola. 

Is  now  in  durance  ;  at  Malvolio's  suit. 

What  countiynian  ?  what  name  ?  what  parentage  ? 

A  gentleman,  and  follower  of  my  lady's. 

Vio.  Of  Alessaline  :  Sebastian  was  my  father  ; 

Oli.  He  shall  enlarge  him  : — Fetch  Maivolio 

Such  a  Sebastian  was  my  brother  too  ; 

hither  : — 

So  went  he  suited  to  his  watery  tomb  : 

And  yet,  alas,  now  I  remember  me. 

If  spirits  can  assume  both  form  aud  suit, 

They  say,  poor  gentleman,  he  's  much  distract. 

You  come  to  fright  us. 

Seb.                   A  spirit  I  am,  indeed  : 

Re-enter  Clown,  with  a  letter. 

But  am  in  that  dimension  grossly  clad. 

A  most  exacting  frenzy  of  mine  own. 

Which  from  the  womb  I  did  participate. 

From  my  remembrance  clearly  banish"d  his. — 

Were  you  a  woman,  as  the  rest  goes  even, 

How  does  he,  sirrah  ? 

I  should  my  teaiB  let  fall  upon  your  cheek, 

Clo.  Truly,  madam,  he  holds  Belzebub  at  tho 

Aud  say — Thrice  welcome,  drowned  Viola. 

stave's  end,  as  well  as  a  man  in  his  case  may  do : 

Vio.  My  father  had  a  mole  upon  his  brow. 

ho  has  here  writ  a  letter  to  you ;  I  should  have 

Seb.  And  so  had  mine. 

given  it  you  to-day  morning,  but  as  a  madman's 

Vio.  And  died  that  day  wheu  Viola  from  her 

epistles  are  no  gospels,  so  it  skills  not  much  when 

birth 

they  are  delivered. 

Had  number'd  thiileen  years. 

OH.  Open  it,  and  read  it. 

Seb.  0,  that  record  is  lively  in  my  soul ! 

Clo.  Look  then  to  be  well  edified,  when  the 

Ho  finished,  indeed,  his  mortal  act, 

fool    delivere    the    madman  : — "  By    the    Lord, 

That  (lay  that  made  my  sister  thirteen  years. 

madam," — 

Vio.  If  nothing  lets  to  make  us  happy  both, 

Oli.  How  now,  art  thou  mad  ? 

But  this  rny  masculine  usurp'd  attire. 

Clo.  No,  madam,  I  do  but  read  madness  :  an 

Do  not  embrace  me,  till  each  circumstance 

your  lad3'ship  will  have  it  as  it  ought  to  be,  you 

Of  place,  time,  fortune,  do  cohere,  and  jumji, 

must  allow  vox. 

T'hat  I  am  Vi(j!a ;  which  to  confirm, 

OIL  Prithee,  read  i'  thy  right  wits. 

[  '11  bring  you  to  a  captain  in  this  town. 

Clo.  So  I  do,  madonna ;  but  to  road  his  right 

Where  lie  my  maiden  weeds ;  by  whose  gentle  help 

wits,  is   to   read    thus:    therefore    perpend,   my 

[  was  preserv'd,  to  serve  this  noble  count : 

princess,  and  give  ear. 

AU  the  occunence  of  my  fortune  since 

Oli.  Read  it  you,  sirrah.                   \To  FAniAN. 

£6S 

^          -     ■    ■■                                                                           "                                                               1 

ACT    V. 


TWELFTU  NIGHT. 


BCEKK    I. 


Fah.   [Rcadsi] 

"  By  tho  Lord,  madam,  you  %vroii?  me,  and  tlie  world 
shall  kuow  it :  thougla  you  have  put  mo  into  darkness,  and 
given  your  Jr mkcn  cousin  rule  over  mo,  yet  have  I  tho 
benefit  of  my  senses  as  well  as  your  ladyship.  I  have 
your  own  letter  that  induced  mo  to  the  semblanco  I  put 
on ;  with  tlio  which  I  doubt  not  but  to  do  myself  much 
fight,  or  you  nmch  shame.  Think  of  me  as  you  please.  I 
leavo  my  duty  a  little  unthought  of,  and  speak  out  of  my 
injury. 

The  MADLY-tJSED  Malvolio." 


Oli.  Did  be  write  this  ? 
Clo.  Ay  madam. 

Duke.  This  savors  not  much  of  distraction. 
Oli.    See   him   deliver'd,   Fabian  ;  bring   bim 
bither.  [^Exit  Fabian. 

My    lord,    so    please    you,   tbese   things  further 

thought  on, 
To  think  me  as  well  a  sister  as  a  wife ; 
One  day  shall  crown  tbo  alliance  on  't,  so  please 

you, 
Here  at  my  house,  and  at  my  proper  cost. 

Duke.  Madam,  I  am  most  apt  to  embrace  your 
ofler. 
Your  master  quits  you ;  [To  Viola]  and,  for  your 

service  done  him. 
So  m\ich  against  the  mettle  of  your  sex. 
So  far  beneath  your  soft  and  tender  breeding, 
And  since  you  call'd  me  master  for  so  long. 
Here  is  my  hand ;  you  shall  from  this  time  be 
Your  master's  mistress. 

Oli.  A  sister  ? — Y'ou  are  she. 

Se-enter  P'abian,  with  Mai.volio. 

Duke.  Is  this  the  madman  ? 

Oli.  Ay,  my  lord,  this  same  : 

How  now,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  Madam,  you  have  done  me  wrong. 

Notorious  wrong. 

Oli.  Have  I,  Malvolio  ?  no. 

Mai.  Lady,  you  have.     Pray  you,  peruse  that 
letter : 
You  must  not  now  deny  it  is  your  band  ; 
Write  from  it,  if  you  can,  in  hand,  or  pbr.ase ; 
Or  say,  't  is  not  your  seal,  nor  your  invention  : 
You  can  say  none  of  this  :    Well,  grant  it  then. 
And  tell  me,  in  the  modesty  of  honour. 
Why  you  have  given  me  such  clear  lights  of  favour; 
Bade  me  come  smiling  and  cross-garter'd  tc  you ; 
To  put  on  yellow  stockings,  and  to  frown 
Upon  sir  Toby  and  the  lighter  people  : 
And,  acting  this  in  an  obedient  hope, 


Why  have  you  suffer'd  me  to  be  imprison'd, 
Kept  in  a  dark  house,  visited  by  the  priest, 
And  made  the  most  notorious  geek''  and  gull 
That  e'er  invention  play'd  on  ?  tell  me  why 

Oli.  Alas,  Malvolio,  this  is  not  my  writing, 
Tliough,  I  confess,  much  like  the  character  : 
But,  out  of  question,  't  is  Maria's  hand. 
And  now  I  do  bethink  me,  it  was  she 
First  told  me  thou  wast  mad;  thou  cam'st  in 

smiling. 
And  in  such  forms  which  here  were  presuppos'd 
Upon  thee  in  the  letter.     Prithee,  be  content : 
This  practice  hath  most  shrewdly  pass'd  upon  thee  ; 
But,  when  we  know  the  grounds  and  authors  of  it, 
Thou  shalt  be  both  the  plaintiff  and  the  judge 
Of  tbine  own  cause. 

Fab.  Good  madam,  hear  me  speak ; 

And  let  no  quarrel,  nor  no  brawl  to  come, 
Taiut  the  condition  of  this  present  hour, 
Which  I  have  wonder'd  at     In  hope  it  shall  not. 
Most  freely  I  confess,  myself,  and  Toby, 
Set  this  device  against  Malvolio  here, 
Upon  some  stubborn  and  uncourteous  parts 
We  had  conceiv'd  against  him  :  Maria  writ 
The  letter,  at  sir  Toby's  great  importance ; 
In  recompense  whereof  he  hath  married  her. 
How  with  a  sportful  malice  it  w.is  follow'd, 
May  rather  pluck  on  laughter  than  revenge ; 
If  that  the  injuries  be  justly  weigh'd 
That  have  on  both  sides  pass'd. 

Oli.  Alas,  poor  fool  1   how  have  they  bafflea 
ihee ! 

Clo.  Why,  "  some  are  born  great,  some  achieve 
gi-eatness,  and  some  have  greatness  thrown  upon 
them."  I  was  one,  sir,  in  this  interlude ;  one  sir 
Topas,  sir ;  but  that 's  all  one  : — "  By  the  Lord, 
fool,  I  am  not  mad ;" — But  do  you  remember  ? 
"  Madam,  why  laugh  you  at  such  a  barren  rascal  i 
an  you  smile  not,  he  's  gagged :"  And  thus  the 
whirligig  of  Time  brings  in  his  revenges. 

Mai.  I  'II  be  revenged  on  the  whole  pack  of  you. 

[Exit. 

Oli.  He  bath  been  most  notoriously  abus'd. 

Duke.  Pursue  him,  and  entreat  him  to  a  peace : 
He  hath  not  told  us  of  the  captain  yet ; 
\Yhen  that  is  known,  and  golden  time  convents, 
A  solemn  combination  shall  be  made 
Of  our  dear  souls. — ^Meantime,  sweet  sister, 
We  will  not  part  fi-om  hence. — Cesario,  come ; 
For  so  you  shall  be  while  you  are  a  man  ; 
But,  when  in  other  habits  you  are  seen, 
Orsiiio's  mistress,  and  his  fancy's  queen.    [Exeunt. 

BGO 


TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


tiCBRE   I. 


SONG. 

By  swaggering  could  I  never  thrive, 

Clo.  When  that  I  was  and  a  little  tiny  boy, 

For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

But  when  I  came  unto  my  bed," 

A  foolish  thing  was  but  a  toy. 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

With  toss-pots  still  had  drunken  hend. 

For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  when  I  came  to  man's  estate. 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

A  great  while  ago  the  world  begun, 

'Gainst  knaves  and  thieves  men  shut  their  gate, 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  that 's  all  one,  our  play  is  done. 

But  wher.  I  came,  alas  I  to  wive 

And  wo  'U  strive  to  please  you  ovorj-  day. 

[Exft 

With  hoy,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

670 


lOTES  TO  TWELFTH  IIGHT, 


'  Mxxepi  iefore  excepttd. 

A  common  old  legal  phrase,  equivalent  to,  those  things 
being  excepted  which  were  before  excepted.  Mr.  Hunter 
nnnecessarily  proposes  to  introduce  the  word  as. 

Tali,  bold,  courageous. 

'  A  coyslril. 

A  coystril,  says  Toilet,  is  a  paltry  groom,  one  only  fit  to 
carry  arms,  but  not  to  use  them.  So,  in  Holinshed's 
Description  of  England,  vol.  i.  p.  162:  "  Coslcreh,  or 
bearers  of  the  armes  of  barons  or  knights."  Vol.  ili. 
p.  248:  "So  that  a  knight  with  his  esquire  and  coMrell 
with  his  two  horses."  p.  2/2 :  "  women  lackies,  and 
coieterels,  arc  considered  as  the  unwarliko  attendants  on  an 
army."  So  again,  in  p.  127,  and  p.  217,  of  his  History  of 
Scotland. 

*  Tui'n  I?'  the  toe  like  a  parish-top, 

A  large  top,  says  Steevens,  was  formerly  kept  in  every 
village,  to  be  whipped  in  frosty  weather,  that  the  peasants 
may  bo  kept  warm  by  exercise,  and  out  of  mischief,  while 
they  could  not  work.  The  same  comparison  is  brought 
forward  in  the  Night  AViilker  of  Fletcher. 

*  Like  misireta  Mall's  picture. 

The  following  particulars  respecting  "Mistress  Mall" 
are  extracted,  with  a  few  variations,  from  the  variorum 
editions.  The  real  name  of  the  woman  meant  by  Sir  Toby, 
was  Mary  Frith.  The  appellation  by  which  she  was  gene- 
rally known,  was  Mall  Cutpurse.  She  w.is  at  once  an 
hermaphrodite,  a  prostitute,  a  bawd,  a  bully,  a  thief,  a 
receiver  of  stolen  goods,  &c.  On  the  books  of  the 
Stationers'  Company,  August,  1610,  is  entered — "A  Booke 
called  the  Madde  Praneks  of  Merry  Mall  of  the  Bankside, 
with  her  Walks  in  Man's  App.irel,  and  to  what  Purpose. 
Written  by  John  Day."  Middleton  and  Decker  wrote  a 
comedy,  of  which  she  is  the  heroine.  In  this,  they  have 
given  a  very  flattering  representation  of  her,  as  they  observe 
in  their  preface,  that  "  it  is  the  excellency  of  a  writer,  to 
leave  things  better  than  he  finds  them." 

The  title  of  this  piece  is— "the  Eo.aring  Girl,  or  Moll 
Cutpurse ;  as  it  hath  been  lately  acted  on  the  Fortune 
Stage,  by  the  Prince  his  Pl.iyers,"  1611.  The  Frontispiece 
to  It  contains  a  full  length  of  her  in  man's  clothes,  smoking 
tobacco.  Nathaniel  Field,  in  liis  Amends  for  Ladies, 
(another  comedy,  1618,)  gives  the  following  character 
of  her: 

-"  Hence,  lewd  impudent. 


I  know  not  what  to  term  thee  ;  man  or  woman ; 


For  nature,  B.iaming  to  acknowledge  theo 
For  either,  hath  produc'd  tliec  to  the  world 
W'ithout  a  sex :  Some  say,  that  thou  art  woman ; 
Others,  a  man  :  to  many  thou  art  both 
Woman  and  man  ;  but  I  think  rather  neither. 
Or,  man,  or  horse,  as  Centaurs  old  were  feign'd." 

A  life  of  her  was  likewise  published  in  1662,  with  hci 
portrait  before  it  in  a  male  habit :  an  ape,  a  lion,  and  an 
eagle  by  her.  She  was  born  in  1584,  and  died  in  16.59.  In 
a  MS.  letter  in  the  British  Museum,  from  John  Chamber- 
lain to  Mr.  Carleton,  diited  Feb.  11,  1611-12,  the  following 
curious  account  is  given  of  her  doing  penance  :  "  This  last 
Sunday  Moll  Cutpurse,  a  notorious  baggage  that  used  to  go 
in  man's  apparel,  and  challenged  the  field  of  diverse  gal- 
lants, was  brought  to  the  same  place,  [St.  Paul's  Cross,] 
where  she  wept  bitterly,  and  seemed  very  penitent ;  but  it 
is  since  doubted  she  was  maudlin  drunk,  being  discovered 
to  have  tippl'd  of  three  quarts  of  sack  before  she  came  to 
her  penance.  She  had  the  daintiest  preacher  or  ghostly 
father  that  ever  I  saw  in  the  pulpit,  one  Radcliffe  of  Brazen- 
Nose  College  in  Oxford,  a  likelier  man  to  have  led  the 
revels  in  some  inn  of  court,  than  to  be  where  he  was.  But 
the  best  is,  he  did  extremely  badly,  and  so  wearied  the 
audience,  that  the  best  p.art  went  away,  and  the  rest  tarried 
rather  to  hear  Moll  Cutpurse  than  him."  Butler  alludes  to 
her  as  "English  M.all." 

The  dances  are  explained  elsewhere.  Stock,  stocking 
The  appropriation  of  parts  of  the  body  is  intentionally 
erroneous. 

^  To  fear  no  colours, 

A  proverbial  phrase,  meaning,  to  fear  no  enemy.  It  is 
still  in  use  in  the  provinces. 

•  If  one  break. 

Points  were  nutal  hooks,  fastened  to  the  hose  or  breeches, 
(which  had  then  no  opening  or  buttons,)  and  going  into 
straps  or  eyes  fixed  to  the  doublet,  and  thereby  keeping  the 
liose  from  foiling  down.  So,  in  King  Henry  IV.  Part  I. : 
"  Their/iOTnte  being  broken,— down  fell  their  hose."  Again, 
in  Antony  and  Cleopatra : 

" mingle  eyes 

With  one  that  ties  Kis  points  ?" 

(Blackstone  and  Steevens.) 

*  Ao  better  than  thefooVs  zanies. 

A  zany  was  not  a  fool's  bauble,  as  Douce  says,  but  an 
attendant  on  a  fool  or  tumbler. 

Now  what  a  Rimer  is,  vnto  a  Poet, 

Because  tlion  knowst  .t  not,  I  '11  make  theo  know  it: 

Th'nre  liKe  Bell-ringers  to  Musicians, 

571 


NOTES  TO  TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


Or  base  Quaok-saluers  to  Phisicians; 

Or  as  a  Zany  to  a  Tumhler  is, 

A  Rimer 's  to  ii  Poet  such  as  tins ; 

And  such  art  thou,  or  m  a  worse  degree. 

Taylor's  Work(s,  fol.  Lend.  1630. 

8  ±^oiv  Mercury  endue  thee  wWk  Uasing. 
Leasing^  lying,  from  the  Anglo-Saxon.     The  meaning  is 
thns  given  by  Dr.  Johnson, —  "Jlay  Mercury  teach  thee  to 
lie,  since  thou  liest  in  favour  of  fools  I" 

«  L'ike  a  sJicriJf's post. 
Sheriffs  had  p.Vmted  or  ornamented  posts  at  their  doors, 
possibly  to  indicate  the  residence  of  authority.    Allusions 
to  them  are  very  frequent  in  our  old  dramatists. 

10  Or  a  codling,  when '/  is  almost  an  apple. 

Codling  (a  mere  diminutive  of  cod,  Gifford  remarks  in  a 
note  on  Jonsou's  Alchemist)  is  not  "necessarily  restricted 
to  this  or  that — it  means  an  involucrum  or  kell,  and  was  used 
by  our  old  writers  for  that  early  state  of  vegetation,  when 
the  fruit,  after  shaking  off  the  blossom,  began  to  assume  a 
globular  and  determinate  form." 

ComptPM,  accountable. 

"  lam  to  hvU  here. 
To  hull,  s.ays  Steevens,  means  to  drive  to  and  fro 
upon  the  w.iter,  witliout  sails  or  niddcr.  So,  in  Philemon 
Holland's  translation  of  the  9th  Book  of  Pliny's  Natural 
History,  1001,  p.  239:  " — fell  to  be  drowsie  and  sleepie, 
and  hulled  to  and  fro  witli  the  waves,  as  if  it  had 
beena  halfe  dead."  Again,  in  the  Noble  Soldier,  by  S. 
Rowley,  163i: 

"That  uU  these  mischiefs  hull  with  flagging  sail." 

'^  Praise,  appraise,  make  an  inventory  of. 
Cantons,  uintos,  stanzas. 

"  Ourselves  ice  do  not  owe. 

Owe,  o^"a,  possess.  We  are  not  our  own  masters  :  we 
cannot  govern  ourselves. 

'*  Her  eyes  had  lost  her  tongue. 
Her  eyes  were  so  occupied  in  looking  at  Viola,  her  talk 
was  distracted.    Proper-false,  a  fictitious  beauty 
Fudge,  suit,  agree. 

"  Do  not  our  lives  consist  of  the  four  elenunts. 

Compare  the  forty-fifth  Sonnet : — 

The  other  two,  slicht  air  and  purein?  fire, 
Are  both  with  thee,  wliere\er  I  abide; 
The  first  my  thouglit,  tlie  other  my  desire. 
These  present-sibsent  with  swift  motion  slide. 
For  when  these  quicker  elements  are  gone 
In  tender  embassy  of  love  to  tlice. 
My  life,  being  made  of  four,  with  two  alono 
Sinks  down  to  death,  oppress'd  with  melancholy; 
Until  life's  composition  he  recur'd 
By  those  swift  messengers  roturu'd  from  thee. 
Who  even  but  now  come  back  again,  assur'd 
Of  till,'  fair  health,  recounting  it  to  me- 
This  told,  I  joy ;  but  then  no  lonirer  glad, 
1  send  them  back  again,  and  straight  grow  ead. 

Stoop,  a  cup  of  wine. 


!•  Tlte  picture  of  we  three. 

Alluding  to  an  old  and  common  sign  of  two  fools, 
bpcctator  is  pre<umed  to  be  the  third. 
Urcast,  voice  for  singing. 
572 


Tho 


"  I  sent  tlue  sixpence  for  thy  lemar.. 

In  Shakespeare's  time  the  word  is  generally  used  in  a 
bad  sense.  The  following  e.'ctract  from  a  very  rare  tract 
will  give  a  good  illustration  of  the  word  : — "  One  demanded 
of  his  friend  what  was  the  reason  that  when  a  man  meets 
a  light  wench,  the  first  word  he  speaks  to  her  is,  Gentle- 
woman, will  you  goe  to  the  taverne  ?  0,  saies  the  other,  a 
leman  is  never  good  without  wine." — Jests  to  Make  you 
Merie,  1607,  p.  4. 

18  Draw  three  souls  out  of  one  weaver. 

This  sentence  hardly  requires  tho  long  dissertation  of 
the  critics.  The  meaning  is  evidently.  Shall  we  sing  so 
eloquently  as  to  draw  three  souls  from  a  person  who  is 
not  supposed  to  have  one  whole  one. 

1"  Malvolio  's  a  Peg-a-Pajmey. 

Peg-a-Ramsey  was  an  old  popular  tune,  and  is  frequently 
referred  to.  "  A  new  song  and  a  base  viall  makes  him. 
He  deceives  with  his  commodity  worse  then  a  tobaeco- 
man,  for  he  will  utter  Pc^  of  Pairisey  and  tho  masko  oi 
Liocolncs  Inne  both  for  one  prise." — Stepliens'  Essayed, 
1615.  The  following  observations  are  taken  from  the  vari- 
orum edition : — 

Kash  mentions  "  Peg  of  Ramsey"  among  several  other 
ballads,  viz.,  Rogcro,  Basilino,  Turkelony,  All  tlie  Flowers 
of  the  Broom,  Pepper  is  Black,  Green  Sleeves,  Peggie 
Ramsie.  It  appears  from  the  s:uiie  author,  that  it  was 
likewise  a  dance  performed  to  the  musie  of  a  song  of  that 
name. 

2°  Tilly-valley,  lady. 

This  expression,  observes  Mr.  Sandys,  occurs  also  ia 
other  plays,  and  is  said  to  have  been  a  favourite  with  tJio 
lady  of  Sir  Thomas  More.    Skelton  also  uses  it — 

"  Tully  valy,  strawe,  let  be,  I  say '. 
Gup,  Christian  Clowte,  gup,  Jak  of  the  vale  ! 
With  Mauerly  Margery  Mylk  and  Ale." 

"Some  have  derived  the  term  from  an  old  French  hunting 
cry.  It  is  not  used  in  the  present  Cornish  dialect,  but  may 
be  found  a  few  times  in  a  piece  written  in  the  old  Cornish 
language,  called  "  The  Creation  of  tlie  World,"  a  mystery, 
or  play,  in  the  style  of  those  of  Coventry  and  Chester. 
This  piece,  however,  was  written  about  the  year  1611  by 
one  William  Jordan  of  Ilelstone,  and  the  term  therefore 
may  have  been  introduced  by  him ;  and  it  does  not  appear 
in  the  old  compositions  in  tlie  Cornish  tongue  :  the  e.\pre3- 
sion  occurs  as  a  sort  of  ejaculation  of  Impatience. 

"  Tdy  valy,  bram  an  gath."' 
which  is  modestly  translated — 

"Tittle  Little,  the  wind  of  a  cct  " 

'1  Snick  vp. 

Equivalent  to.  Go  hang !  Taylor,  the  water-poet,  thns 
introduces  the  expression : — 

A  Tiburne  hempen-caudoU  well  will  cure  yo'.i. 
It  can  cure  traytors,  but  1  Imld  it  tit 
T'  apply  't  ere  tlicy  the  treason  doe  commit. 
Wherefore  in  Sparta  it  y-cleped  was 
Snickup,  which  is,  in  English,  gallow-grasso, 

"  Pub  your  chain  with  crunts. 

Chains  were  distinguishing  appendages  to  tho  t.teward'o 
ofBec,  and  are  very  frequently  alluded  to  by  our  olil  wrilors. 
Thus  in  Massinger's  A'ew  Way  to  Pay  old  Debts, 


NOTES  TO  TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


Set  nil  thir.gs  Tight,  or  as  my  name  is  Order, 
And  by  this  staj'  of  office  that  commands  yon, 
This  cluiin  and  donblo  ruff,  symbols  of  power,  &c. 

Rule,  disturbanofi.  "  No  man  shall  after  the  hour  of  nine 
fit  the  night,  keep  any  rule  whereby  any  such  sudden  Out- 
cry bo  mi.de  in  tho  still  of  the  night,  as  making  any  AlTr.ny, 
or  beating  his  Wife,  or  Servant,  or  Singing,  or  KevoUing  in 
his  house,  to  tho  disturbance  of  his  Neighbours,  under  pain 
of  threo  shillings,  four  pence,"  Calthrop's  Reports,  1C70. 

Possess,  inform.    Affect'wn! d,  affected. 

='  Call  me  cut. 

A  term  of  contempt,  equivalent  to,  "  Call  me  horse,"  a 
plirase  which  I  have  met  with  in  novels  of  the  latter  part 
of  the  last  century,  and  which  occurs  in  Henry  IV,  "  I  '11 
meet  you  there ;  if  I  do  not,  call  me  cut,'^  Two  Angry 
Women  of  Abingdon,  1599. 

^  And  in  sad  ci/press  let  me  be  laid. 

The  following  notes  on  this  line  are  extracted  from  Bos- 
well's  edition  of  Malone,  8vo.  1821. — In  the  books  of  our 
author's  age  the  thin  transparent  lawn  called  cijprus,  wliich 
was  formerly  used  for  scarfs  and  hatbands  at  funerals,  was 
constantly  spelt  cypress.  So,  in  the  Winter's  Tale,  edit. 
1623: 

"  Cypresse  llaeh  as  e'er  was  crow — " 

where  undoubtedly  Cyprus  was  meant.    So  again,  in  the 
pl.iy  before  us,  edit.  1G23,  (as  Mr.  Warton  has  observed) 

*' a  cypresse,  not  a  bosom. 

Hides  my  he.irt." 

See  also  Minsheu's  Diet,  in  v.  *'  Cypres  or  Cypress,  a 
fine  curled  linen."  It  is  from  the  context  alone,  tlierefore, 
that  we  can  ascertain  whether  eyprus  or  cypress  was  in- 
tended by  our  old  writers,  filr.  Wartou  has  suggested  in 
his  late  edition  of  Milton's  Poems,  that  the  meaning  here 
is, — "  Let  me  be  laid  in  a  shroud  made  of  Cyprus,  not  in  a 
coffin  made  of  cypress  wood."  But  in  a  subsequent  line  of 
this  song  the  shroud,  (like  th.at  of  Polonius)  we  iind,  is 
wldle.  There  was  indeed  white  eyprus  as  well  as  black; 
but  tlie  epithet  sad  is  inconsistent  with  white,  and  there- 
fore I  suppose  tho  wood  to  have  been  here  meant.  Coffins 
being  frequently  made  of  cypress  wood,  (perhaps  in  conse- 
quence of  Cyprus  being  used  at  funerals)  the  epitliet  sad  is 
here  employed  with  strict  propriety,  "  King  Kichard  the 
Second  (says  Speed)  w.as  so  affected  by  the  death  of  his 
favourite  Robert  de  Vere,  duke  of  Ireland,  thjit  he  com- 
manded the  cypress  cliest  wherein  his  body  lay  embalmed, 
to  be  opened,  that  he  might  see  and  handle  it.  Tho  king 
attended  his  funer.ol." 

"  And  in  sad  cypress  let  ino  be  laid,"  i.  e.  in  a  shroud  of 
cypress  or  cyprxis.    Thus  Autolycus,  in  the  Winter's  Tale : 

*'  Lawn  as  white  as  driven  snow, 
Cyprus  black  as  e'er  was  crow." 

Tlicre  was  both  black  and  white  cypruss,  as  there  is  still 
black  and  white  crape  ;  end  ancient  shrouds  were  always 
miide  of  the  latter.    (Steovens.) 

Denay,  denial.  It  is  of  frequent  occurrence  as  a  verb ; 
tut  seldom  as  a  substantive. 


«  The  lady  of  the  Strachy. 

If  this,  the  original  reading,  be  correct,  however  Shake-     ^..>.  «...  ^  .^ 
spoare  obtained  the  word,  Strachy  belongs  to  the  Kussian  I  IV.  4t,o,  od 


language,    Tlie  Strapehy  of  Oszir,L«na  is  moutionod  '.n  an 

article  in  Mr.  Dickens'  Jlousehold  Words  for  March  15th, 
IS'il.  I  once  thought  Utrachy  might  be  a  mis)  rint  for 
ISophy. 

"  0,  for  a  stone-bow. 

A  stone-bow  was  a  cross-bow  made  for  propelling  stonea. 
"Stone-bow,  arcuhasta,"  I'r.  Parv. 

Nunihcr,  metre,  feet  of  tlie  verse. 

"  Marry,  hang  thee,  brjck! 

BrocTc,  a  badger,  a  term  of  contempt.  It  is  tho  transla- 
tion of  castetr  in  MS.  Coll.  Jcs.  Oxon.  23,  so  that  tlie  term 
was  probably  also  applied  to  a  beaver. 

It  es  ful  semeli,  als  me  tliink, 
A  brok  omang  men  for  to  stynk. 

Ywalne  and  Gaivin,  9^. 

2'  The  staniel  chcch  at  it. 

The  staniel  was  a  base  kind  of  hawk.  "  Aluctus,  Anglioe 
a  staniel,"  Nominale  MS. 

Formal,  reasonable.  Sowter,  a  cobler,  applied  here 
comically,  "Did  not  I  say  he  would  work  it  out?"  Mr, 
Knight  erroneously  reads,  "  that  ho  would  work  it  out." 

2"  /  zvill  be  polnt-de-vice. 
Point-dt-'cice,  exact,  in  tho  extreme  fashion. 

s°  Shall  I  play  my  freedom  at  tray-trip. 

Tray-trip  w.is  a  game  at  dice.  It  is  frequently  men- 
tioned by  the  old  dramatists. 

31  A  cheveril  glove  to  a  good  icii. 

A  cheveril  glove,  that  is,  a  glove  made  of  cheveril  or  kid 
leather.  "  Proverbiale  est,  he  hath  a  conscience  like  6  ehe- 
verel's  skm,  i,  e.,  it  will  stretch,"  Upton, 

32  As  pilchards  are  to  herrings. 

The  difference  between  the  pilchard  and  the  herring, 
observes  Lord  Teignmouth,  "  has  been  clearly  ascertained. 
There  is  a  singular  mode  of  distinguishing  the  pilchard 
from  the  herring,  resorted  to  in  the  West  of  England,  by 
placing  the  fish  iu  the  frying-pan.  The  herring  is  said  to 
be  never  fat  enough  to  fry  itself;  whilst  half  a  dozen  pil 
ehards,  in  their  best  state,  would  amply  supply  a  frymg 
pan  with  fat.  But  this  result  arises,  perhaps,  from  thn 
different  period  at  which  the  herrings  ard  pilchards  visit 
th.at  part  of  the  coast,  the  pilchtvrds  in  iceixfat,  the  her- 
rings in  their  Uan,  season." 

"  The  list  of  my  voyage. 

List,  limit,  bound,  boundary  line.  The  -atter  is  tho  true 
eeuse  ;  f  the  word.  Topsell,  in  his  Historic  of  Serpen^;, 
ISOS,  ):.  87,  mentions  worms  "  having  a  black  list  or  line 
running  along  their  backs." 


"  Taste  your  legs,  sir. 

An  affected  expression,  equivalent  tc,  try  your  legs,  from 
the  old  French,     'Come,  let  me  taste  my  horse." — Ifcnrj 


673 


NOTES  TO  T^^LFTH  NIGHT. 


"  To  one  of  your  riceiving. 
That  is,  as  Warburton  observes,  to  one  of  your  ready 
apprehension. 

=»  No,  not  a  grise. 

Cerise,  a  step.  So  in  an  old  romance  preserved  in  MS. 
in  Lincoln  cathedral, — 

Up  at  a  grese  scbo  hym  lade, 
To  chambir  scho  hym  broghte. 

"  If  thou  thou^st  him  some  ihrke. 

"  A  SchoUer  that  vaunted  what  especiall  interest  he  had 
in  a  certaine  faire  Gentlewoman,  went  (he  and  his  friend) 
on  a  time  to  visit  her:  And  she,  in  disdaine  of  him,  still 
thoii'd  him  at  every  word,  and  he  as  often  titled  her  with 
Honour,  Ladiship,  and  Majestic,  whereat  the  Gentlewoman 
waxing  testie  and  curst,  asked  him  why  he  so  exalted  her 
in  title  above  her  calling.  He  answered:  May  it  pleaee 
yon  to  mount  but  one  poynt  higher,  and  then  will  I  fall 
one  lower,  so  shall  our  musick  well  accord."— CSyfcy'*  Wits, 
Fits,  and  Fancier,  1614- 

s8  The  youngest  wren  of  nine. 

The  old  copies  read  mine,  which  is  probably  incorrect. 
As  Steevens  observes,  the  wren  generally  lays  nine  or  ten 
eggs  at  a  time,  and  the  last  hatched  of  nil  birds  are  usually 
the  smallest  and  weakest  of  the  whole  brood.  Breton  (not 
Sidney,  as  Mr.  Knight  has  it)  mentions  the  "multiplying 
wren." 

Worth,  wealth. 

s»  Nor  after  my  degree,  but  fellow. 

Fellow,  as  Dr.  Johnson  observes,  which  originally  signi- 
aed  companion,  was  not  yet  totally  degraded  to  its  present 
meaning,  and  MalvoUo  takes  it  in  the  favourable  sense. 

">  To  play  at  cherry-pit  with  Satan. 

A  childish  game,  pitching  cherry-stones  into  a  small 
hole.  It  is  mentioned  in  the  old  interlude  of  the  Worlde 
and  the  Chylde,  1523,— 

I  can  playe  at  the  chery-pytte. 

And  I  can  wystell  you  a  fytte. 

"  And  exceeding  good — senseless. 
The  last  word  is  either  to  be  divided  in  prouunoiation, 
or  else  spoken  aside. 

«  Eoh-nol  is  his  word. 

This  adverb,  says  Steevens,  is  corrupted  from  hip  ne  hap, 
that  is,  M  it  happen  or  not ;  and  siguifies,  at  random,  at  the 
mercy  of  chance. 

Opposite,  enemy. 

"  If  you  lean  undertaker. 
The  simple  meaning  of  the  word,  says  Kitson,  is,  one 
who  undertakes  or  takes  up  the  quarrel   or  business  of 
another. 

"  This  great  lubber  the  world. 
Tiic  meaning  of  this  passage  appears  to  be,  I  am  afraid 
the  whole  of  llio  large  world  will  bo  infected  with  foppery 
nnd  affectation— in  otlicr  words,  will  prove  a  cockney. 
674 


»»  A  good  report  after  fourteen  years''  purchase. 

That  is,  according  to  Heath,  purchase  a  good  report  or 
character  at  a  very  extravagant  price 

"  In  this  uncivil  and  unjust  extent. 

Mr.  Knight  thinks  that  extent  may  here  be  used  in  the 
sense  of  stretch  ;  as  we  say,  a  stretch  of  power  or  violence. 
Competitors,  confederates. 

"  It  luttTi  bay-windows. 

A  bay-window  is  a  bow-window,  or  any  projecting  wit 
dow  forming  a  recess  in  a  room.    Middleton  says, — 

'Tis  a  sweet  recreation  for  a  gentlewoman 
To  stand  in  a  bay-window,  and  see  gallants. 

«  Eey  Eobin,  jolly  Bobin. 

The  original  of  tliis  song  is  preserved  in  a  MS.  containing 
poems  by  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,  and  is  entitled,  "  The  caro- 
ful  Lover  eomplaineth,  and  the  happy  Lover  counselletli." 

A  KOBTN, 

Jolly  Kobyn, 
Tell  me  how  thy  leman  doeth. 
And  thou  shalt  knowe  of  rayn. 

My  lady  is  nnkyinde,  perde. 

Alack  1  why  is  she  so  ? 
She  loveth  an  other  better  than  mo 

And  yet  she  will  say,  no. 

Eesposse. 

I  fynde  no  snch  doublones : 

1  fynde  women  true. 
My  lady  loveth  me  dowtles. 

And  will  change  for  no  newe. 

Le  Plaintif. 

Thou  art  happy  wliile  that  doeth  lost! 

But  I  say,  as  I  fynde. 
That  woman's  love  is  but  a  blast. 

And  torncth  with  the  wynde. 

Eesponse. 

But  if  thou  wilt  avoyde  thy  harme, 

Lerne  this  lesson  "of  me, 
At  others  Acres  thy  selfe  to  warme, 

And  lot  them  warme  with  the. 

Le  Plaintif. 

Suche  folkes  can  take  no  harme  by  love. 

That  can  abide  their  torn. 
But  1,  alas  !  can  no  way  prove 

In  love  but  lake  and  morn. 


<*■  Leave  thy  vain  Mbble-babble. 
"  What  is  logicke  but  the  highe  waie  to  wrangling,  eon- 
tayning  in  it  a  world  o(  bibble-babble  ?  Ncodo  we  anie  of 
your  Grccke,  Latine,  Hebruo,  or  anie  such  gibbrige,  when 
wee  have  the  word  of  God  in  'EagVishV— An  Almond  for  a 
Parrot,  n.  d. 

»»  )yho  with  dagger  oj  lath. 
Ben  Jonson  mentions  the  Vice,  a  facetious  character 
introduced  in  the  old  moralities,  "  in  his  long  coat,  shaking 
his  wooden  dagger."  There  is  no  need  to  attempt  a  preciio 
explanation  of  the  verses  here  uttered  by  the  clown.  Thoj 
arc,  and  were  no  doubt  intended  to  bo,  nonsonso. 

Credit,  a  thing  believed  to  bo  a  fact. 


NOTES  TO  TWELFTH  NIGHT. 


*'  Conclutiojia  to  he  as  kUaes. 

For  lato  with  Iienrt  most  liigh,  with  eves  mo3t  low, 
I  cravo'l  tiio  tliinf^  which  over  slio  clenicp*; 
She  lightning  Love,  displaying  Voniis  skies. 

Least  once  should  not  bo  heard,  Twiso  said,  no,  no. 

Sydney^s  Astrophel  and  Stella^  540. 


"  With  such  scathful  grapple. 

Seathful,  destruolive,  pernicious;  from  the  Anglo-Saxon. 
The  substantive  scathe,  harm,  loss,  damage,  is  very  com- 
mon. A  North  country  proverb  says,  "One  doth  the 
tcathe,  and  another  hath  the  scorn." 

^^  Kill  what  Ilove. 

"  In  this  simik,"  says  Theobald,  "  a  particular  story  is 
prc-aupposed,  which  ought  to  be  known,  to  show  the  just- 
acsa  and  propriety  of  the  comparison.  It  is  taken  from 
Ilelicdorus's  Jithiopics,  to  which  our  author  was  indebted 
for  the  allusion.  This  Egyptian  thief  was  Thyamis,  who 
(Fas  a  native  of  Memphis,  and  at  the  head  of  a  band  of  rob- 
bers. Theagenes  and  Chariclea  falling  into  their  hands, 
Tiiyamis  foil  desperately  in  love  with  the  lady,  and  would 
have  married  her.  Soon  after,  a  stronger  body  of  robbers 
tomiug  down  upon  Thyamis's  party,  he  was  in  such  fears 
for  his  mistress  that  he  had  her  shut  into  a  cave  with  his 
treasure.  It  was  customary  with  those  barbarians,  '  when 
they  despaired  of  their  own  safety,  first  to  make  away  with 
those  whom  they  held  dear,'  and  desired  for  companions  in 
the  ne.xt  life.  Thyamis,  therefore,  benetted  round  with  his 
unemies,  raging  with  love,  jealousy,  and  anger,  went  to  his 
'.feve :  and  ciJling  nloud  ji  the  ECTPhan  tongue,  so  soon 


Hfl  ho  heard  himself  answered  towards  the  cave's  mouth, 
by  a  Grecian,  making  to  the  person  by  the  direction  of  h.^r 
voice,  he  cangnt  her  by  the  hair  with  his  left  hand,  and 
(oupposinghertobe  Chariclea)  with  his  right  hand  plunged 
his  sword  into  her  breast."  There  was  a  transhitiin  oi 
Ileliodorua  by  Thcmas  Undcrdowne,  of  which  the  Be.-(i'.iil 
edition  appeared  in  4to.,  1587.  The  first  was  probably  th.nt 
printed  by  H.  Wykes,  without  a  date. 

"  A  grizzle  on  thy  case. 

Cas^,  that  is,  skin.     "  There  are  brought  also  into  Sod 
land  out  of  these  Hands  great  store  of  sliecpes  felles,  on*. 
hides,  gotes  skinnes,  and  cases  of  martirncs  dried  in  the 
sunno,"  Holinshed,  Description  of  Scotland,  p.  13. 

»» A  paasy  measures  pavin. 

An  old  dance  so  called,  hero  humourously  applied  to  a 
drunkard. 

w  The  most  Twtorious  geek. 

Geek,  a  fool,  a  subject  for  derision.    The  word  oocare 
several  times  in  old  Scottish  writers. 
Imvortance,  importunity.     Convents,  agrees. 

"  But  when  I  came  unto  my  bed. 

"  It  is  said  among  tha  folkas  heere,  that  if  i  man  d'l  lu 
his  infansy,  hee  hath  onely  broks  his  fast  in  this  world 
If  in  his  youth,  hee  hath  left  us  at  dinner.  That  it  is  UJdi 
timeioith  a  man  at  threescore  and  ten;  and  he  that  '176 s  to  ( 
hundred  yeeres,  hath  walked  a  mile  after  supper.'— ft\"-- 
bury'a  Sexo  and  Ghoise  Charactirs,  161f>. 


575 


€llf  'BhUfa  €nlf. 


I'^HE  Winter's  Tale  was  founded  on  an  old  novel  hy  Robert  Greene,  which  was  published  in  1588, 
under  the  following  quaint  title, — "Pandosto,  the  Tnumph  of  Time,  wherein  is  discovered  by  a 
pleasant  Historic,  that,  although  by  the  meanes  of  sinister  fortune.  Truth  may  be  concealed,  yet  by 
Time,  in  spight  of  fortune,  it  is  most  manifestly  revealed :  Pleasant  for  age  to  avoyde  drowsie  thoughtes, 
jirofitable  for  youth  to  eschue  other  wanton  Pastimes,  and  bringing  to  both  a  desired  cortent."  A 
lupy  of  this  most  rare  edition  is  in  the  British  Museum,  and  the  tale  continued  a  favourite  with  tin- 
public  for  upwards  of  two  centuries  under  the  title  of  "  Dorastus  and  Fawnia."  It  emerged  finally 
mto  the  form  of  the  popular  chap-book,  and  within  the  last  few  years,  a  penny  might  have  purchased 
of  a  North  country  pedlar  a  copy  of  the  original  story  of  the  Winter's  Tale,  sold  to  a  public  ignorant 
of  the  digniiied  use  to  which  it  had  been  applied. 

It  is  singular  that  in  framiug  the  play  on  the  ground-work  of  the  novel,  Shakespeare  should  have 
reversed  the  circumstances  and  actions  attributed  in  the  latter  to  the  kings  of  Bohemia  and  Sicily 
It  w;is  this  mode  of  dealing  with  the  subject,  which  led  the  poet  into  the  absurdity  of  giving  a  sea- 
shore to  Bohemia,  which  is  thus  noticed  in  Ben  Jonson's  Convei'sations  with  William  Drumraoud, — 
••  Sheakspear,  in  a  play,  brought  in  a  number  of  men  saying  they  had  suffered  shipwrack  in  Bohemia, 
wher  ther  is  no  sea  neer  by  some  one  hundred  miles."  There  was  nothing  spiteful  in  this  remark, 
which  has  been  noticed  by  some  of  the  editors  as  a  proof  of  Jonson's  malignity  towards  Shakespeare. 
It  was  one  of  those  palpable  blunders  which  would  have  been  detected  by  most  readers  of  the  play, 
and  is  most  readily  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  reason  above  alluded  to,  independently  of  the  circum- 
stance that  Bohemia  is  also  mentioned  in  Pandosto  as  a  maritime  countr}'. 

The  date  of  the  Winter's  Tale  can  be  safely  assigned  to  the  year  1610,  or  very  early  in  1611,  a 
memorandum  in  Sir  H.  Herbert's  Diary  declaring  it  was  licensed  by  Sir  George  Buc,  who  was  named 
Master  of  the  Revels  in  October,  1610,  and  Dr.  Forman  having  recorded  an  account  of  it  as  seen  by 
him  at  the  Globe  Theatre  on  May  15th,  1611.  The  latter  is  contained  in  the  Doctor's  original  manu- 
script preserved  in  the  Ashmolean  Museum  at  Oxford,  and  as  it  is  most  curious,  and  has  not  been  given 
by  former  editors  in  its  original  form,  I  take  the  opportunity  of  adding  a  precise  copy  of  it,  carefully 
taken  by  myself  from  the  MS. — 

In  the  JVinl^rs  Talk  at  th£  Glob,  1611,  the  15  of  Maye,  Wedaesdm/, 

Observe  thcr  howe  Lyontes  the  Kinge  of  CicilUa  was  overoom  with  jelosy  of  his  wife  with  the  Kinge  of  Bohemia, 
nia  frind,  that  came  to  see  him,  and  howe  he  contrived  his  death,  and  wold  have  had  his  cup-berer  to  have  poisoned 
rhinij  wlio  pave  the  King  of  Bohemia  warning  therof  and  fled  with  Iiim  to  Boliemia. 

Remember  also  howe  he  sent  to  the  orakell  of  Apollo,  and  the  aunswer  of  Apollo  that  she  was  giltles,  and  that  the 
'«  577 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


kin^  wr-s  jelouse,  &c.  and  howe,  except  the  cliild  was  found  again  that  was  loste,  the  kinge  should  die  without  yssue ;  for 
the  child  was  caried  into  Bohemia,  and  there  laid  in  a  forrest,  and  brought  up  by  asheppard,  and  the  Kinge  of  Bohemia, 
his  Bonn  married  that  wentch ;  and  howe  they  fled  into  Cicillia  to  Leontes,  and  the  sheppard  having  showed  the  letter 
of  the  nobleman,  by  whom  Leontes  sent,  it  was  that  child,  and  [by]  the  Jewells  found  about  her,  she  was  knowen  to  bo 
Leontes  daughter,  and  was  then  16.  yers  old. 

Remember  also  the  rog  that  cam  in  all  tottered  like  roll  pixel,  and  howe  he  fayned  him  sicke  and  to  have  him  rob- 
bed of  all  that  he  had,  and  howe  he  cosoned  the  por  man  of  all  his  money,  and  after  cam  to  the  shop  ther  with  a  pediera 
packe,  and  ther  cosened  them  again  of  all  their  money ;  and  how  he  changed  apparcll  with  the  Kinge  of  Bomia,  his 
soun,  and  then  how  he  turned  courtier,  &o.    Beware  of  trustinge  feined  beggars  or  fawninge  fellouse. 

In  the  Winter's  Tale,  the  poet  has  intentionally  violated  all  dramatic  rules,  and  it  may  be  ques- 
tioned whether  he  did  not  himself  intend  it  rather  as  a  romance  slightly  woven  into  dramatic  action 
than  as  a  regular  drama.  It  is  heresy  to  say  so,  but  it  appears  to  me  the  romance  of  the  tale  overwhelms 
the  play  and  the  author's  dramatic  art.  There  is  no  ground-idea,  for  the  jealousy  of  Leontes,  which 
has  been  so  considered,  is  introduced  to  us  in  its  perfect  developement,  and  may  almost  be  regarded  as 
the  effect  of  a  distempered  mind.  It  is  not  a  leading  idea  philosophically  delineated,  and  is  chiefly  ne- 
cessary to  the  progress  of  the  tale.  Neither  has  the  character  of  Perdita,  fascinating  as  the  poet  has 
imagined  it,  a  title  to  be  considered  the  prominent  feature  in  the  drama.  There  are  others,  for  example 
Autolycus,  fully  as  deserving  attention,  and  perhaps  the  reader  is  more  impressed  with  either  tlian  w:th 
Iho  dignity  ajid  eloquence  of  nermione. 
5T8 


i 


PERSONS    EEPRESENTED. 


Lkontks,  King  of  Sieilia. 

Appears,  Act  I.  so.  2.    Act  II.  so.  1 ;  bo.  3.    Act  III.  so.  2. 
Act  V.  sc.  1  ;  sc.  8. 

Mamillius,  son  to  Leontes. 
Jfveart,  Act  I.  so  2.    Act  II.  bc.1. 

Camillo,  a  Sicilian  lord. 

Appears,  Act  I,  so.  1 ;  so.  2.    Act  IV.  so.  1 ;  so.  8.     Act  V. 
so.  8. 

Antiqonos,  a  Sicilian  lord. 
Appear),  Act  II.  so.  1 ;  sc.  3.    Act  III.  so.  3. 

Cleomenes,  a  Sicilian  lord. 

Appears,  Act  III.  so.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  V.  so.  1. 

Dion,  a  Sicilian  lord. 
Appears,  Act  III.  so.  1 ;  sc.  2.    Act  V.  so.  1. 

A  Sicilian  lord. 
Appears,  Act  II.  so.  1 :  sc.  3.    Act  III.  sc.  2. 

RoGERO,  a  Sicilian  gentleman. 
Appears,  Act  V.  sc.  1. 

Aji  Attendant  on  the  young  Prince  Mamillius. 
Appears,  Act  II.  so.  3. 

OflScers  of  a  Court  of  Judicature. 
Appear,  Act  III.  sc.  2. 

PoLixENES,  King  of  Bohemia. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  2.    Act  IV.  sc.  1 ;  so.  3.    Act  V.  sc.  3. 

Florizel,  son  to  Polixenes. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  so.  3.    Act  V.  sc.  1 ;  sc.  3. 

Akchidamus,  a  Bohemian  lord. 
Appears,  Act  I.  sc.  1. 

A  Mariner. 

Appears,  Act  III.  so.  3. 

Keeper  of  a  prison. 
Appears,  Act  II.  so.  2. 


An  old  She'phcrd,  reputed  father  ofPerditji. 
Appears,  Act  III.  so.  3.    Act  IV.  sc.  3.    Act  V.  so.  2 

Clown,  son  to  the  old  Shepherd. 
Appears,  Act  III.  sc.  %.    Act  IV.  sc.  2 ;  bo.  S.    Act  V 

60.2. 

Auioi.Tcns,  a  rogue. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  bo.  2 ;  sc.  3.    Act  V.  so.  C 

Time,  as  Chorvs. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  (Induction). 

Rustics  dressed  as  Satyrs. 

Appear,  Act  IV.  sc.  3. 

Hermione,  Queen  to  Leontes. 

Appears,  Act  I.  so.  2.    Act  II.  sc.  1.    Act  III.  bc  9. 
Act  V.  sc.  3. 

Perdita,  daughter  to  Leontes  and  Hermione. 

Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  3.     Act  V.  so.  1 ;  sc.  3. 

Paulina,  wife  to  Antigonus. 

Appears,  Act  U.  sc.  2;  sc.  3.     Act  III.  so.  2.    Act  IV 
so.  1.    Act  V.  60.  1 ;  sc.  0. 

Emilia,  a  lady  attending  on  the  Quoct 
Appears,  Act  II.  bo.  2. 

Two  Ladies  attending  on  the  Quoeo. 

Appear,  Act  II.  sc.  1. 

MopSA,  a  shepherdess. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  so.  3. 

Dorcas,  a  shepherdess. 
Appears,  Act  IV.  sc.  3. 

Lords,  Ladies,  Gentlemen,  and  Attcr.dantt,  Shqr" 
herd,  Shepherdesses,  Guards,  dec. 

SCENE, — Sometimes  in  Sicilia  ;  sometimes  in 
Bohemia. 

579 


€l)f  l^intfr'B  Calf. 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  1.— Siiilia. 


An  Antechamber  in  Leontes' 
Palace. 


Enter  Camillo  and  Archidamus. 

Arch.  If  yon  shall  chance,  Camillo,  to  visit  Bo- 
hemia, on  the  like  occasion  whereon  my  services 
are  now  on  foot,  you  shall  see,  as  I  have  said,  great 
diiference  betwixt  our  Bohemia  and  your  Sicilia. 

Cam.  I  think,  this  coming  summer,  the  king  of 
Sicilia  means  to  pay  Bohemia  the  visitation  which 
he  justly  owes  him. 

Arch.  Wherein  our  entertainment  shall  shame 
us  we  will  be  justified  in  our  loves :  for,  indeed, — 

Cam.  'Beseech  you, — 

Arch.  Verily,  I  speak  it  in  the  freedom  of  my 
knowledge  :  we  cannot  with  such  magnificence — 
in  so  rare — I  know  not  what  to  say. — "We  will 
give  you  sleepy  drinks,  that  your  senses,  unin- 
telligent of  our  insufficience,  may,  though  they 
cannot  praise  us,  as  little  accuse  us. 

Cam,.  You  pay  a  great  deal  too  dear  for  what 's 
given  freely.         :l■v!ll^OT,■,^■i  ' 

Arch.  Believe  me,  I  speak  as  my  understanding 
instructs  me,  and  as  mine  honesty  puts  it  to 
utterance. 

Cam.  Sicilia  cannot  show  himself  over-kind  to 
Buliemia.  They  were  train'd  together  in  their 
cliildhoods ;  and  there  rooted  betwixt  them  then 
Ruch  an  sifieclion  which  cannot  choose  but  branch 
now.  Since  their  more  mature  dignities,  and 
S80 


royal  necessities,  made  separation  of  their  .'ooiety 
their  encountere,  though  not  personal,  have  been 
royally  attorneyed,  with  interchange  of  spt's. 
letters,  loving  embassies ;  that  they  have  seem  J 
to  be  together,  though  absent;  shook  hands,  m 
over  a  vast;'  and  embrac'd,  as  it  were,  from  tho 
ends  of  opposed  winds.  The  Heavens  continue 
their  loves ! 

Arch.  I  think  there  is  not  in  the  world  either 
malice  or  matter  to  alter  it.  You  have  an  un- 
speakable comfort  of  your  young  prince  Mamillius ; 
it  is  a  gentleman  of  the  greatest  promise  that  evei 
came  into  my  note. 

Cam.  I  very  well  agree  with  you  in  tho  hopes 
of  him :  It  is  a  gallant  child  ;  one  that,  indeed, 
physics  the  subject,  makes  old  hearts  fresh ;  they 
that  went  on  crutches  ere  he  was  born,  desire  yet 
tlieir  life  to  see  him  a  man. 

Arch.  Would  they  else  be  content  to  die  ? 

Cam.  Yes ;  if  there  were  no  other  excuse  wliy 
they  should  desire  to  live. 

Arch.  K  the  king  had  no  son,  they  would  de- 
sire to  live  on  crutches  till  he  had  one.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  ll.—Thc  same.    A  Boom  of  Stale  in  the 
Palace. 

Enter  Lbontks,  PoLrxKNEs,  Hkrmione,  Mamiluus, 

Camillo,  and  Attendants. 

Pol.  Nine  changes  of  the  wal'ry  star  have  boen 


ACT  I. 


TPK  '.V':STER'S  TALE. 


RCEXE  n. 


The  shepherd's    note,   since   wo    have   left    our 

tlirone 
Without  a  burthen  •  time  as  long  agaiu 
Would  be  fill'd  up,  my  brother,  with  our  thanks : 
And  yet  we  should,  for  perpetuity, 
Go  hence  in  debt :   And  therefore,  like  a  cipher. 
Yet  standing  in  rich  place,  I  multiply, 
With  one  we-thank-you,  many  thousands  more 
That  go  before  it. 

Leon.  Stay  your  thanks  awhile  ; 

And  pay  them  when  you  part. 

Pol,  Sir,  that 's  to-morrow. 

I  am  question'd  b)'  my  fears,  of  what  may  chance, 
Or  breed  upon  our  absence :   That  may  blow 
No  sneaping  winds  at  home,  to  make  us  say, 
"  This  is  put  forth  too  truly  !"     Besides,  I  have 

stay'd 
To  tire  your  royalty. 

Leon.  We  are  tougher,  brother, 

Than  you  can  put  us  to  't. 

Pol.  No  longer  stay. 

Leon.  One  seven-night  longer. 

Pol.  Very  sooth,  to-morrow. 

Leon.  We  'll  part  the  time  between  's  then  : 
and  in  that 
I  '11  no  gainsaying. 

Pol.  Press  me  not,  'beseech  you,  so  ; 

There  is  no  tongue  that  moves,  none,  none  i'  the 

world, 
So  soon  as  yours,  could  win  me  :  so  it  should  now. 
Were  there  necessity  in  your  request,  although 
'T  were  needful  I  deny'd  it.     My  affairs 
I>o  even  drag  me  homeward  :  which  to  hinder 
Were,  in  your  love,  a  whip  to  me  ;  my  stay. 
To  you  a  charge  and  trouble  :  to  save  both. 
Farewell,  our  brother. 

Leon.  Tongue-ti'd,  our  queen  ?  speak 

you. 

Her.  I  had  thought,  sir,  to  have  held  my  peace, 
until 
Vou  had  drawn  oaths  from  him,  not  to  stay.   You, 

sir. 
Charge  him  too  coldly :  Tell  him,  you  are  sure 
All  in  Bohemia  's  well :  this  satisfaction 
The  by-gone  day  proclaim'd  ;  say  this  to  him, 
He  's  beat  from  his  best  ward. 

Leon.  Well  said,  Hermione. 

Her.  To  tell   tie  longs  to   see   his  son,  were 
strong  : 
But  let  him  say  so  then,  and  let  him  go  ; 
But  let  him  swear  so,  and  he  shall  not  stay, 
We  'Jl  thwack  him  hence  with  distaffs. — 


Yet  of  your  royal  presence  [to  Poi  ix.]  I  '11  ad- 
venture 
The  borrow  of  a  week.     AVhen  at  B*  hemia 
You  take  my  lord,  I  '11  give  him  my  commission. 
To  let  him  there  a  month,  behinj  the  gest 
Prefi.v'd  for  's  parting  :  yet,  good  deed,  Leontes, 
I  love  thee  not  a  jar  o'  the  clock  behind 
What  lady  should  her  lord. — You  '11  stay  ? 

Pol.  No,  madam. 

Her.  Nay,  but  you  will  ? 

Pol.  I  may  not,  verily. 

Her.  Verily  ! 
You  put  me  off  with  limber  vows  :   But  I, 
Though  you  would  seek  t'  unsphere  the  stars  with 

oaths, 
Should  yet  say,  "  Sir,  no  going."     Verily, 
You  shall  not  go  ;  a  lady's  verily  is 
As  potent  as  a  lord's.     Will  you  go  yet  ? 
Force  me  to  keep  you  as  a  prisoner. 
Not  like  a  guest ;  so  you  shall  pay  your  fees, 
When  you  depart,  and  save  your  thanks.     How 

say  you  ? 
My  prisoner  ?  or  my  guest  ?  by  your  dread  verily, 
One  of  them  you  shall  be. 

Pol.  Your  guest  then,  madam  : 

To  be  your  prisoner  should  import  oflending ; 
Which  is  for  me  less  easy  to  commit. 
Than  you  to  punish. 

Her.  Not  your  gaoler  then, 

But  your  kind  hostess.     Come,  I  '11  question  you 
Of  my  lord's  tricks,  and  ycnrs,  when  you  were 

boys; 
You  were  pretty  lordings  theu. 

Pol.  We  were,  fair  queen. 

Two  lads,  that  thought  there  was  no  more  behind 
But  such  a  day  to-morrow  as  to-day, 
And  to  be  boy  eternal. 

Her.  Was  not  my  lord  the  verier  wag  o'  the 
two  ? 

Pol.  We  were  as  twinn'd  lambs,  that  did  frisk 
i'  the  sun. 
And  bleat  the  one  at  th'  other  :  WTiat  we  chang'd 
Was  innocence  for  innocence  ;  we  knew  not 
The  doctrine  of  ill-doing,  nor  dream'd 
That  any  did  :  Had  we  pursu'd  that  hfe, 
And  our  weak  spirits  ne'er  been  higher  rear'd 
With  stronger  blood,    we    should   have  answer'd 

Heaven 
Boldly,  "  Not  guilty  ;"  the  imposition  c'ear'd 
Hereditary  ours. 

Her.  By  this  wo  gather. 

You  have  tripp'd  since. 

S81 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


SCENE    U. 


Pol.  0  my  most  sacred  lady, 

Temptations  have  since  then  been  born  t'  us :  for 
In  those  unfledg'd  days  was  my  wife  a  girl ; 
Your  precious  self  had  then  not  cross'd  the  eyes 
Of  my  young  playfellow. 

Her.  Grace  to  boot ! 

Of  this  make  no  conclusion ;  lest  you  say 
Your  queen  and  I  are  devils ;  Yet,  go  on  ; 
Th'  offences  we  have  made  you  do  we  '11  answer ; 
If  you  first  sinn'd  with  us,  and  that  with  us 
You  did  continue  fault,  and  that  you  sllpp'd  not 
With  any  but  with  us. 

Leon.  Is  he  won  yet  ? 

Ifer.  He  '11  stay,  my  lord. 
Leon.  At  my  request,  he  would  not.' 

Hermione,  my  dearest,  thou  never  spok'st 
To  better  purpose. 

Ser.  Never  ? 

Leon.  Never,  but  once. 

Jler.  What  ?   have  I  twice  said  well  ?   when 
was  't  before  ? 
1  prithee,  tell  me  :  Cram 's  with  praise,  and  make 's 
As  fat  as  tame  things :    One  good    deed    dying 

tongueless 
Slaughters  a  thousand,  waiting  upon  that. 
Our  praises  are  our  wages  :  You  may  ride  's 
With  one  soft  kiss,  a  thousand  furlongs,  ere 
With  spur  we  heat  an  acre.     But  to  th'  goal ; — 
My  last  good  deed  was  to  entreat  his  stay  ; 
What  was  my  first  ?  it  has  an  elder  sister. 
Or  I  mistake  you  :  O,  would  her  name  were  Grace ! 
But  once  before  I  spoke  to  th'  purpose  :  When  ? 
Nay,  let  me  have  't ;  I  long. 

Leon.  Why,  that  was  when 

Three  crabbed  months  had  sour'd  themselves  to 

death, 
Ere  I  could  make  thee  open  thy  white  hand. 
And  clap  thyself  my  love ;  then  didst  thou  utter, 
"  I  am  yours  for  ever." 

Her.  'T  is  Grace,  indeed. — 

Why,  lo  you  now,  I  liave  spoke  to  th'  purpose  twice; 
The  one  for  ever  earn'd  a  royal  husband ; 
Th'  other,  for  some  while  a  friend. 

[Giviny  her  hand  to  Pol. 
Zi'on.  Too  hot,  too  hot :         [Aside. 

To  mingle  friendship  far,  is  mingling  bloods. 
I  have  tremor  cordis  on  me  : — my  heart  dances ; 
But  not  foi  joy, — not  joy. — This  entertainment 
May  a  free  face  put  on  ;  derive  a  liberty 
From  hcaitiness,  from  bounty,  fertile  bosom. 
And  well  bcccme  the  agent :  it  may,  I  grant : 
But  to  be  p.iddling  paiics,  and  pinching  fingers, 

.IS  2 


As  now  they  are  ;  and  making  prictis'd  smiles, 
As  in   a  looking  glass ; — and  then   to   sigh,    ;i9 

't  were 
The  mort  o'  the  deer ;  O,  that  is  entertainment 
My  bosom  likes  not,  nor  my  brows. — Maraillius, 
Art  thou  my  boy  ? 

Mam.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Leon.  r  fecks  ? 

Why,  that 's  my  bawcock.     What,  hast  smutcb'd 

thy  nose  ? — 
They  say  it  is  a  copy  out  of  mine.   Come,  captain, 
We  must  be  neat ;  not  neat,  but  cleanly,  captain  : 
And  yet  the  steer,  the  heifer,  and  the  calf, 
Are  all  call'd  neat. — Still  virginalling 

\^Observinff  Pol.  and  Hep^ 
Upon  his  palm  ? — How  now,  you  wanton  calf  ? 
Alt  thou  my  calf? 

Mam.  Yes,  if  you  will,  my  lord. 

Leon.  Thou   want'st    a   rough   pash,'  and    thi! 
shoots  that  I  have. 
To  be  full  like  me  : — yet,  they  say  we  are 
Almost  .as  like  as  eggs ;  women  say  so. 
That  will  say  anything  :  But  were  they  false 
As  o'er-di'd  blacks,  as  wind,  as  waters  ;  false 
As  dice  are  to  be  wish'd,  by  one  that  fixes 
No  bourn  'twixt  his  and  mine  ;  yet  were  it  true 
To  say  this  boy  were  like  me. — Come,  sir  page. 
Look  on  me  with  your  welkin  eye :    Sweet  villain 
Most  dear'st !  my  collop  ! — Can  thy  dam  ? — may 

'the? 
Afiection,  thy  intention  stabs  the  centre  :* 
Thou  dost  make  possible  things  not  so  held, 
Communicat'st  with  dreams ; — (How  can  this  be  ?) 
With  what 's  unreal  thou  coactive  art, 
And  fellow'st  nothing  :  Then,  't  is  very  credent, 
Thou  mayst  co-join  with  something;  and  thou  dost' 
(And  that  beyond  commission  ;  and  I  find  it,) 
And  that  to  the  infection  of  my  brains. 
And  hardening  of  my  brows. 

Pol.  What  means  Sicilia  ? 

ffer.  He  something  seems  unsettled. 

Pol.  How  1  my  lord  ! 

Leon.  What  cheer  3  how  is  't  with  you,  best 
brother  ? 

//(■)•.  You  look 

As  if  you  held  a  brow  oif  much  distraction. 
Are  you  mcv'd,  my  lord  ? 

Leon.  No,  in  good  ear:  est. — 

IIow  sometimes  n.ature  will  betray  ts  folly, 
Its  tenderness,  and  make  itself  a  pastime 
To  harder  bosoms  1     Looking  on  the  lines 
Of  my  boy's  face,  my  thoughts  I  did  recoil 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE 


HCENU    II. 


Twentj-three  years ;  and  saw  myself  unbreech'd 
In  my  green  velvet  coat;  my  dagger  muzzled, 
Lest  it  should  bite  its  master,  and  so  prove, 
As  ornaments  oft  do,  too  dangerous. 
How  like,  raetliougbt,  I  then  was  to  this  kernel. 
This  squash,  this  gentleman : — Mine  honest  friend, 
Will  you  take  eggs  for  money  ?' 
Mam.  No,  my  lord,  I  '11  fight. 
Leon.  You  will  1  why,  happy  man  be  's  dole  ! — 
my  brother, 
Are  you  so  fond  of  your  young  prince,  as  we 
Do  seem  to  be  of  ours  ? 

Pol.  K  at  home,  sir. 

He  's  all  my  exorcise,  my  mirth,  my  matter : 
Now  my  sworn  friend,  and  then  mine  enemy  ; 
My  parasite,  my  soldier,  statesman,  all : 
He  makes  a  July's  day  short  as  December  ; 
And,  with  his  varying  childness,  cures  in  me 
Thoughts  that  would  thick  my  blood. 

Leon.  So  stands  this  squire 

OfEc'd  with  me  :  We  two  will  walk,  my  lord. 
And  leave  you  to  your  graver  steps. — Hermione, 
How  thou  lov'st  us,  show  in  our  brother's  wel- 
come; 
Let  what  is  dear  in  Sicily  be  cheap  : 
Next  to  thyself,  and  my  young  rover,'  he  's 
Apparent  to  my  heart. 

Her.  K  you  would  seek  us. 

Wo  are  yours  i'  the  garden  :   Shall 's  attend  you 
there  » 
Leo^i.  To  your  own  bents  dispose  you :  you  '11 
be  found, 
Be  you  beneath  the  sky  : — I  am  angling  now. 
Though  you  ptirceive  me  not  how  I  give  line. 
Go  to,  go  to  !     ^Aside.  Observing  Pol.  and  Herm. 
How  she  holds  up  the  neb,'  the  bill  to  him  ! 
And  arms  her  with  the  boldness  of  a  wife 
To  her  allowing  husband  !   Gone  already  ; 
Inch-thick,  knee-deep,  o'er  head  and  ears  a  fork'd 
one. 

\Exeunt  Pol,,  Herm.,  and  Attendants. 
Go,  play,  boy,  play ; — thy  mother  plays,  and  I 
Play  too ;  but  so  disgrac'd  a  part,  whose  issue 
Will  hiss  me  to  my  grave  ;  contempt  and  clamour 
Will  be  my  knell. — Go,  play,  boy,  play ; — There 

have  been. 
Or  I  am  much  deceiv'd,  cuckolds  ere  now  ; 
And  many  a  man  there  is,  even  at  this  present. 
Now,  while  I  speak  this,  holds  his  wife  by  th'  arm. 
That  little  thinks  she  has  been  sluic'd  in  's  ab- 
sence. 
And  his  pond  fisb'd  by  his  next  neighbour,  by 


Sir  Smile,  his  neighbour  :   nay,    there  's   comfort 

in't, 
Whiles  other  men  have   gates,  and   those  gatea 

open'd. 
As  mine,  against  their  will :    Should  all  despair 
That  have  revolted  wives,  the  tenth  of  mankind 
Would  hang  themselves.     Physic  for  't  there  's 

none ; 
It  is  a  bawdy  planet,  that  will  strike 
Where   't  is   predominant ;   and   't   is   powerful, 

think  it. 
From  east,  west,   north,   and  south.     Be  it  con- 
cluded, 
No  barricado  for  a  belly  ;  know  't ; 
It  will  let  in  and  out  the  enemy. 
With  bag  and  b.aggage  :  many  a  thousand  on  's 
Have  the  disease,  and   feel  't   not. — How  now, 
boy? 
Mam.  I  am  like  you,  they  say, 
Leon.  Why,  that 's  some  comfort. — 

What !  Caraillo,  there  ? 
Cam.  Kj,  my  good  lord. 

Leon.  Go  play,  Mamillius  ;  thou  'rt  an  honest 
man. —  [E.xit  Mamillius. 

Caraillo,  this  great  sir  will  yet  stay  longer. 

Cam.  You  had  much  ado  to  make  his  anchor 
hold: 
When  you  cast  out,  it  still  came  home. 
Leon.  Didst  note  it  ? 

Cam.   He  would  not  stay  at  your  petitions  ; 
made 
His  business  more  material. 

Leon.  Didst  perceive  it  ? — 

They  're    here    with    me    already ;   whisp'ring 

rounding,' 
"  Sicilia  is  a — so-forth  :"  'T  is  far  gone. 
When  I  shall  gust  it  last. — How  came  't,  Camillo 
That  he  did  stay  ? 

Cam.  At  the  good  queen's  entreaty. 

Leon.  At  the  queen's,  be  't :  good,  should  be 
pertinent : 
But  so  it  is,  it  is  not.     Was  this  taken 
By  any  understanding  pate  but  thine  ? 
For  thy  conceit  is  soaking,  will  draw  in 
More  than  the  common  blocks : — Not  noted,  is  't. 
But  of  the  finer  natures  ?  by  some  severals 
Of  head-piece  extraordinary  ?  lower  messes 
Perchance  are  to  this  business  purblind  ?  say. 
Cam.  Business,  my  lord?  I  think  most  imder- 
stand 
Bohemia  stays  here  longer, 
Leon.  Ha  1 

583 


ACT    1. 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


Cam.  Stays  here  ionger. 

Leon.  Ay,  but  why  ? 

Cam.  To   satisfy   your  higliness,    and  the  en- 
treaties 
Of  our  most  gracious  mistress. 

Leon.  Satisfy 

Th'  entreaties  of  your  mistress  ? satisfy  ? — 

Let  that  suffice.     I  have  trusted  thee,  Camillo, 
With  all  the  nearest  things  to  my  heart,  as  well 
My  chamber-councils  :  wherein,  priest-like,  thou 
Uast  cleans'd  my  bosom ;  I  from  thee  departed 
Thy  penitent  reform'd  :  but  we  have  been 
Deceiv'd  in  thy  integrity,  deceiv'd 
In  that  which  seems  so. 

Cam.  Be  it  forbid,  my  lord  ! 

Leon.  To  bide  upon  't,' — thou  art  not  honest ;  or, 
[f  thou  inclin'st  that  way,  thou  art  a  coward  ; 
Which  boxes'"  honesty  behind,  restraining 
From  course  requir'd  :  Or  else  thou  must  be  counted 
A  servant  grafted  in  my  serious  trust, 
And  therein  negligent :  or  else  a  fool. 
That  seest  a  game  play'd  home,  the  rich  stake 

drawn, 
And  tak'st  it  all  for  jest. 

Can.  My  graciotis  lord, 

I  may  be  negligent,  foolish,  and  fearful ; 
In  every  one  of  these  no  man  is  free. 
But  that  his  negligence,  his  folly,  fear, 
Amongst  the  infinite  doings  of  the  world, 
Sometime  puts  forth  :  In  your  affairs,  my  lord. 
If  ever  I  were  wilful-negligent. 
It  was  my  folly  ;  if  industriously 
I  play'd  the  fool,  it  was  my  negligence. 
Not  weighing  well  the  end  ;  if  ever  fearful 
To  do  a  thing,  where  I  the  issue  doubted. 
Whereof  the  execution  did  cry  out 
Against  the  non-performance,  't  was  a  fear 
Which  oft  infects  the  \visest :  these,  my  lord, 
Are  such  allow'd  infirmities,  that  lionesty 
Is  never  free  of.     But,  'beseech  your  grace. 
Be  plainer  with  me :  let  me  know  my  trespass 
By  its  own  visage  :  if  I  then  deny  it, 
"T  is  none  of  mine. 

Leon.  Have  not  you  seen,  Camillo, 

(But  that  's  past  doubt — you  have  ;  or  your  eye- 

gl;iss 
Is  thicker  than  a  cuckold's  horn,)  or  heard 
(For  to  a  vision  so  apparent,  rumour 
Cannot  be  mute,)  or  thought,  (for  cogitation 
Resides  not  in  that  man  that  docs  not  think,) 
My  wife  is  slljiiiery  ?     If  thou  wilt  confess, 
(Or  clsa  be  impudently  negative 
694 


To  have  nor  eyes,  nor  ears,  nor  thought,)  then  say 
My  wife  's  hobby-horse ;  deserves  a  name 
As  rank  as  any  flax-wench,  that  puts  to 
Before  her  troth-plight :  say  't,  and  justify  't. 
Cam.  I  would  not  be  a  stander-by,  to  hear 
My  sovereign  mistress  clouded  so,  without 
My  present  vengeance  taken  :  'Shrew  my  heart, 
You  never  spoke  what  did  become  you  less 
Than  this ;  which  to  reiterate,  were  sin 
As  deep  as  that,  though  true. 

Leon.  Is  whispering  nothing  ? 

Is  leaning  cheek  to  cheek  ?  is  meeting  noses  ? 
Kissing  with  inside  lip  ?  stopping  the  career 
Of  laughter  with  a  sigh  ?  (a  note  infallible 
Of  breaking  honesty  :)  horsing  foot  on  foot  ? 
Skulking  in  cornel's  ?  wishing  clocks  more  swift  ? 
Hours,  minutes  ?  noon,  midnight  ?  and  all  eyes 
Blind  with    the    pin    and  web  but  theirs,  theii's 

only 
That  would  unseen  be  wicked  1  is  this  nothing  ? 
Why,  then  the  world,   and   all  that 's  in  't,   if 

nothing ; 
The  covering  sky  is  nothing  ;  Bohemia  nothing  ; 
My    wife    is   nothing  ;    nor   nothing   have    these 

nothings, 
If  this  be  nothing. 

Cam.  Good,  my  lord,  be  cur'd 

Of  this  diseas'd  opinion,  and  betimes  ; 
For  't  is  most  dangerous. 

Leon.  Say,  it  be  ;  't  is  true. 

Cam.  No,  no,  my  lord. 
Leon.  It  is ;  you  lie,  you  lie  : 

I  say,  thou  liest,  Camillo,  and  I  hate  thee  ; 
Pronounce  thee  a  gross  lout,  a  mindless  slave ; 
Or  else  a  hovering  temporizer,  that 
Canst  with  thine  eyes  at  once  see  good  and  evil, 
Inclining  to  them  both  :    Were  my  wife's  liver 
Infected  as  her  life,  she  would  not  live 
The  running  of  one  glass. 

Cam.  Who  does  infect  her  ? 

Leon.  Why,  ho  that  wears  her  like  a  medal, 

hanging 
About  his  neck,  Bohemia  ; — Who — if  I 
Had  servants  true  about  me,  that  bare  eyes 
To  see  alike  mine  honour  as  their  profit.'. 
Their  own  particular  thrifts, — they  would  do  that 
Which  should  undo  more  doing :  Ay,  and  thou, 
His  cup-bearer, — whom  I  from  meaner  form 
Have  bench'd  and  rear'd  to  worship ;  who  may'^sl 

see 
Plainly,  as  heaven  sees  earth,  and  earth  sees  heaven, 
How  I  am  gall'd, — might'st  bespice  a  cup, 


ACT    I 


TUE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


To  give  mine  enemy  a  lasting  wink  ; 
VVliicb  draught  to  me  were  cordial. 

Cam.  Sir,  my  lord, 

I  could  do  this ;  and  that  with  no  rash  potion, 
Hut  with  a  ling'ring  dram,  that  should  not  work 
Maliciously  like  poison  :    But  I  cannot 
[Jelieve  this  crack  to  be  in  my  dread  mistress, 
So  sovereignly  being  honourable. 
I  have  lov'd  thee, — 

Leon.  Make  that  thy  question,  and  go  rot ! 

Dost  think  I  am  so  muddy,  so  unsettled. 
To  appoint  m3'self  in  this  vexation  ?  sully 
Tlie  purity  and  whiteness  of  my  sheets. 
Which  to  preserve  is  sleep ;  which  being  spotted, 
Is  goads,  thorns,  nettles,  tails  of  wasps  ? 
Give  scandal  to  the  blood  o'  the  prince  my  son, 
Wlio  I  do  think  is  mine,  and  love  as  mine. 
Without  ripe  moving  to  't  ? — Would  I  do  this  ? 
Could  man  so  blench  ? 

Cam.  I  must  believe  you,  sir  ; 

I  do  ;  and  will  fetch  off  Bohemia  for  't : 
Provided,  that  when  he 's  remov'd,  your  highness 
Will  take  again  your  queen,  as  yours  at  first ; 
Even  for  your  son's  sake ;  and,  thereby,  for  sealing 
The  injury  of  tongues,  in  courts  and  kingdoms 
Known  and  ally'd  to  yours. 

Leon.  Thou  dost  advise  me. 

Even  so  as  I  mine  own  course  have  set  down  : 
I  '11  give  no  blemish  to  her  honour,  none. 

Cam.  My  lord. 
Go  then ;  aud  with  a  countenance  as  clear 
As  friendship  wears  at  feasts,  keep  with  Bohemia, 
And  with  your  queen :  I  am  his  cupbearer  ; 
If  from  me  he  have  wholesome  beverage. 
Account  me  not  your  servant. 

Leon.  This  is  all : 

Do  't,  and  thou  hast  the  one  half  of  my  heart ; 
Do  't  not,  thou  splitt'st  thine  own. 

Cam.  I  '11  do  't,  my  lord. 

Leon.  I  will  seem  friendly,  as  thou  hast  advis'd 
me.  [Exit. 

Cam.  0  miserable  lady  ! — But,  for  me. 
What  case  stand  1  in  ?  I  must  be  the  poisoner 
Of  gooil  Polixenes  :  and  my  ground  to  do  't 
Is  the  obedience  to  a  master ;  one. 
Who,  in  rebellion  with  himself,  will  have 
All  that  are  his  so  too. — To  do  this  deed. 
Promotion  follows  :  If  I  could  find  example 
Of  thousands  that  had  struck  anointed  kings 
And  flourish'd  after,  I  'd  not  do  't :  but  since 
Nor  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  parchment,  bears  not  one. 
Let  villany  itself  forswear  't.     I  must 

14 


Forsake  the  court :  to  do  't,  or  no,  is  certain 
To  me  a  break-neck,     llappy  star,  reign  now  1 
Here  comes  Bohemia. 


Pol. 


JRe-enter  Polixenes. 

This  is  strange  !  methinks. 


My  favour  here  begins  to  warp.     Not  speak! — 
Good  day,  Camillo. 

Cam.  Hail,  most  royal  sir  ! 

Pol.  What  is  the  news  i'  the  court  ? 

Catn.  None  rare,  ray  lord. 

Pol.  The  king  hath  on  him  such  a  countenauo€ 
As  he  had  lost  some  province,  and  a  region 
Lov'd  as  he  loves  himself:  even  now  I  met  hira 
With  customary  compliment ;  when  he. 
Wafting  his  eyes  to  the  contrary,  and  falling 
A  lip  of  much  contempt,  speeds  from  me ;  and 
So  leaves  me,  to  consider  what  is  breeding 
That  changes  thus  his  manners. 

Cam.  I  dare  not  know,  my  lord. 

Pol.  How  !  dare  not  ?  do  not  ?     Do  you  know, 
and  dare  not 
Be  intelligent  to  me  ?     'T  is  thereabouts  ; 
For,  to  yourself,  what  you  do  know  you  must ; 
And  cannot  say,  you  dare  not.     Good  Camillo, 
Your  chang'd  complexions  are  to  me  a  mirror, 
Which  shows  me  mine  chang'd  too  :  for  I  must  bo 
A  party  in  this  alteration,  finding 
Myself  thus  alter'd  with  it. 

Cam.  There  is  a  sickness 

Which  puts  some  of  us  in  distemper ;  but 
I  cannot  name  the  disease  ;  and  it  is  caught 
Of  you  that  yet  are  well. 

Pol.  IIow  caught  of  me  ? 

Make  me  not  sighted  like  the  basilisk  : 
I  have  look'd  on  thousands  who  have  sped  the 

better 
By  my  regard,  but  kill'd  none  so.     Camillo — 
As  you  are  certainly  a  gentleman  ;  thereto 
Clerk-like,  experienc'd,  which  no  less  adorns 
Our  gentry,  than  our  parents'  noble  names, 
In  whose  success"  we  ai'e  gentle, — I  beseech  you, 
If  you  know  aught  which  does  behove  my  know- 
ledge 
Thereof  to  be  inform'd,  imprison  't  not 
In  ignorant  concealment. 

Cam.  I  may  not  answer. 

Pol.  A  sickness  caught  of  me,  and  yet  I  well 
I  must  be  answer'd. — Dost  thou  hear,  Camillo  ? 
I  conjure  thee,  by  all  the  parts  of  man 
Which  honour  does  acknowledge, — whereof  the 
least 


iCT    I. 


THE  WrNTEK'S  TALE. 


BOEME    n. 


Is  not  this  suit  of  mine, — that  thou  declare 
What  incidency  thou  dost  guess  of  harm 
Is  creeping  toward  me  ;  how  far  ofl",  how  near  ; 
Which  way  to  be  prevented,  if  to  be  ; 
If  not,  how  best  to  bear  it. 

Cam.  Sir,  I  will  tell  you  ; 

Since  I  am  charg'd  in  honour,  and  by  him 
That  I  think  honourable :    Therefore,  mark  my 

counsel ; 
Which  must  be  e'en  as  swiftly  followed  as 
I  mean  to  utter  it ;  or  both  yourself  and  me 
Cry  "  lost,"  and  so  good  night. 

Pol.  On,  good  Camillo. 

Cam.  I  am  appointed  him  to  murther  you. 

Pol.  By  whom,  Camillo  ? 

Cam.  By  the  king. 

Pol.  For  what  ? 

Cam.  He  thinks,  nay,  with  all  confidence,  he 
swears, 
As  he  had  seen  't  or  been  an  instrument 
To  vice  you  to 't, — that  you  have  touch'd  his  queen 
Forbiddenly. 

Pol.  0,  then  my  best  blood  turn 

To  an  infected  jelly ;  and  my  name 
Be  yok'd  with  his  that  did  betray  the  Best  ! 
Turn  then  my  freshest  reputation  to 
A  savour  that  may  strike  the  dullest  nostril 
Where  I  arrive ;  and  my  approach  be  shunn'd, 
Nay,  hated  too,  worse  than  the  great'st  infection 
That  e'er  was  heard,  or  read  ! 

Cam.  Swear  his  thought  over 

By  each  particular  star  in  heaven,  and 
By  all  their  influences,  you  may  as  well 
Forbid  the  sea  for  to  obey  the  moon, 
As,  or  by  oath,  remove,  or  counsel,  shake 
'I  he  fabric  of  his  folly  ;  whose  foundation 
Is  pil'd  upon  his  faith,  and  will  continue 
TJie  standing  of  his  body. 

Pol.  How  should  this  grow  ? 

Cam.  I  know  not ;  but,  I  am  sure,  't  is  safer  to 

586 


Avoid  what 's  grown  than  question  how  't  is  boro. 
If  therefore  you  dare  trust  my  honesty, — 
That  lies  enclosed  in  this  trunk,  which  you 
Shall  bear  along  impawn'd, — away  to-night. 
Your  followers  I  will  whisper  to  the  business  ; 
And  will,  by  twos  and  threes,  at  several  posterns, 
Clear  them  o'  the  city  :  For  myself,  I  '11  put 
!My  fortunes  to  your  service,  which  are  here 
By  this  discovery  lost.     Be  not  uncertain  ; 
I'^or,  by  the  honour  of  my  parents,  I 
Have    utter'd    truth  :     which,   if   you    seek    to 

prove, 
I  dare  not  stand  by  ;  nor  shall  you  be  safer 
Than  one  condemn'd  by  the  king's  own  moutli, 

thereon 
His  execution  sworn. 

Pol.  I  do  believe  thee  ; 

I  saw  his  heart  in  's  face.     Give  me  thy  hand ; 
Be  pilot  to  me,  and  thy  places  shall 
Still  neighbour  mine  :  My  ships  are  ready,  and 
My  people  did  expect  my  hence  departure 
Two  days  ago. — This  Jealousy 
Is  for  a  precious  creature  :  as  she  's  rare, 
Must  it  be  great ;  and,  as  his  person  's  mighty. 
Must  it  be  violent :  and  as  he  does  conceive 
He  is  dishonour'd  by  a  man  which  ever 
Profess'd  to  him,  why,  his  revenges  must 
In  that   bo  made  more   bitter.      Fear  o'ershades 

me  : 
Good  expedition  be  my  friend,  and  comfort 
The    gracious    queen,    part  of    his    theme,    but 

nothing 
Of  his  ill-ta'en  suspicion  !     Come,  Camillo  ; 
I  will  respect  thee  as  a  father,  if 
Thou  bear'st  my  life  off  hence.     Let  us  avoid. 

Cam.  It  is  in  mine  authority  to  command 
The    keys    of    all    the    posterns :      Please    yout 

highness . 
To  take  the  m'gent  hour  ;   come,  sir,  away. 

[Eiennt. 


^nictC'-. 


ACT  ir.                                            TIIE  WINTER'S  TALE.                                             soske  l 

ACT 

II. 

SCENE  L— Sicilia.     The  Palace. 

To  flight  me  with  your  sprites  :  you  're  powerful 

Enter  Hermione,  Mamillius,  and  Ladies. 

at  it. 
Mam.  There  was  a  man, — 

Her.  Take  the  boy  to  you  :  he  so  troubles  me 

Her,                 Nay,  come,  sit  down  ;  then  on. 

'T  is  past  enduring. 

Mam.  Dwelt  by  a  churchyard ; — I  will  tell  it 

1  Lady.                 Come,  my  gracious  lord, 

softly ; 

Shall  I  be  your  playfellow  ? 

Yon  crickets  shall  not  hear  it. 

Mam.                   No,  I  '11  none  of  you. 

Her.                  Come  on  then, 

1  Lady.  Why,  my  sweet  lord  ? 

And  give  't  me  in  mine  ear. 

Mam:  You  '11  kiss  me  hard ;  and  speak  to  me 

as  if  I  were  a  baby  still. — I  love  you  better. 

Enter  Leontes,  Antigonus,  Lords,  otid  others. 

2  Lady.  And  why  so,  my  lord  ? 

Leon.  Was  he  met  there?  his  train?  Camillo 

Mam.                   Not  for  because 

with  him  ? 

Your  brows  are  blacker ;  yet  black  brows,  they  say. 

1  Lord.  Behind  the  tuft  of  pines  I  met  them ; 

Become  some  women  best ;  so  that  there  be  not 

never 

Too  much  hair  there,  but  in  a  semicircle, 

Saw  I  men  scour  so  on  their  way ;  I  ey'd  them 

Or  a  half-moon  made  with  a  pen. 

Even  to  their  ships. 

2  Lady.                    Who  taught  this  ? 

Leon.                  How  bless'd  am  I 

Mam.  I  leam'd  it  out  of  women's  faces :  pray 

In  my  just  censure  ! — in  my  tnie  opinion  ! 

now 

Alack,  for  lesser  knowledge  ! — How  accurs'd 

What  colour  are  your  eyebrows  ? 

In  being  so  bless'd  ! — There  may  be  in  the  cup 

1  Lady.                    Blue,  my  lord. 

A  spider  steep'd,"  and  one  may  drink ;  depart. 

Mam.  Nay,  that 's  a  mock  :  I  have  seen  a  lady's 

And  yet  parUike  no  venom  :  for  his  knowledge 

nose 

Is  not  infected  :  but  if  one  present 

That  has  been  blue,  but  not  her  eyebrows. 

The  abhorr'd  ingredieut  to  his  eye,  make  known 

2  Lady.                   Hark  ye  : 

How  he  hath  drunk,    he   cracks  his  gorge,  hia 

The  queen,  your  mother,  rounds  apace  :  we  shall 

sides 

Present  our  services  to  a  fine  new  prince. 

With  violent  hefts  : — I  have  drunk,  and  seen  the 

One  of  these  days  ;  and  then  you  'd  wanton  with 

spider. 

us. 

Camillo  was  his  help  in  this,  his  pander  : — 

If  wo  would  have  you. 

There  is  a  plot  against  my  life,  my  crown  ; 

1  Lady.                   She  is  spread  of  late 

All  's  true  that  is  mistrusted  : — that  fiilse  villain, 

Into  a  goodly  bulk  :  Good  time  encounter  her ! 

Whom  I  employ'd,  was  pre-employ'd  by  him  : 

Her.  What  wisdom  stirs  amongst  you  ?    Come, 

He  has  discover'd  my  design,  and  I 

sir,  now 

Remain  a  pinch'd  thing ;  yea,  a  very  trick 

I  am  for  you  again  :  Pray  you,  sit  by  us. 

For  them  to  play  at  will : — How  came  the  [osterna 

And  tell  's  a  tale. 

So  easily  open  ? 

Mam.                   MeiTy,  or  sad,  shall  't  be  ? 

1  Lord.                 By  his  great  authority  ; 

Her.  As,  merry  as  you  will. 

Which  often  hath  no  less  prevail'd  than  so, 

Mam.                   A  sad  tale  's  best  for  winter  : 

On  your  command. 

I  have  one  of  sprites  and  goblins. 

Leon.                   I  know  't  too  well. — 

Her.                   Let 's  have  that,  good  sir. 

Give  me  tlie  boy  ;  I  am  glad  you  did  not  nniso 

Come  on,  sit  down  : — Come  on,  and  do  your  best 

him  : 

687 

1 

THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


Though  he  does  bear  some  signs  of  me,  yet  you 
Have  too  much  blood  in  him. 

Her.  What  is  this  ?  sport  ? 

Leyn.  Bear  the  boy  hence,  he  shall  not  come 
about  her ; 
Away  with  him  : — and  let  her  sport  herself 
With  that  she  's  big  with ;  for  't  is  Polixenes 
Has  made  thee  swell  thus. 

Her.  But  I  'd  say,  he  had  not ; 

And,  I  '11  be  sworn,  you  would  believe  my  saying 
Howc'er  you  lean  to  th'  nayward. 

Leon.  You,  my  lords, 

Look  on  her,  mark  her  well ;  be  but  about 
To  say  "  she  is  a  goodly  lady,"  and 
The  justice  of  your  hearts  will  thereto  add, 
"  'T  is  pity  she  's  not  honest  honourable  :" 
Praise  her  but  for  this  her  >vithout-door  form, 
(Which,  on  my  faith,  deserves  high  speech,)  and 

straight 
The  shrug,  the  hum,  or  ha ;  these  petty  brands 
That  calumny  doth  use : — O,  I  am  out, 
That  mercy  does  ;  for  calumny  will  sear 


Virtue   itself :    these    shrugs. 


these    hums,   and 


ha's. 


When  you  have  said  she  's  goodly,  come  between, 
Ere  you  can  say  she  's  honest :  But  be  't  known. 
From  him  that  has  most  cause  to  grieve  it  should 

be, 
She  's  an  adultress. 

Her.  Should  a  villain  say  so. 

The  most  replenish'd  \'illain  in  the  world. 
He  were  as  much  more  villain :  you,  my  lord. 
Do  but  mistake. 

Leon.  You  have  mistook,  my  lady, 

I'olixenes  for  Leontes  :  O  thou  thing, 
Which  I  'II  not  call  a  creature  of  thy  place, 
Lest  barbarism,  making  me  the  precedent, 
Should  a  like  language  use  to  all  degrees. 
And  mannerly  distinguishment  leave  out 
Betwixt  the  prince  and  beggar ! — I  have  said. 
She  's  an  adultress  ;  I  have  said,  with  whom  ; 
More,  she  's  a  traitor ;  and  Camilla  is 
A  federary"  with  her  ;  and  one  that  knows 
What  she  should  shame  to  know  herself. 
But  with  her  most  vilJ  principal,  that  she  's 
A  bed-Rwerver,  even  as  bad  as  those 
That  vulgars  give  bold'st  titles  ;  ay,  and  privy 
To  this  their  late  escape. 

Her.  No,  by  my  life, 

Privy  to  none  of  this  :    How  will  this  grieve  you 
When  you  shall  come  to  clearer  knowledge,  that 
Vou  thus  have  publish'd  me       Gentle  my  loid, 
688 


You  scarce  can  right  me  throughly  then,  to  say 
You  did  mistake. 

Leon.  No  ;  if  I  mistake 

In  those  foundations  which  I  build  upon, 
The  centre  is  not  big  enough  to  bear 
A  schoolboy's  top. — Away  with  her  to  prison  : 
He  who  shall  speak  for  her  is  afar  off  guilty 
But  that  he  speaks. 

Her.  There  's  some  ill  planet  reigns  : 
I  must  be  patient,  till  the  heavens  look 
With  an  aspect  more  favourable. — Good  my  lords, 
I  am  not  prone  to  weeping,  as  our  sex 
Commonly  are  ;  the  want  of  which  vain  dew. 
Perchance,  shall  dry  your  pities :  but  I  have 
That  honourable  grief  lodg'd  here,  which  bums 
Worse  than  tears  drown  :   'Beseech  you  all,  my 

lords. 
With  thoughts  so  qualified  as  your  charities 
Shall  best  instruct  you,  measure  me  ; — and  so 
The  king's  will  be  perform'd  ! 

Leon.  Shall  I  be  heard  ?  [  JT? /Ae  Guards 

Her.  Who  is  't  that  goes  with  me  ? — 'Beseech 
your  highness. 
My  women  may  be  with  me  :  for,  you  see, 
My  plight  requires  it.     Do  not  weep,  good  fools  ; 
There  is  no  cause  :   when   you  shall  know   your 

mistress 
Has  deserv'd  prison,  then  abound  in  tears, 
As  I  come  out :  this  action  I  now  go  on 
Is  for  my  better  grace. — Adieu,  my  lord  ; 
I  never  wish'd  to  see  you  sorry  ;  now, 
I   trust  I  shall. — My  women,  come ;   you    have 
leave. 

Leon.  Go,  do  our  bidding;  hence. 

\Exexint  Queen  and  Ladies. 

1  Lord.  'Beseech  your  highness,  call  the  queen 
again. 

Ant.  Be  certain  what  you  do,  sir;  lest  your 
justice 
Prove  violence  :   in  the  which  three  great  ones 

suffer  : 
Yourself,  your  queen,  your  son. 

1  Lord.  For  her,  my  lord, 

I  dare  my  life  lay  down,  and  will  do  't,  sir. 
Please  you  t'  accept  it,  that  the  queen  is  sjx>tlos8 
r  th'  eyes  of  Heaven,  and  to  you  ;  I  mean, 
In  this  which  you  accuse  her. 

Ant.  If  it  prove 

She  's  otherwise,  1  '11  keep  my  stables  whore 
I  lodge  my  wife  ;  I'  11  go  in  cou])les  with  hoi  ; 
Than  when  I  feel  and  see  her,  no  further  tnist 
her; 


TUE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


b(;enk  II. 


For  every  inch  of  woman  in  the  world, 
Ay,  every  dram  of  woman's  flesh,  is  false, 
If  she  be. 

Leon.  Hold  your  peaces. 

1  Lord.  Good,  my  lord, — 

Ant.  It  is  for  you  we  speak,  not  for  ourselves : 
You  are  abus'd,  and  by  some  putter-on, 
That  will   be  damn'd  for  't ;  would  I  knew   the 

villain, 
I  would  land-damn"  him  :   Be  she  honour-flaw'd — 
I  have  three  daughters  ;  the  eldest  is  eleven  ; 
The  second,  and  the  third,  nine,  and  some  five ;" 
If  this  prove  true,  they  '11  pay  for  't :  by  mine 

honour, 
I  '11  geld  'em  all :  fourteen  they  shall  not  see, 
To  bring  false  generations  :  they  are  co-heirs ; 
And  I  had  rather  glib  myself  than  they 
Should  not  produce  fair  issue. 

Leon.  Cease  ;  no  more. 

You  smell  this  business  with  a  sense  aa  cold 
As  is  a  dead  man's  nose  ;  but  I  do  see  't  and  feel  't, 
As  you  feel  doing  thus  ;  and  see  withal 
The  instruments  that  feel. 

Ant.  K  it  be  so, 

We  need  no  grave  to  bury  honesty ; 
There  's  not  a  grain  of  it,  the  face  to  sweeten 
Of  the  whole  dungy  earth. 

Leon.  What !  lack  I  credit  ? 

1  Lord.  I  had  rather  you  did  lack  than  I,  my 
lord, 
Upon  this  ground  :  and  more  it  would  content  me 
To  have  her  honour  true,  than  your  suspicion ; 
Be  blam'd  for  't  how  you  might. 

Leon.  Why,  what  need  we 

Commune  with  you  of  this  ?  but  rather  follow 
Our  forceful  instigation  ?     Our  prerogative 
Calls  not  your  counsels ;  but  our  natural  goodnes.s 
Imparts  this  :  which — if  you  (or  stnpified, 
Or  seeming  so  in  skill)  cannot,  or  will  not. 
Relish  a  truth  like  us ;  inform  yourselves. 
We  need  no  more  of  your  advice  :  the  matter. 
The  loss,  the  gain,  the  ord'ring  on  't,  is  all 
Properly  ours. 

Anl.  And  I  wish,  my  liege. 

You  had  rnly  in  your  silent  judgment  tried  it. 
Without  more  overture. 

Leon.  How  could  that  be  ? 

Either  thou  art  most  ignorant  by  age. 
Or  thou  wert  born  a  fool.     Camillo's  flight. 
Added  to  their  familiaiity, 
(Which  was  as  gross  as  ever  touch'd  conjecture, 
That  lack'd  sight  only,  nought  for  approbation, 


But  only  seeing,  all  other  circumstances 
Made  up  to  th'  deed,)    doth  push  on   this  pro- 
ceeding. 
Yet,  for  a  greater  confirmation, 
(For,  in  an  act  of  this  importance,  't  wore 
Most  piteous  to  be  wild,)  I  have  despatch'd  in  post 
To  sacred  Delphos,  to  Apollo's  temple, 
Clcomenes  and  Dion,  whom  you  know 
Of  stuft''d  sufficiency :   Now,  from  the  oracle 
They  will  bring  all  ;  whose  spiritual  counsel  had 
Shall  stop,  or  spur  me.     Uave  I  done  well  \ 

1  Lord.  Well  done,  my  lord. 

Leon.  Though  I  am  satisfied,  and  need  no  more 
Than  what  I  know,  yet  shall  the  oracle 
Give  rest  to  the  minds  of  othei-s ;  such  as  he 
Whose  ignorant  credulity  will  not 
Come  up  to  th'  truth :    So  have  we  thought  it 

good, 
From  our  free  person  she  should  be  confin'd  ; 
Lest  that  the  treachery  of  the  two,  fled  hence, 
Be  left  her  to  perform.     Come,  follow  us ; 
We  are  to  speak  in  public ;  for  this  business 
Will  raise  us  all. 

Ant.  \Ande^  To  laughter,  as  I  take  it, 
If  the  good  truth  were  known.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  n.— rAe  same.     The  outer  Room  of  a 

Prison. 

Enter  Paulina  and  Attendants. 
Paul.  The  keeper  of  the  prison, — call  to  him ; 
\Exit  an  Attendant 
Let  him  have  knowledge  who  I  am. — Good  lady 
No  court  in  Europe  is  too  good  for  thee. 
What  dost  thou  then  in  prison  ? — Now,  good  sir, 

Re-enter  Attendant,  with  the  Keeper. 

You  know  me,  do  you  not  ? 

Keep.  For  a  worthy  lady, 

And  one  whom  much  I  honour. 

Paul.  Pray  you  then, 

Conduct  me  to  the  queen. 

Keep.  I  may  not,  madam  ;  to  the  contrary 
I  have  express  commandment. 

Paul.  Here  's  ado. 

To  lock  up  honesty  and  honour  from 
Th'  access  of  gentle  visitors  ! — Is  't  lawful,  pray 

you. 

To  see  her  women  ?  any  of  them  ?  Emiha  J 

Keep.  So  please  you,  madam. 
To  put  apart  these  your  attendants,  I 
Shall  bring  Emilia  forth. 

689 


THE  WINTER'S  TALK 


SCENE   in. 


Paul.  I  pray  now,  call  her. 

Withdraw  yourselves.  [Exeunt  Attendants. 

Keep.  And,  madam, 

I  must  be  present  at  your  conference. 

Patd.  Well,  be  't  so,  prithee. 

[Exit  Keeper, 
llere  's  such  ado  to  make  lo  stain  a  stain, 
As  passes  colouring. 

Re-enter  Keeper,  with  Emiua. 

Dear  gentlewoman, 
How  fares  our  gracious  lady  ? 

Emil.  As  well  as  one  so  great,  and  so  forlorn. 
May  hold  together  :  on  her  frights,  and  griefs, 
(Which  never  tender  lady  hath  borne  greater,) 
She  is,  something  before  her  time,  deliver'd. 

Paul.  A  boy  ? 

Emil.  A  daughter  ;  and  a  goodly  babe, 

Lusty,  and  like  to  live :  the  queen  receives 
Much  comfort  in  't :  says,  "  My  poor  prisoner, 
I  am  innocent  as  you." 

Paul.  I  dare  be  sworn  : — 

These    dangerous    unsafe    lunes    i'    tlie    king  !" 

beshrew  them  ! 
He  must  be  told  on  't,  and  he  shall :  the  otBco 
Becomes  a  woman  best ;  I  '11  take  't  upon  me  : 
If  I  prove  honey-mouth'd,  let  my  tongue  blister ; 
And  never  to  my  red-look'd  anger  be 
The  trumpet  any  more  : — Pray  you,  Emilia, 
Commend  my  best  obedience  to  the  queen  ; 
If  she  dares  trust  me  with  her  little  babe, 
I  'U  show  't  the  king,  and  undertake  to  be 
Her  advocate  to  th'  loud'st :  We  do  not  know 
How  he  may  soften  at  the  sight  o'  the  child  ; 
The  silence  often  of  pure  innocence 
Persuades,  when  speaking  fails. 

Emil.  Most  worthy  madam, 

Your  honour,  and  your  goodness,  is  so  evident, 
That  your  free  undertaking  cannot  miss 
A  thriving  issue  ;  there  is  no  lady  living 
So  meet  for  this  great  en-and  :   Please  your  lady- 
ship 
To  vJsit  the  next  room,  I  '11  presently 
Acquaint  the  queen  of  your  most  noble  offer; 
Who,  but  to-day,  hammor'd  of  this  design  ; 
But  durst  not  tempt  a  minister  of  honour. 
Lest  she  should  be  deny'd. 

Paul.  Tell  her,  Emilia, 

I  '11  use  tli.it  tonguo  I  have :  if  wit  flow  from  't, 
As  boldness  from  my  bosom,  lot  't  not  be  doubted 
I  shall  do  good. 

Emil  Xaw  be  you  bless'd  for  it  1 

690 


I  '11  to  the  queen     Please  you,  come  something 
nearer. 

Keep.  !Madam,  if  't  please  the  queen  to  send  the 
babe, 
I  know  not  what  I  shall  incur,  to  pass  it, 
Having  no  warrant. 

Paul.  You  need  not  fear  it,  sir  : 
This  child  was  prisoner  to  the  womb  ;  and  "iS, 
By  law  and  process  of  great  nature,  thence 
Freed  and  enfi-anchis'd  :  not  a  party  to 
The  anger  of  the  king ;  nor  guilty  of, 
If  any  be,  the  trespass  of  the  queen. 

Keejj.  I  do  believe  it. 

Paul.  Do  not  you  fear ;  upon  mine  honour,  I 
Will  stand  betwixt  you  and  danger.  [Exeunt, 

SCENE  HI. — The  same.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Leontes,  Antigonus,  Lords,  and  other 
Attendants. 

Leon.  Nor  night  nor  day,  no  rest  :    It  is  but 
weakness 
To  bear  the  matter  thus ;  mere  weakness,  if 
The   cause  were    not   in    being  ; — part    o'    tlie 

cause, 
She,  th'  adultress ;  for  the  harlot  king 
Is  quite  beyond  mine  arm,  out  of  the  blank 
And  level  of  my  brain,  plot-proof ;  but  she 
I  can  hook  to  me  :    Say,  that  she  were  gone. 
Given  to  the  fire,  a  moiety  of  my  rest 
Might  come  to  me  again. — Who  's  there  ? 

1  Attend.  My  lord  1  [Advancing 

Leon.  How  does  the  boy  ? 

1  Attend.  He  took  good  rest  to-night 

'T  is  hop'd  his  sickness  is  discharg'd. 

Leon.  To  see  his  nobleness  ! 
Concei\'ing  the  dishonour  of  his  mother. 
He  straight  declin'd,  droop'd,  took  it  deeply  ; 
Fasten'd  and  fix'd  the  shame  on  't  in  himself; 
Threw  off  his  spirit,  his  appetite,  his  sleep. 
And  downright  languish'd. — Leave  me  solely  : — 

See  how  he  fiires.     [Exit  Attendant.] — Fie,  fie 

no  thought  of  him  ; 
The  very  thought  of  my  revenges  that  way 
Recoil  upon  mo  :  in  himself  too  mighty  : 
And  in  his  parties,  his  alliance. — Let  him  be. 
Until  a  time  ma}'  serve  :  for  present  vengeance; 
Take  it  on  her.     Camillo  and  Polixenes 
Laugh  at  mo  ;  make  their  pastime  at  my  sorrow  : 
They  should  not  laugh  if  I  could  leach  them ;  nor 
Shall  she,  within  my  power. 


ACT  II. 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


Enter  Paulina,  with  a  child. 

1  Lord.  You  must  not  enter. 

Faul.  Nay,  ratlier,  good  my  lords,  be  second 
to  me : 
Fear  you  his  tyrannous  passion  more,  alas, 
Than  the  queen's  life  ?  a  gracious  innocent  soul ; 
More  free  than  he  is  jealous. 
Ant.  That 's  enough. 

1   Attend.  Madam,  he  hath  not  slept  to-night ; 
commanded 
N^one  should  come  at  him. 

Faul.  Not  so  hot,  good  sir ; 

I  come  to  bring  him  sleep.     'T  is  such  as  you, — 
That  creep  like  shadows  by  him,  and  do  sigh 
At  each  his  needless  hearings, — such  as  you 
Nourish  the  cause  of  his  awaking :  I 
Do  come  with  words  as  medicinal  as  true ; 
Honest  as  either ;  to  purge  him  of  that  humour 
That  presses  him  fi'om  sleep. 

Leon.  What  noise  there,  ho  ? 

Paul.  No  noise,  my  lord ;  but  needful  conference. 
About  some  gossips  for  your  highness. 

Leon.  How  ? — 

Away  with  that  audacious  lady :  Antigonus, 
I  charg'd  thee  that  she  should  not  come  about  me  ; 
I  knew  she  would. 

Ant.  I  told  her  so,  my  lord, 

On  your  displeasure's  peril,  and  on  mine, 
She  should  not  «sit  you. 

Leon.  What,  canst  not  nile  her  3 

Paul.  From  all  dishonesty  he  can  :  in  this, 
(Unless  he  take  the  course  that  you  have  done, 
Commit  me,  for  committing  honour,)  trust  it, 
He  shall  not  rule  me. 

Ant.  La  you  now  ;  you  hear ! 

When  she  will  take  the  rein,  I  let  her  run ; 
But  she  'U  not  stumble. 

Paul.  Good  my  liege,  I  come, — 

And,  I  beseech  you,  hear  me,  who  professes 
Myself  your  loyal  seiTant,  your  physician. 
Your  most  obedient  counsellor ;  yet  that  dares 
Less  appear  so,  in  comforting  your  evils. 
Than  such  as  most  seem  yours, — I  say,  I  come 
From  your  good  queen. 

Leon.  Good  queen ! 

Paul.  Good  queen,  my  lord,  good  queen :  I  say, 
good  queen ; 
And  would  by  combat  make  her  good,  so  were  I 
A  man,  the  worst  about  you. 
Leon.  Force  her  hence. 

Pattl.  Let  him  that  makes  but  trifles  of  his  eyes 


First  hand  me :  on  mine  own  accord,  I  '11  off; 
I^ut,  first,  I  '11  do  my  errand. — The  good  queen. 
For  she  is  good,  hath  brought  you  forth  a  daughter : 
Hero 't  is  ;  commends  it  to  your  blessing. 

[Lat/inff  down  the  child. 
Leon.  Out ! 

A  mankind  witch  1"  Hence  with  her,  out  o'  door" 
A  most  intelligencing  bawd  ! 

Paul.  Not  so : 

I  am  as  ignorant  in  that,  as  you 
In  so  entitling  me :  and  no  less  honest 
Than  you  are  mad  ;  which  is  enough,  I  '11  warrant, 
As  this  world  goes,  to  pass  for  honest. 

Leon.  Traitors ! 

Will  you  not  push  her  out  ?  Give  her  the  bastard — 
Thou   dotard,  [to  Antigonus]  thou   art  woman- 

tir'd,  unroosted 
By  thy  dame  Partlet  here, — take  up  the  bastard 
Take 't  up,  I  say ;  give  't  to  thy  crone. 

Paul.  For  ever 

Unvenerable  be  thy  hands,  if  thou 
Tak'st  up  the  princess,  by  that  forced  baseness 
Which  he  has  put  upon  't ! 

Leon.  He  dreads  his  \\'ife. 

Paul.  So  I  would  you  did ;  then  't  were  past  all 
doubt 
You  'd  call  your  children  yours. 

Leon,  A  nest  of  traitors  !" 

Atii.  I  am  none,  by  this  good  light. 
Paul.  Nor  I ;  nor  any. 

But    one,    that  's    here;    and    that's    himself: 

for  he 
The  sacred  honour  of  himself,  his  queen's. 
His  hopeful  son's,  his  babe's,  betrays  to  slander, 
Whose   sting  is   sharper  than  the  sword's ;   and 

will  not 
(For  as  the  case  now  stands,  it  is  a  cui^se 
He  cannot  be  compelled  to  't)  once  remove 
The  root  of  his  opinion,  which  is  rotten. 
As  ever  oak,  or  stone,  was  sound. 
Leon.  A  callat" 

Of  boundless   tongue ;  who   late   hath  beat  hei 

husband, 
And  now  baits  me  ! — This  brat  is  none  of  mine ; 
It  is  the  issue  of  Polixenes : 
Hence  with  it ;  and,  together  with  the  dam, 
Commit  them  to  the  fire. 

Paul.  It  is  yours ; 

And,  might  we  lay  th'  old  proverb  to  your  charge, 
So  like  you,  't  is  the  worse. — Behold,  my  lords. 
Although  the  print  be  little,  the  whole  matter 
And  copy  of  the  father :  eye,  nose,  lip, 

C91 


ACT    IT. 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


BCENS   m. 


The  trick    of  his  frown,  his  forehead  ;   nay,   the 

valley, 
The   pretty  dimples  of  his  chin  and  cheek ;  his 

smiles ; 
The  very  mould  and  frame  of  hand,  nail,  finger : — 
And    thou,   good    goddess    Nature,   which    hast 

made  it 
So  like  to  him  that  got  it,  if  thou  hast 
The  ordering  of  the  mind  too,  'mongst  all  colours 
No  yellow  in  't ;  lest  she  suspect,  as  ho  does. 
Her  children  not  her  husband's  ! 

Leon.  A  gross  hag ! 

And,  lozel,'"  thou  art  worthy  to  be  hang'd. 
That  wilt  not  stay  her  tongue. 

Ant.  Hang  all  the  husbands 

That  cannot  do  that  feat,  you  '11  leave  yourself 
Hardly  one  subject. 

Leon.  Once  more,  take  her  hence. 

Paul.  A  most  unworthy  and  unnatural  lord 
Can  do  no  more. 

Leon.  I  '11  have  thee  burn'd. 

PauL  I  care  not : 

It  is  an  heretic  that  makes  the  fire. 
Not  she  which  burns   in  't.     I  '11  not   call   you 

tyrant ; 
But  this  most  cruel  usage  of  your  queen 
(Not  able  to  produce  more  accusation 
Than   your   own    weak-hing'd   fancy)    something 

savours 
Of  tyranny,  and  will  ignoble  make  you, 
Yea,  scandalous  to  the  world. 

Leon.  On  your  allegiance. 

Out  of  the  chamber  with  her.     Were  I  a  t3rant. 
Where  were  her  life  ?  she  durst  not  call  me  so, 
K  she  did  know  me  one.     Away  with  her. 

Paul.  I  pray  you,  do  not  push  me ;  I  '11  be  gone. 
Look  to  your  babe,  my  lord ;  't  is  yours :  Jove 

send  her 
A    better    guiding    spirit ! — What    need     these 

hands  ? — 
You,  that  are  thus  so  tender  o'er  his  follies, 
Will  never  do  him  good,  not  one  of  you. 
So,  so : — Farewell ;  we  are  gone.  [Urit. 

Leon.  Thou,  traitor,  hast   set   on   thy  wife    to 
this.— 
My  child  !  away  with  't — even  thou,  that  hast 
A  heart  so  tender  o'er  it,  take  it  hence, 
And  see  it  instantly  cousum'd  with  fire; 
Even   thou,   and    none  but    thou.     Take  it    up 

straight: 
Within  this  hour  bring  mo  word  't  is  done, 
(And  by  jrood  t^stimonv,)  or  I  '11  seize  thy  life. 
6B2 


With  what  thou  else  call'st  thine :  If  thou  refuse. 
And  wilt  encounter  with  my  wrath,  say  so : 
The  bastard  brains  with  these  my  proper  hands 
Shall  I  dash  out.     Go,  take  it  to  the  fire ; 
For  thou  sett'st  on  thy  wife. 

Ant.  I  did  not,  sir: 

These  lords,  my  noble  fellows,  if  they  please, 
Can  clear  me  in 't. 

1  &  2  Lord.  We  can,  my  royal  liege. 

He  is  not  guilty  of  her  coming  hither. 

Leon.  Y''ou  are  liars  all. 

1  Lord.  'Beseech  your  highness,  give  us  better 
credit ; 
We  have  always  truly  serv'd  you,  and  beseech 
So  to  esteem  of  us :  And  on  our  knees  we  beg, 
(As  recompense  of  our  dear  services. 
Past,    and    to   come,)    that   you   do  change  this 

purpose ; 
Which,  being  so  horrible,  so  bloody,  must 
Lead  on  to  some  foul  issue :  We  all  kneel. 

Leon.    I   am   a  feather  for    each   wind    that 
blows : — 
Shall  I  live  on,  to  see  this  bastard  kneel 
And  call  me  father  ?     Better  burn  it  now, 
Than  curse  it  then.     But^  be  it ;  let  it  live : 
It  shall  not  neither.     Y^ou,  sir,  come  you  hither ; 

[to  Ant 
You,  that  have  been  so  tenderly  officious 
With  lady  Margerj',  your  midwife,  there. 
To  save  this  bastard's  life  :  for  't  is  a  bastard. 
So   sure   as   this   beard  's  grey, — what  will  you 

adventure 
To  save  this  brat's  life  ? 

Ant.  Anything,  my  lord, 

Th&t  my  ability  may  undergo. 
And  nobleness  impose  :  at  least,  thus  much, — 
I  '11  pawn  the  little  blood  which  I  have  left 
To  save  the  innocent :  anything  possible. 

Leon.   It  shall   be   pos.sible :    Swear    by   thia 
sword. 
Thou  wilt  perform  my  bidding. 

Ant.  I  will,  my  lord. 

Leon.  Mark,  and  perform  it ;  (seest  thou  ?)  for 
the  fail 
Of  any  point  in  't  shall  not  only  be 
Death  to  thyself,  but  to  thy  lewd-tongu'd  wife  ; 
Whom,  for  this  time,  we  pardon.  We  enjoin  thee, 
As  thou  art  liegeman  to  us,  that  thou  cany 
This  female  bastard  hence ;  and  that  thou  bear  it 
To  some  remote  and  desert  place,  quite  out 
Of  our  dominions;  and  that  there  thou  leave  iL 
Without  more  mercy,  to  its  own  protection. 


THE  WLNIEK'S  TALE. 


BCENB  I U. 


And  favour  of  llie  climate.    As  by  strange  fortune 
[t  oaiue  to  us,  I  do  in  justice  cliargo  thee, — 
On  thy  soul's  peril,  and  thy  body's  torture, — 
That  thou  commend  it  strangely  to  some  place 
Where  chance  may  nurse,  or  end  it :  Take  it  up. 

Aiit.  I  swear  to  do  this,  though  a  present  death 
lii'd  been  more  merciful. — Como  on,  poor  babe  : 
Some  powerful  spirit  instruct  the  kites  and  ravens 
I'o  be  thy  nurses !    Wolves  and  beare,  they  say, 
Cit^tins:  their  savaffeness  aside,  have  done 
Like  offices  of  pity. — Sir,  be  prosperous 
In  more  than  this  deed  doth  require !  and  blessing, 
Against  this  cruelty,  fight  on  thy  side, 
Poor  thing,  condemn'd  to  loss  ! 

[£xil,  with  the  Child. 

Leon.  No,  I  '11  not  rear 

Another's  issue. 


1  Attend.  Please  your  highness,  posts. 
From  those  you  sent  to  th'  oracle,  are  come 
An  hour  since  :  Cleomenes  and  Dion, 
Being  well  amv'd  from  Delphos,  are  both  landed, 
Hasting  to  th'  court. 

1  Lord.  So  please  you,  sir,  their  speod 

Hath  been  beyond  account. 

Leon.  Twenty-three  days 
They  have  been  absent :  't  is  good  speed  ;  foretells 
The  gi'eat  Apollo  suddenly  will  have 
The  truth  of  this  appear.     Prepare  you,  lords ; 
Summon  a  session,  that  we  may  arraign 
Our  most  disloyal  lady :  for,  as  she  hath 
Been  publicly  accus'd,  so  shall  she  have 
A  just  and  open  trial.     While  she  lives, 
My  heart  will  be  a  burthen  to  me.     Leave  me ; 
And  think  upon  my  bidding.  \£!xeunt. 


ACT    III. 


SCEOT  L— Sicilia.    A  Street. 

Enter  Cleomenes  and  Dion. 

Clco.  The  climate  's   delicate  :   the   air   most 
sweet ; 
Fertile  the  isle  ;  the  temple  much  surpassing 
The  common  praise  it  bears. 

Dion.  I  shall  report. 

For  most  it  caught  me,  the  celestial  habits, 
(Methinks  I  so  should  term  them,)  and  the  re- 
verence 
Of  the  grave  wearers.     O,  the  sacrifice  ! 
How  ceremonious,  solemn,  and  unearthly 
[t  was  i'  th'  oifering  ! 

Clco.  But,  of  all,  the  burst 

And  the  ear-deaf'ning  voice  o'  th'  oracle, 
Fan  to  Jove's  thunder,  so  surpris'd  my  sense. 
That  I  was  nothing. 

I)ion.  If  th'  event  o'  the  journey 

Prove  as  successful  to  the  queen, — 0,  be  't  so  ! — 
As  it  hath  been  to  us  rare,  pleasant,  speedy, 
llie  time  is  wortli  the  use  on  't. 

Clco  Great  Apollo, 

Turn  all  to  th'  best !     These  proclamations. 
So  forcing  faults  upon  Hermione, 
t  little  like. 

Dion.  The  violent  carriage  of  it 


Will  clear,  or  end,  the  business  :  When  the  oracle 
(Thus  by  Apollo's  great  divine  seal'd  up) 
Shall  the  contents  discover,  something  rare 
Even  then  -will  rush  to  knowledge. — Go, — fresh 

horses ; — 
And  gracious  be  the  issue  !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  Jl.—Tlie  same.     A  Court  of  Justice. 

Leontes,  Lords,  and  OflScers,  appear  properly  seated. 

Leon.  This  sessions  (to  our  great  grief  we  pro- 
nouDce) 
Even  pushes  'gainst  our  heart :  The  party  try'd, 
The  daughter  of  a  king  ;  our  wife ;  and  one 
Of  us  too  much  belov'd. — Let  us  be  clear'd 
Of  being  tyrannous,  since  we  so  openly 
Proceed  in  justice  ;  which  shall  have  due  course, 
Even  to  the  guilt,  or  the  purgation. 
Produce  the  prisoner. 

Offi.  It  is  his  highness'  pleasure  tliat  the  queen 
Appear  in  person  here  in  court. — Silence  ! 

Hermione  is  brought  in,  gxiarded  ;  Pauxina  and 
Ladies  aitcndlnff. 

Leon.  Read  the  indictment. 
Offi.  "  Hermione,  queen  to  the  worthy  Lcontcs, 
king  of  Sicilia,  thou  art  here  accused  and  airaigned 

fi93 


TllK  WINTER'S  TALE. 


SCENE    U. 


of  high  treason,  in  committing  adultery  with  Po- 
lixenes,  king  of  Bohemia ;  and  conspiring  with 
Camillo  to  take  away  the  life  of  our  sovereign  lord 
the  king,  thy  royal  husband :  the  pretence^'  whereof 
being  by  circumstances  partly  laid  open,  thou, 
Hermione,  contrary  to  the  faith  and  allegiance  of 
a  true  subject,  didst  counsel  and  aid  them,  for 
their  better  safety,  to  fly  away  by  night." 

Her.  Since  what  I  am  to  say  must  be  but  that 
Which  contradicts  my  accusation,  and 
The  testimony  on  my  part  no  other 
But  what  comes  from  myself,  it  shall  scarce  boot 

me 
To  say,  "  Not  guilty  ;"  mine  integrity, 
Being  counted  falsehood,  shall,  as  I  express  it. 
Be  so  receiv'd.     But  thus, — If  powers  divine 
Behold  our  human  actions,  as  they  do, 
I  doubt  not  then  but  innocence  shall  make 
False  accusation  blush,  and  tyranny 
Tremble  at  patience. — You,  my  lord,  best  know, 
(Whoni  -east  will  seem  to  do  so,)  my  past  life 
Hath  been  as  continent,  as  chaste,  as  true, 
As  I  am  now  unhappy ;  which  is  more 
Than  history  can  pattern,  though  devis'd. 
And  played,  to  take  spectatore  :  For  behold  me, — 
A  fellow  of  the  royal  bed,  which  owe 
A  moiety  of  the  throne,  a  great  king's  daughter. 
The  mother  to  a  hopeful  prince, — here  standing, 
To  prate  and  talk  for  life  and  honour  'fore 
Who  please  to  come  and  hear.    For  life,  I  prize  it. 
As  I  weigh  grief,  which  I  would  spare  :  for  honour, 
'T  is  a  derivative  from  me  to  mine, 
And  only  that  I  stand  for.     I  appeal 
To  your  own  conscience,  sir,  before  Polixenes 
Came  to  your  court,  how  I  was  in  your  grace, 
How  merited  to  be  so  ;  since  he  came, 
With  what  encounter  so  uncun-ent  I 
Have  strain'd,  t'  appear  thus  :  if  one  jot  beyond 
The  bound  of  honour ;  or,  in  act  or  will. 
That  way  inclining ;  harden'd  be  the  hearts 
Of  all  that  bear  me,  and  my  near'st  of  kin 
Ciy  Fie  !  upon  my  grave  ! 

Leon.  I  ne'er  heard  yet, 

That  any  of  these  bolder  vices  wanted 
Le.ss  impudence  to  gainsay  what  they  did, 
Tlian  to  perform  it  first. 

Her.  That 's  true  enough  ; 

Tliougli  't  is  a  saying,  sir,  not  due  to  me. 

Leon.  You  will  not  own  it. 

Her.  More  tlian  mistress  of, 

Whidi  comes  to  me  in  name  of  fault,  I  nnist  not 
At  all  acknowledge.     For  Polixenes, 

694 


(With  whom  I  am  accus'd,)  I  do  confess, 

I  lov'd  him,  as  in  honour  he  requir'd. 

With  such  a  kind  of  love  as  might  become 

A  lady  like  me ;  with  a  love,  even  such, 

So,  and  no  other,  as  yourself  commanded  : 

Which  not  to  have  done,  I  think,  had  been  in  in>' 

Both  disobedience  and  ingratitude. 

To  you,  and  toward  your  friend ;  whose  love  liad 

spoke, 
Even  since  it  could  speak,  from  au  infant,  freely. 
That  it  was  yours.     Now,  for  conspiracy, 
I  Know  not  how  it  tastes ;  though  it  be  dish'd 
For  me  to  try  how  :  all  I  know  of  it 
Is,  that  Camillo  was  an  honest  man  ; 
And,  why  he  left  your   court,   the    gods  them 

selves, 
Wotting  no  more  than  I,  are  ignorant. 

Leon.  You  knew  of  his  departure,  as  you  know 
What  you  have  underta'en  to  do  in  's  absence. 

Her.  Sir, 
You  speak  a  language  that  I  understand  not  • 
My  life  stands  in  the  level  of  your  dreams, 
Which  I  '11  lay  down. 

Leon.  Your  actions  are  my  dreains : 

You  had  a  bastard  by  Polixenes, 
And  I  but  dream'd  it  : — As  you  were  past  .-d' 

shame, 
(Those  of  your  fiict  are  so,)  so  past  all  truth  : 
AVhich  to  deny,  concerns  more  than  avails :  Fo:  as 
Thy  brat  hath  been  cast  out,  like  to  itself. 
No  father  o\vning  it,  (which  is,  indeed. 
More  criminal  in  thee,  than  it,)  so  thou 
Shalt  feel  our  justice  ;  in  whose  easiest  passage, 
Look  for  no  less  than  death. 

Her.  Sir,  spare  your  threats  ; 

The  bug  which  you  would  fright  me  with  I  seek 
To  me  can  life  be  no  commodity  : 
The  crown  and  comfort  of  ray  life,  your  favour, 
I  do  give  lost ;  for  I  do  feel  it  gone, 
But  know  not  how  it  went :  My  second  joy, 
And  first  fi-uits  of  my  body,  from  his  presence 
I  am  barr'd,  like  one  infectious  :  My  third  comfort 
Starr'd  most  unluckily,  is  from  my  breast. 
The  innocent  milk  in  its  most  innocent  mouth, 
Hal'd  out  to  murther  :  Myself  on  every  post 
Proclaim'd  a  strumpet ;  with  immodest  hatred, 
The  childbed  privilege  deny'd,  which  'longs 
To  women  of  all  fiishion  :  Lastly,  hurried 
Here  to  this  place,  i'  the  open  air,  before 
I  have  got  strength  of  limit.     Now,  my  liege. 
Tell  mo  what  blessings  I  have  here  alive. 
That  I  should  fear  to  die  ?     Therefore,  proceed. 


CT    III. 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE 


SCENE    U. 


Cut  yet  hear  this ;  mistake  mo  not ; — No  life, 
I  prize  it  not  a  straw : — but  for  mine  honour, 
(Which  I  would  free,)  if  I  shall  be  condemn'd 
Upon  surmises ;  all  ])roofs  sleeping  else, 
But  what  your  jealousies  awake ;  I  tell  you 
'T  is  rigour,  and  not  law. — Your  honours  all, 
I  do  refer  me  to  the  oracle ; 
Apollo  be  my  judge. 

1  Lord.  This  your  request 

Is  altogether  just :  therefore,  bring  forth. 
And  in  Apollo's  name,  his  oracle. 

[Exeunt  certain  Officers. 

Her.  The  emperor  of  Russia  was  my  father : 
0,  that  he  were  alive,  and  here  beholding 
His  daughter's  trial !  that  he  did  but  see 
The  flatness  of  my  misery ;  yet  with  eyes 
Of  pity,  not  revenge  ! 

Re-enter  Officers,  with  Cleomenes  and  Dion. 

Offi.  You  here  shall  swear  upon  this  sword  of 
justice, 
That  you,  Cleomenes  and  Dion,  have 
Been   both  at  Delphos ;    and    fi'om   thence   have 

brought 
This  seal'd-up  oracle,  by  the  hand  deliver'd 
Of  great  Apollo's  priest ;  and  that,  since  then. 
You  have  not  dar'd  to  break  the  holy  seal. 
Nor  read  the  secrets  in 't. 

Cleo.,  Dion.  All  this  we  swear. 

Leon.  Break  up  the  seals,  and  read. 

OJji.  \Reads^  "  HeiTnione  is  chaste,^^  Polixenes 
blameless,  Camillo  a  true  subject,  Leontes  a  jealous 
tyrant,  his  innocent  babe  truly  begotten  ;  and  the 
king  shall  live  without  an  heir,  if  that  which  is 
lost  be  not  found." 

Lords.  Now  blessed  be  the  great  Apollo ! 

Her.  Praised ! 

Leon.  Hast  thou  read  truth  ? 

Offi..  Ay,  my  lord  ;  even  so 

As  it  is  here  set  down. 

Leon.  There  is  no  truth  at  all  i'  the  oracle : 
The  sessions  shall  proceed :   this  is   mere   false- 
hood. 

Enter  a  Servant,  hastily. 

Ser.  My  lord  the  king,  the  king! 

Leon.  What  is  the  business  ? 

Ser.  0  sir,  I  shall  be  hated  to  report  it : 
The  prince  your  son,  with  mere  conceit  and  fear 
Of  the  queen's  speed,  is  gone. 

Leon.  How  !  ffone  ? 

Ser.  la  dead. 


Leon.  Apollo  's  angry ;  and  the  heavens  them- 
selves 
Do  strike  at  my  injustice.  [HERMioNE/ui'nis.]  How 
now  there? 

Paul.  This  news  is  mortal  to  the  queen  : — Look 
down, 
And  see  what  death  is  doing. 

Leon.  Take  her  hence : 

Her  heart  is  but  o'erchai'ged ;  she  will  recover. — 
I  have  too  much  believ'd  mine  own  suspicion: — 
'Beseech  you,  tenderly  apply  to  her 
Some  remedies  for  life. — Apollo,  pardon 

[Exeu7it  Paulina  and  Ladies,  ^o^th  Hre. 
My  gi'eat  profaneness  'gainst  thine  oracle  ! — 
I  '11  reconcile  me  to  Polixenes ; 
New  woo  my  queen ;  recall  the  good  Camillo, 
Whom  I  proclaim  a  man  of  truth,  of  mercy  : 
For,  being  transported  by  my  jealousies 
To  bloody  thoughts  and  to  revenge,  I  chose 
Camillo  for  the  minister,  to  poison 
My  friend  Polixenes :  which  had  been  done. 
But  that  the  good  mind  of  Camillo  tardied 
My   swift    command,  though   I  with   death,   and 

with 
Reward,  did  threaten  and  encourage  him, 
Not  doing  it,  and  being  done  :  he,  most  humane. 
And  fill'd  with  honour  to  my  kingly  guest, 
Unclasp'd  my  practice ;   quit  his  fortunes  here, 
Which  you  knew  great ;  and  to  the  hazard 
Of  all  incertainties  himself  commended. 
No  richer  than  his  honour : — ^IIow  he  glisters 
Through  my  mst!  and  how  his  piety 
Does  my  deeds  make  the  blacker ! 

Re-enter  Paulina. 

Paul.  Woe  the  while  ! 

0,  cut  my  lace ;  lest  my  heart,  cracking  it, 
Break  too ! 

1  Lord.  ^Vhat  fit  is  this,  good  lady  ? 

Paul.    What    studied    torments,    tyrant,   hast 
for  me  ? 
What   wheels  ?    racks  ?    fires  ?     What    flaying  ? 

boiling. 
In  leads,  or  oils  ?  what  old  or  newer  torture 
Must  I  receive ;  whose  every  word  deserves 
To  taste  of  thy  most  worst  ?     Thy  tyranny 
Together  working  with  thy  jealousies, — 
Fancies  too  weak  for  boys,  too  green  and  idle 
For  girls  of  nine  ! — 0,  think  what  they  liave  done 
And  then  run  mad,  indeed ;  stark  mad  !  for  all 
Thy  by-gone  fooleries  were  but  spices  of  it. 
That  thou  betray'dst  Polixenes,  't  was  nothing; 

595 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


SCENB    ill. 


That  did  but  show  thee,  of  a  fool,  inconstaut, 
And  damnable  ingrateful :  nor  was 't  much. 
Thou  would'st  liave  poison'd  good  Camillo's  honour, 
To  have  him  kill  a  king ;  poor  trespasses, 
More  monstrous  standing  by  :  whereof  I  reckon 
The  casting  forth  to  crows  thy  baby  daughtei', 
To  be  or  none,  or  little ;  though  a  devil 
Would  have  shed  water  out  o'  fire,  ere  done  't : 
Nor  is 't  directly  laid  to  thee,  the  death 
Of  the  young  prince  ;  whose  honourable  thoughts 
(Thoughts  high  for  one  so  tender)  cleft  the  heart 
That  could  conceive  a  gross  and  foolish  sire 
P)lemish'd  his  gracious  dam :  this  is  not,  no. 
Laid  to  thy  answer :  But  the  last, — 0,  lords. 
When  I  have  said,  cry  Woe ! — the  queen,  the 

queen. 
The   sweet'st,  dear'st  creature  's  dead ;   and  ven- 
geance for  't 
Not  dropp'd  down  yet. 

1  Lwd.  The  higher  powers  forbid  ! 

Paid.  I  say,  she  sdead:  I '11  swear 't:  if  word, 
nor  oath, 
Prevail  not,  go  and  see :  if  you  can  bring 
Tincture,  or  lustre,  in  her  lip,  her  eye. 
Heat  outwardly,  or  breath  ^vithin,  I'll  serve  you 
As  I  would  do  the  gods. — But,  O  thou  tyrant 
Do  not  repent  these  things ;  for  they  are  heavier 
Than  all  thy  woes  can  stir :  therefore  betake  thee 
To  nothing  but  despair.     A  thousand  knees. 
Ten  thousand  years  together,  naked,  fasting. 
Upon  a  baiTen  mountain,  and  still  winter 
In  storm  perpetual,  could  not  move  the  gods 
To  look  that  way  thou  wert. 

Leon.  Go  on,  go  on : 

Thou  canst  not  speak  too  much  ;  I  have  de.serv'd 
All  tonsfues  to  talk  their  bitt'rest. 

1  Lord.  Say  no  more ; 

Howe'er  the  business  goes,  you  have  made  fault 
I'  the  boldness  of  your  speech. 

Paul.  I  am  F:riT  for  't ; 

All  faults  I  make,  when  I  ihall   come   to  know 

them, 
I  do  repent :  Alas,  I  have  show'd  too  much 
The  rashness  of  a  woman :  he  is  touch'd 
To  th'  noble  heart. — What  's  gone,  and  what  's 

past  help, 
Should  be  past  grief:  Do  not  receive  affliction 
At  my  petition,  I  beseech  you  ;  rather 
Let  me  be  punish'd,  that  have  minded  you 
Of  what  you  should  forgot.     Now,  good  my  liogo, 
Kir,  royal  sir,  forgive  a  foolish  woman  : 
Tiie  love  I  bore  your  (ureen, —  o,  fool,  again  I — 
r>Bfi 


I  '11  speak  of  her  no  more,  nor  of  your  children ; 
I  '11  not  remember  you  of  my  own  lord, 
Who  is  lost  too :  Take  your  pp.tience  to  you, 
And  I  '11  say  nothing. 

Lcmi.  Thou  didst  speak  but  well. 

When   most   the  truth ;   which  I  receive  nuK-L 

better 
Than  to  be  pitied  of  thee.     Prithee,  bring  me 
To  the  dead  bodies  of  my  queen,  and  sou : 
One  grave  shall  be  for  both ;  upon  them  shall 
The  causes  of  their  death  appear,  unto 
Our  shame  perpetual :  Once  a  day  I  '11  visit 
The  chapel  where  they  lie ;  and  tears,  shed  there. 
Shall  be  my  recreation :  So  long  as  Nature 
Will  bear  up  with  this  exercise,  so  long 
I  daily  vow  to  use  it.     Come,  and  lead  me 
To  these  sorrows.  \Exeunt. 

SCENE  in. — Bohemia.     A  desert  Country  near 
the  Sea. 

LJntcr  A^TiGO^vs,  with  the  Child  ;  and  a  Mariner. 

Ant.    Thou   art  perfect*'  then,  our   ship   hath 
touch'd  upon 
The  deserts  of  Bohemia  ? 

Mar.  Ay,  my  lord  :  and  fear 

We  have  landed  in  ill  time :  the  skies  look  grimly, 
And  threaten  present  blusters.  In  my  conscience. 
The  Ileavens  with  that  we  have  in  hand  are  angiy. 
And  frown  upon  's. 

Ant.   Their   sacred   wills   be   done ! — Go,   get 
aboard ; 
Look  to  thy  bark  ;  I  '11  not  be  long  before 
I  call  upon  thee. 

Mar.  Make  your  best  haste ;  and  go  not 
Too  far  i'  the  land :  't  is  like  to  be  loud  weather ; 
Besides,  this  place  is  femous  for  the  creatures 
Of  prey,  that  keep  upon  't. 

Ant.  Go  thou  away: 

I  '11  follow  instantly. 

Mar.  I  am  glad  at  heart 

To  be  so  rid  o'  the  business.  [Exit. 

Ant.  Come,  poor  babe  : — 

I  have  heard,  (but  not  believ'd,)  the  spirits  o'  th 

dead 
May  walk  again  :  if  such  thing  be,  thy  mother 
Appcar'd  to  me  last  night ;  for  ne'er  was  dream 
So  like  a  waking.     To  me  comes  a  creature. 
Sometimes  her  head  on  one  side,  some  another ; 
I  never  saw  a  vessel  of  like  sorrow. 
So  fill'd,  and  so  becoming :  in  pure  white  robes, 
Like  very  sanctity  she  diil  approach 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


60ENE    111. 


My  cabin  wliere  I  lay  :  thrice  bow'd  before  me  ; 

And.  gasping  to  begin  some  speech,  her  eyes 

Became  two  spouts :  tlie  fury  spent,  anon 

Did  this  break  from  her  :   "  Good  Antigonus, 

Since  fate,  against  thy  better  disposition, 

ILifh  made  thy  person  for  the  thrower-out 

Of  my  poor  babe,  according  to  thine  oatli. 

Places  remote  enough  are  in  Bohemia, 

There  weep,  and  leave  it  crying;  and,  for  the  babe 

Is  counted  lost  for  ever,  Perdita, 

I  prithee,  call  't :  for  this  ungentle  business, 

Put  on  thee  by  my  lord,  thou  ne'er  shalt  see 

Thy  wife  Paulina  more  :" — and  so,  with  shrieks. 

She  melted  into  air.     Affrighted  much, 

I  did  in  time  collect  myself;  and  thought 

This  was  so,  and  no  slumber.     Dreams  are  toys  ; 

Yet,  for  this  once,  yea,  superstitiously, 

I  will  be  squarVi  by  this.     I  do  believe 

Ilennione  hath  sufler'd  death  ;  and  that 

Apollo  would,  this  being  indeed  the  issue 

Of  king  Polixenes,  it  should  here  bo  laid, 

Either  for  life,  or  death,  upon  the  earth 

Of  its  right  father.     Blossom,  speed  thee  well. 

[Laying  doivn  the  Child. 

There  lie  ;  and  there  thy  character  :  there  these  ; 

[Layintj  down  a  bundle. 

Which   may,   if  fortune  please,  both   breed  thee 

pretty. 
And  still  rest  thine. — The  storm   begins  : — Poor 

wretch. 
That,  for  thy  mother's  fault,  art  thus  expos'd 
To  loss,  and  what  may  follow  ! — -weep  I  cannot, 
Rut  my  heai't  bleeds  :  and  most  accurs'd  am  I, 
To  be  by  oath  enjoin'd  to  this. — Farewell ! 
The  day  frowns  more  and  more — thou  'rt  like  to 

have 
A  lullaby  too  rough  :  I  never  saw 
The  heavens  so  dim  by  day.    A  savage  clamour  ! — 
Well  may  I  get  aboard  ! — This  is  the  ehace  ; 
I  am  gone  for  ever.  [I^xit,  pursued  bij  a  Bear. 

Enter  an  old  Shepherd. 

Shep.  I  would  there  were  no  age  between  ten 
and  three-and-tweuty  ;  or  that  youth  would  sleep 
out  the  rest :  for  there  is  nothing  in  the  between 
but  getting  wenches  with  child,  wronging  the 
ancientry,  stealing,  fighting. — Ilark  you  now  ! — 
Would  any  but  these  boiled  brains  of  nineteen  and 
two-and-twenty  hunt  this  weather  ?  They  have 
scar'd  away  two  of  my  best  sheep  ;  which,  I  fear, 
tlie  wolf  will  sooner  find  than  the  master  ;  if 
anywliere    I    have    them,    't  is   by    the  sea-side. 


browzing  of  ivy.  Good  luck,  an  't  be  thy  will 
what  have  we  here?  [Taking  up  the  Child.] 
Mercy  on  's,  a  barne  ;  a  very  jiretty  barne  1  A 
boy,  or  a  child,"  I  wonder  ?  A  pretty  one  ; 
a  very  pretty  one :  Sure,  some  scape  :  though  I 
am  not  bookish,  yet  I  can  read  waiting-gentle- 
woman in  the  scape.  This  has  been  some  stair- 
work,  some  trunk-work,  some  behiml-door  work ; 
they  were  warmer  that  got  this  than  tlie  poor 
thing  is  here.  I  '11  take  it  up  for  pity  :  yet  I  '11 
tarry  till  my  son  come  ;  ho  holla'd  but  even  now. 
Whoa,  ho  hoa ! 

Enter  Clown. 

Clo.  Hilloa,  loa ! 

Shep.  What,  art  so  near  ?  If  thou  'It  see  a 
thing  to  talk  on  when  thou  art  dead  and  rotten, 
come  hither.     What  ail'st  thou,  man  ? 

Clo.  I  have  seen  two  such  sights,  by  sea,  and  by 
land  ; — but  I  am  not  to  say,  it  is  a  sea,  for  it  is 
now  the  sky  ;  betwixt  the  firmament  and  it  you 
cannot  thrust  a  bodkin's  point. 

Shrj}.  Why,  boy,  how  is  it  ? 

Clo.  I  would  you  did  but  see  how  it  chafes, 
how  it  rages,  how  it  takes  up  the  shore  I  but  that  'a 
not  to  the  point :  0,  the  most  piteous  cry  of  the 
poor  souls !  sometimes  to  see  'em,  and  not  to  see  'em : 
now  the  ship  boring  the  moon  with  her  main-mast ; 
and  anon  swallowed  with  yest  and  fioth,  as  you  'd 
thrust  a  cork  into  a  hogshead.  And  then  fur  the 
land-service, — To  see  how  the  bear  tore  out  his 
shoulder-bone ;  how  he  cried  to  me  for  help,  and 
said  his  name  was  Antigonus,  a  nobleman  : — But 
to  make  an  end  of  the  sliip  . — to  see  how  the  sea 
fiap-dragon'd  it : — but,  first,  how  the  poor  soula 
roared,  and  the  sea  mock'd  them  ; — and  how  the 
poor  gentleman  roared,  and  the  bear  mock'd  him, 
both  roaring  louder  than  the  sea,  or  weather. 

Shcp.  Name  of  mercy,  when  was  this,  boy  i 

Clo.  Now,  now  ;  I  have  not  wink'd  since  I  saw 
these  sights  :  the  meu  are  not  yet  cold  undei 
w.ater,  nor  the  bear  half  dined  on  the  gentleman  ; 
he  's  at  it  now. 

Shep.  Would  I  had  been  by,  to  have  heli»"d  the 
old  man  1 

Clo.  I  would  you  had  teen  by  the  ship  side,  to 
have  help'd  her  ;  there  your  charity  would  liave 
lack'd  footing. 

Shep.  Heavy  matters  !  heavy  matters !  but  look 
thee  here,  boy.  Now  bless  thyself;  thou  met'st 
with  things  dying,  I  with  things  new  born.  Here  's 
a  sight  for  thee;  look  thee,  a  bearing-cloth^-'  for  a 

fi97 


ACT  rv. 


THE  WINTEU  S  TALE. 


SCENE    I. 


Bqiiiro's  child  !  look  thee  here !  take  up,  take  up, 
boy ;  open  't.  So,  let 's  see.  It  was  told  me,  I 
should  be  rich  by  the  fairies  ;  this  is  some  change- 
ling  :  open  't :  "Wliat  's  within,  boy  ? 

Clo.  You  're  a  made  old  man  ;  if  the  sins  of 
your  youth  are  forgiven  you,  you  're  well  to  live. 
Gold  !  all  gold  ! 

Shep.  This  is  fairy  gold,  boy,  and  't  will  prove 
so  :  up  with  't,  keep  it  close  f  ^  home,  home,  the 
next  waj'.  We  are  luck)',  boy,  and  to  be  so  still 
requiles  nothing  but  secrecy. — Let  my  sheep  go  : 
— Come,  good  boy,  the  next  way  home. 


Clo.  Go  you  the  next  way  with  your  find'ngs 
I  '11  go  see  if  the  bear  be   gone  from  the  gen- 
tleman, and  how  much  he  hath  eaten  :  they  aii' 
never  cui-st,  but  when  they  are  hungiy  :  if  there 
be  any  of  him  left,  I  '11  bury  it. 

Shep.  That 's  a  good  deed  :  If  thou  may  est 
discern,  by  that  which  is  left  of  him,  what  he  is, 
fetch  me  to  the  sight  of  him. 

Clo.  Marry,  will  I ;  and  you  shall  help  to  pui 
him  i'  the  ground. 

Shep.  'T  is  a  lucky  day,  boy ;  and  we  '11  do 
good  deeds  on  't.  \Ereunt. 


ACT    lY. 


Enter  'i'lme,  as  Ch)rus. 

Time.   I,   that  please  some,    .ry  all, — both  joy 

and  terror 
Of  good  and  bad, — that  make,  and  unfold  error, — 
Now  take  upon  me,  in  the  name  of  Time, 
To  use  my  wings.     Impute  it  not  a  crime 
To  me,  or  my  swift  passage,  that  I  slide 
O'er  sixteen  years,  and  leave  the  growth  untried 
Of  that  wide  gap  ;  since  it  is  in  my  power 
To  o'erthrow  law,  and  in  one  self-born  hour 
To  plant  and  o'erwhelm  custom  :  Let  me  pass 
The  same  I  am,  ere  ancient'st  order  was. 
Or  what  is  now  receiv'd  :  I  witness  to 
The  times  that  brought  them  in  :  so  shall  I  do 
To  th'  freshest  things  now  reigning  ;  and  make 

stale 
The  glistering  of  this  present,  as  my  tale 
Now  seems  to  it.     Your  patience  this  allowing, 
I  turn  my  glass  ;  and  give  my  scene  such  growing 
As  you  had  slept  between.     Leontes  leaWng 
Th'  efl'ects  of  liis  fond  jealousies  ;  so  grieving, 
That  he  shuts  up  himself;  imagine  mo. 
Gentle  spectators,  that  I  now  may  be 
fn  fair  Bohemia  ;  and  remember  well, 
[  mentioned  a  son  o'  tlie  king's,  which  Florize' 
[  now  name  to  you  ;  and  with  sjieed  so  pace 
To  sjieak  of  Pcrdita,  now  grown  in  grace 
F^iual  with  wond'ring  :    What  of  her  ensues 
I  list  not  prophe.sy  ;  but  let  Time's  news 
lie  kuown  when  't  is  brought  forth  :  a  shepherd's 

daughter, 

.198 


And  wliat  to  her  adheres,  which  follows  afttf, 

Is  th'  argument  of  Time  :    Of  this  allow, 

K  ever  you  have  spent  time  worse  ere  now  ; 

If  never  yet,  that  Time  himself  doth  say. 

He  wishes  earnestly  you  never  may.  \_E.Tit 

SCENE  I. — Bohemia.     A  Room  in  the  Palace  oj 

POLIXENES. 

Enter  Polixenes  and  Camillo. 

Pol.  I  pray  thee,  good  Camillo,  be  no  more 
importunate  :  't  is  a  siclmess  denying  thee  any- 
thing ;  a  death  to  grant  this. 

Cam.  It  is  fifteen  yeare  since  I  saw  my  country. 
Though  I  have,  for  the  most  part,  been  aired 
abroad,  I  desire  to  lay  my  bones  there.  Besides, 
the  penitent  king,  my  master,  hath  sent  for  me : 
to  whose  feeling  sorrows  I  might  be  some  allay, 
or  I  o'erween  to  think  so ;  which  is  another  spur 
to  my  departure. 

Pol.  As  thou  lov'st  me,  Camillo,  wipe  not  out 
the  rest  of  thy  services,  by  leaving  me  now  :  tlie 
need  I  have  of  thee  thine  own  goodness  hath 
made ;  better  not  to  have  I-.ad  thee  than  thus  to 
want  thee  :  thou,  having  made  me  businesses 
which  none  without  thee  can  sufficiently  manage, 
must  either  stay  to  execute  them  thyself,  or  take 
away  with  thee  the  very  services  thou  hast  done  : 
which  if  I  have  not  enough  considered,  (as  too 
much  I  cannot,)  to  be  more  thankful  to  thee  shall 
be  my  study ;  and  my  profit  therein,  the  heaping 


ACT    IV. 


ITIE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


SCBNE   n. 


fi-iendships.  Of  that  fatal  country,  Sicilia,  prithee 
bpeak  no  more  :  whose  very  naming  punislies  me 
willi  the  remembrance  of  that  penitent,  as  tliou 
call'st  him,  and  reconciled  king,  my  brothel; 
whose  loss  of  his  most  preciovis  queen  and  children 
are  even  now  to  be  afresh  lamented.  Say  to  me, 
when  saw'st  thou  is  prince  Florizel  my  son  ? 
Kings  are  no  less  unhappy,  their  issue  not  being 
gracious,  than  they  are  in  losing  them  when  they 
have  approved  their  virtues. 

Cam.  Sir,  it  is  three  days  since  I  saw  the 
prince :  What  his  happier  aflairs  may  be  are  to 
me  unknown  :  but  I  have,  missingly,  noted  ho  is 
of  late  much  retired  from  court ;  and  is  Icce  f!'«- 
pent  to  his  princely  exercises  than  formerly  he 
hath  appeared. 

Pol.  I  have  considered  so  much,  Camillo,  and 
with  some  care ;  so  far,  that  I  have  eyes  under 
inv  service  which  look  upon  his  removed  ness,  from 
whom  I  have  this  intelligence  :  That  he  is  seldom 
from  the  house  of  a  most  homely  shepherd  ;  a  man, 
they  say,  that  from  veiy  nothing,  and  beyond  the 
imagination  of  his  neighbours,  is  grown  into  an 
unspeakable  estate. 

Cam.  I  have  heard,  sir,  of  such  a  man,  who 
hath  a  daughter  of  most  rare  note:  the  report  of 
Ikt  is  extended  more  than  can  be  thought  to  begin 
from  such  a  cottaga. 

Pol.  That  's  likewise  part  of  my  intelligence. 
I'lUt  I  fear  the  angle  that  plucks  our  son  thither. 
Thou  shalt  accompany  us  to  the  place  :  where  we 
will,  not  appearing  what  we  are,  have  some  ques- 
tion with  the  shepherd ;  from  whose  simplicity  I 
think  it  not  uneasy  to  get  the  cause  of  my  son's 
resort  thither.  Prithee,  be  my  pre.^ent  partner 
in  this  business,  and  lay  aside  the  thoughts  of 
Sicitia. 

Cam.  I  willingly  obey  your  command. 

Pol.  My  best  Camillo  ! — We  must  disguise  our- 
selves. \^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  same.     A  Road  near  the  Shep- 
herd'«  Cniiarje. 

Erder  Autolycus,  singinr/. 

When  daffodils  begin  to  peer, 
With  heigh  I  the  doxy  over  the  d:ile," 

Wliy,  ihen  comes  in  the  sweet  o'  the  year; 
For  the  red  blood  reigus  in  the  winter'a  palo. 

The  white  sheet  bleaching  on  the  hedge, 

"With  heigh !  the  sweet  birds,  O,  how  they  sing  ! 
Doth  set  my  pvigging  tooth  an  edge  ;™ 
For  !i  quart  of  ale  is  a  dish  for  a  liing. 


The  lark  that  tirra-lirra  cliants, 

Witli  heigli  I  with  licy !  the  tlinish  and  the  jay: 
Are  summer-songs  for  me  and  my  aunts, 

While  we  lie  tumbling  in  the  hay. 

I  have  serv'd  prince  Florizel,  and,  in  my  timo, 
wore  three-pile;**  but  now  I  am  out  of  service' 

But  shall  I  go  mourn  for  that,  my  dear? 

The  pule  moon  shines  by  night: 
And  wlieu  I  wander  here  and  there, 

I  then  do  most  go  right. 

If  tinkers  may  have  leave  to  live. 

And  bciir  the  sow-skin  bowget; 
Then  my  account  I  well  may  give, 

And  in  the  stocks  avouch  it. 

Mv  traffic  is  sheets;  when  the  kite  builds,  look  to 
lesser  linen.  My  father  nam'd  me  Autolycus ; 
who.  being  as  I  am,  litter'd  under  Mercury,  waa 
likewise  a  snapper-up  of  unconsidered  trifles : 
With  die,  and  drab,  I  purchas'd  this  caparison ; 
and  my  revenue  is  the  silly  cheat :  Gallows,  and 
knock,  are  too  powerful  on  the  highway :  beating, 
and  hanging,  are  terrors  to  me ;  fot  the  life  to 
come,  I  sleep  out  the  thought  of  it. — A  piize!  a 
prize ! 

Enter  Clown. 

Clo.  Let  me  see  : — Every  'leven  wether— tods ; 
every  tod  yields — pound  and  odd  shilling:  fifteen 
hundred  shorn, — What  comes  the  wool  to  ? 

Aut.  If  the  springe  hold,  the  cock  's  mine. 

[Aside. 

Clo.  I  cannot  do  't  without  countei's. — Let  me 
see ;  what  am  I  to  buy  for  our  sheep-shearing 
feast?  "Three  pound  of  sugar;  five  pound  of  cur- 
rants ;  rice" What  will  this  sister  of  mine  do 

with  rice  ?  But  my  father  hath  made  her  mistresa 
of  the  feast,  and  she  lays  it  on.  She  hath  made 
me  four-and-twenty  nosegays  for  the  shearers; 
three-man  song-men  all,  and  very  good  ones ; 
but  they  are  most  of  them  means  and  bases :  but 
one  Puritan  amongst  them,  and  he  sings  psalms 
to  hornpipes.  I  must  have  saffron,  to  colour  the 
warden  pies ;  mace, — dates, — none  ;  that 's  out  of 
my  note :  nutmegs,  seven  ;  a  race  or  two  of  ginger ; 
but  that  I  may  beg ; — four  pound  of  prunes,  and 
as  many  of  raisins  o'  the  sun. 

Aut.  O,  that  ever  I  was  born  ! 

\GrovclUng  on  the  ground. 

Clo.  V  the  nan  e  of  me, 

Aiit.  O,  help  me,  help  me  !  pluck  but  cff  these 
rags ;  and  then,  death,  death  ! 

Clo.  Alack,  poor  soul !  thou  hast  need  of  more 
rags  to  lay  on  thee,  rather  than  have  these  ofT. 

fi99 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


SCENE   m. 


Aut.  O,  sir,  tLe  loathsomeness  of  them  oflends 
me  more  than  the  stripes  I  have  received ;  which 
are  miglity  ones,  and  millions. 

Clo.  Alas,  poor  man !  a  mill  Da  of  beating  may 
come  to  a  great  matter. 

Aut.  I  am  robb'd,  sis,  and  beaten ;  my  money 
and  apparel  ta'en  from  me,  and  these  detestable 
things  put  upon  me. 

Clo.  What,  by  a  horse-man,  or  a  foot-man  ? 

Aut.  A  foot-man,  sweet  sir,  a  foot-man. 

Clo.  Indeed,  he  should  be  a  foot-man,  by  the 
gai-ments  he  hath  left  with  thee ;  if  this  be  a 
horseman's  coat,  it  hath  seen  very  hot  service. 
Lend  me  thy  hand,  I  '11  help  thee  :  come,  lend 
me  thy  hand.  [Helping  him  up. 

Aut.  0,  good  sir,  tenderly,  oh  1 

Clo.  Alas,  poor  soul ! 

Aut.  O,  good  sir,  softly,  good  sir :  I  fear,  sir, 
my  shoulder-blade  is  out. 

Clo.  How  now  ?  canst  stand  3 

Aut.  Softly,  dear  sir;  \^picks  his  pocket^  good 
Bir,  softly ;  you  ha'  done  me  a  charitable  office. 

Clo.  Dost  lack  any  money  ?  I  have  a  little 
money  for  thee. 

A7it.  No,  good  sweet  sir ;  no,  I  beseech  you, 
sir:  I  have  a  kinsman  not  past  three-quarters  of 
a  mile  hence,  unto  whom  I  was  going ;  I  shall 
there  have  money,  or  anything  I  want :  Offer  me 
no  money,  I  pray  you ;  that  kills  ray  heart. 

Clo.  What  manner  of  fellow  was  he  that  robb'd 
you  ? 

Aut.  A  fellow,  sir,  that  I  have  known  to  go 
about  with  trol-my-dames.'"  I  knew  him  once  a 
servant  of  the  prince ;  I  cannot  tell,  good  sir,  for 
which  of  his  virtues  it  was,  but  he  was  certainlv 
whipped  out  of  the  court. 

Clo.  His  vices,  you  would  say :  there  's  no  vir- 
jie  whipped  out  of  the  court :  they  cherish  it,  to 
make  it.st.iy  there;  and  yet  it  will  no  more  but 
abide, 

Aut.  Vices,  I  would  say,  sir.  I  know  this  man 
well :  he  hath  been  since  an  ape-bearer ;  then  a 
process-server,  a  bailiff;  then  he  compassed  a 
motion  of  the  prodigal  son,  and  married  a  tinker's 
wife  within  a  mile  where  my  land  and  living  lies; 
and,  having  flown  over  many  knavish  professions, 
he  settled  only  in  rogue :  some  call  him  Au- 
lolycus. 

Clo.  Out  upon  liiir. !  Prig,  for  my  life,  prig- 
he  haunts  wakes,  fairs,  and  bear-baitings. 

Aut.  Very  true,  sir ;  he,  sir,  he ;  that  'a  the 
togijo  l':'at  put  mo  into  thi.^  apparel. 

A(IO 


Clo.  Not  a  more  cowardly  rogue  in  all  Bohe- 
mia ;  if  you  had  but  look'd  big,  and  spit  at  him 
he  'd  have  run. 

Aut.  I  must  confess  to  you,  sir,  I  am  no  fighter ; 
I  am  false  of  heart  that  way ;  and  that  he  knew, 
I  warrant  him. 

Clo.  How  do  you  now  ? 

Aut.  Sweet  sir,  much  better  than  I  was;  I  can 
stand,  and  walk:  I  will  even  take  my  leave  of 
you,  and  pace  softly  towards  my  kinsman's. 

Clo.  Shall  I  bring  thee  on  the  way  ? 

Aut.  No,  good-fac'd  sir ;  no,  sweet  sir. 

Clo.  Then  fare  thee  well ;  I  must  go  buy  spices 
for  our  sheep-shearing. 

Aut.  Prosper  you,  sweet  sir ! — [Exit  Clown.] — 
Your  purse  is  not  hot  enough  to  purchase  your 
spice.  I  '11  be  with  you  at  your  sheep-shearing 
too :  K  I  make  not  this  cheat  bring  out  another, 
and  the  shearers  prove  sheep,  let  me  be  unrolled, 
and  my  name  put  in  the  book  of  virtue ! 


Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  foot-path  way. 
And  merrily  hent  the  stile-a: 

A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day, 
Your  sad  tires  in  a  mile-a. 


[E.Tit. 


SCENE  m.—The  same.     A  Shepherd's  Cotta'je.      i 
Enter  Flomzel  and  Pekmta. 

Flo.  These  your  unusual  weeds  to  each  part  oi 
you 
Do  give  a  life  :  no  shepherdess ;  but  Flora, 
Peering  in  April's  front.    This  your  slieep-shcaring 
Is  as  a  meeting  of  the  petty  gods, 
And  you  the  queen  on  't. 

Per.  Sir,  my  gracious  lord. 

To  chide  at  your  extremes  it  not  becomes  me ; 
O,  pardon,  that  I  name  them  :  your  high  sell", 
The  gracious  mark  o'  the  land,  you  have  obscur'd 
W'ith  a  swain's  wearing ;  and  me,  poor  lowly  maid, 
Most  goddess   like   prank'd    up :    But  that   our 

feasts 
In  every  mess  have  folly,  and  the  feeders 
Digest  it  with  a  custom,  I  should  blush 
To  see  you  so  attir'd  ;  sworn,  I  think, 
To  show  myself  a  glass. 

Flo.  I  bless  the  time. 

When  my  good  falcon  made  lier  flight  across 
Thy  father's  ground. 

Per.  Now  Jove  afford  you  cause ! 

To  me,  the  difference  forges  dread ;  your  sjreatncia 
Hath  not  been  us'd  to  fear.  Eveu  now  I  tremble 
To  think,  your  father,  by  some  accident, 


THE  WINTERS  TALE. 


SOUNK    lU. 


Should  pass  tliis  way,  as,  you  did  :  O,  tbo  fates  ! 
[low  would  he  look,  to  see  his  work,  so  nolile. 
Vilely  bound  up  ?  What  would  ho  say  2  Or  how 
Should  I,  in  these  my  borrow'd  flaunts,  behold 
The  sternness  of  his  presence  ? 

Ho.  Apprehend 

Nothing  but  jollity.     The  gods  themselves, 
Humbling  their  deities  to  love,  have  tiikeu 
The  shapes  of  beasts  upon  them  :  Jupiter 
Decanio  a  bull,  and  bellow'd  ;  the  green  Neptune 
A  ram,  and  bleated ;  and  the  fire-rob'd  god, 
Golden  Apollo,  a  poor  humble  swain, 
As  I  seem  now  :  Their  transformations 
Were  never  for  a  piece  of  beauty  rarer; 
Nor  in  a  way  so  chaste  :  since  my  desires 
Run  not  before  mine  honour ;  nor  my  lusts 
Burn  hotter  than  my  faith. 

Per.  O  but,  sir. 

Your  res'olution  cannot  hold,  when  't  is 
Oppos'd,  as  it  must  be,  by  th'  power  of  the  king ; 
One  of  these  two  must  be  necessities. 
Which  then  will  speak  ;  that  you  must  change  this 

purpose. 
Or  I  my  life. 

Flo.  Thou  dear'st  Perdita, 

Wilh  these  forc'd  thoughts,  I  prithee,  darken  not 
The  mirth  o'  the  feast :  Or  I  '11  be  thine,  my  fair. 
Or  not  my  father's :  for  I  cannot  be 
Mine  own,  nor  anything  to  any,  if 
I  be  not  thine  :  to  this  I  am  most  constant. 
Though  destiny  say  No.     Be  merry,  gentle ; 
Str.angle  such  thoughts  as  these,  with  anything 
That  you   behold    the   while.     Your   guests    are 

coming : 
Lift  up  your  countenance ;  as  it  were  the  day 
Of  celebration  of  that  nuptial,  which 
We  two  have  sworn  shall  come. 

Per.  O  lady  Fortune 

Stand  you  auspicious  1 

Enter  Shepherd,  with  Polixenes  and  Camillo  dis- 
guised ;  Clown,  MopsA,  Dorcas,  and  others. 

Flo.  See,  your  guests  approach  : 

Address  youi-self  to  entertain  them  sprightly. 
And  let 's  be  red  with  mirth. 

Shep.  Fie,  daughter !  when  my  old  wife  liv'd, 
upon 
This  day  she  was  both  pantler,  butler,  cook ; 
Both  dame  and  servant :  welcom'd  all ;  serv'd  all : 
Would  sing  her  song,  and  dance  her  turn  ;  now  here. 
At  upper  end  o'  the  table,  now  i'  the  middle  ; 
On  his  shoulder,  aud  his :  her  face  o'  fire 


With  labour ;  and  the  thing  she  took  to  quench  it 
She  would  to  each  one  sip :  You  are  retir'd 
As  if  you  were  a  feasted  one,  and  not 
The  hostess  of  the  meeting:  Pray  you,  bid 
These  uidcnown  friends  to  's  welcome  :  for  it  ia 
A  way  to  make  us  better  friends,  more  known. 
Come,  quench  your  blushes  ;  and  present  yourself 
That  which  you  are,  mistress  o'  the  feast :  Come  on 
And  bid  us  welcome  to  your  sheep-shearing. 
As  your  good  flock  shall  prosper. 

Per.  Sir,  welcome  !  [To  Pol 

It  is  my  father's  will  I  should  take  on  me 

The  hostess-ship  o'  the  day : — You  're  welcome, 

sir!  [To  Cam. 

Give  me  those  flowers  there,  Dorcas. — Reverend 

sirs. 
For  you  there  's  rosemary,  and  rue  ;  these  keep 
Seeming,  and  savour,  all  the  winter  long : 
Grace,  and  remembrance,  be  to  you  both, 
And  welcome  to  our  shearing ! 

Pol.  Shepherdess, 

(A  fair  one  are  you,)  well  you  fit  our  ages 
With  flowers  of  winter. 

Per.  Sir,  the  year  growing  ancient,— 

Not  yet  on  summer's  death,  nor  on  the  birth 
Of  trembling  wintei-, — the   fairest  flowers   o'  the 

season 
Are  our  carnations,  and  streak'd  gillyvors," 
Which  some  call  nature's  bastards :  of  that  kind 
Our  rustic  garden  's  barren ;  and  I  care  not 
To  get  slips  of  them. 

Pol.  Wherefore,  gentle  maiden. 

Do  you  neglect  them  ? 

Per.  For  I  have  heard  it  said. 

There  is  an  art  which,  in  their  piedness,  shares 
With  gre.it  creating  nature. 

Pol.  Say,  there  be ; 

Yet  nature  is  made  better  by  no  mean. 
But  nature  makes  that  mean  :  so,  over  that  art. 
Which,  you  say,  adds  to  nature,  is  an  art 
That  nature  makes.     You  see,   sweet   maid,  wc 

marry 
A  gentler  scion  to  the  wildest  stock ; 
And  make  conceive  a  bark  of  baser  kind 
By  bud  of  nobler  race :  This  is  an  art 
Which  does  mend  nature, — change  it  rather :  but 
The  art  itself  is  nature. 

Per.  So  it  is. 

Pol.  Then  make  your  garden  rich  in  gillyvors, 
And  do  not  call  them  bastards. 

Per.  I  '11  not  put 

The  dibble"  in  earth  to  set  one  slip  of  them : 

601 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


SCENE  III 


No  more  than,  were  I  painted,  I  would  wish 
This    youth    should    say,  't  were  well;  and  only 

therefore 
Itesire  to  breed  by  me. — Ilere  's  flowers  for  you ; 
Ilot  lavender,  mints,  savory,  maijoram  ; 
The  marigold,  that  goes  to  bed  with  th'  sun, 
And  with  him  rises  weeping;  these  are  flowers 
Of  middle  summer,  and,  I  think,  they  are  given 
To  men  of  middle  age :  Y'  are  very  welcome. 
Cam.     I  should  leave  grazing,  were  I  of  your 

flock, 
And  only  live  by  gazing. 

Per.  Out,  alas! 

Vou  'd  be  so  lean,  that  blasts  of  .January 
Would  blow  you  through  and  through. — Now,  my 

fiiir'st  fi'iend, 
I    would  I  had   some  flowers  o'  the   spnng,  that 

might 
Become  your  time  of  day ;  and  yours,  and  yours ; 
That  wear  upon  your  virgin  branches  yet 
Your  maidenheads  growing :  O,  Proserpina, 
For  the  flowers  now,  that,  frighted,  thou  let'st  fall 
From  Dis's  waggon !  daffodils, 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty;  violets,  dim, 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes, 
Or  Cytherea's  breath  ;  pale  primroses, 
That  die  unmanied,  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength,  a  malady 
Most  incident  to  maids;  bold  oxlips,  and 
The  crown-imperial ;  lilies  of  all  kinds, 
The  flower-de-luce  being  one  !  O !  these  I  lack. 
To  make  you  garlands  of;  and,  my  sweet  friend, 
To  strew  him  o'er  and  o'er. 

Flo.  What!  like  a  corse? 

Per.  No,  like  a  bank,  for  love  to  lie  and  play  on  ; 
Not  like  a  corse :  or  if, — not  to  be  buried, 
But  quick,  and  in  mine  arms.     Come,  take  your 

flowers : 
Methinks,  I  play  as  I  have  seen  them  do, 
In  Whitsun'  pastorals :  sure,  this  robe  of  mine 
Does  change  my  disposition. 

Flo.  What  you  do 

Still   bettei-s   what   is   done.    When   you  speak, 

sweet, 
I  'd  have  you  do  it  ever :  when  you  sing, 
I  'il  iiave  you  buy  and  sell  so ;  so  give  alms ; 
['ray  so  ;  and,  for  the  ord'ring  your  afl'airs. 
To  sing  them  too :  When  you  do  dance,  I  wish 

you 
A  wave  o'  the  sea,  that  you  might  ever  do 
Nothing  but  that ;  move  still,  still  so, 

602 


And  own  no  other  function :  Each  your  doing, 
So  singular  in  each  particular, 
Crowns  what  you  are  doing  in  the  present  deeds, 
That  all  your  acts  are  queens. 

Per.  O  Doricles, 

Your  praises  are  tco  large  :  but  that  your  youth, 
And  the  true  blood  which  peeps  fairly  through  'I, 
Do  plainly  give  you  out  an  unstain'd  shepherd, 
With  wisdom  I  might  fear,  my  Doricles, 
You  woo'd  me  the  false  way. 

Flo.  I  think,  you  have 

As  little  skill  to  fear,  as  I  have  purpose 
To  put  you  to  't. — But,  come ;  our  dance,  I  pray : 
Your  hand,  my  Perdita :  so  turtles  pair, 
That  never  mean  to  part. 

Per.  I  '11  swear  for  'em. 

Pol.  This  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass  that  ever 
Ran    on    the  green  sward :    nothing  she  does  or 

seems. 
But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself; 
Too  noble  for  this  place. 

Cam.  He  tells  her  something 
That  makes  her  blood  look  on  't :  Good  sooth,  she  is 
The  queen  of  curds  and  cream. 

Clo.  Come  on,  strike  up. 

Dor.   Mopsa   must  be   your  mistress :   marry 
garlic. 
To  mend  her  kissing  with. 

Mop.  Now,  in  good  time  ! 

Clo.  Not  a  word,  a  word ;  we  stand  upon  our 
manners. — 
Come,  strike  up.  [Music 

Here  a  dance  of  Shepherds  and  Shepherdesses. 

Pol.  Pray,  good  shepherd,  what  fair  swain  is  this 
Which  dances  with  your  daughter  ? 

Shqy.   They    call    him    Doricles ;    and    boasts 
himself 
To  have  a  worthy  feeding:  but  I  have  it 
Upon  his  own  report,  and  I  believe  it ; 
He  looks  like  sooth :  He  says,  he  loves  my  daugb 

ter; 
I  think  so  too :  for  never  gaz'd  the  moon 
Upon  the  water,  as  he  '11  stand,  and  read, 
As 't  were,  my  daughter's  eyes :  and,  to  be  plain, 
I  think  there  is  not  half  a  kiss  to  choose 
Who  loves  another  b(  et. 

Pol.  She  dances  featly." 

SJiep.  So  she  does  anything ;  though  I  report  it 
That  should  bo  silent :  if  vo\mg  Doricli-s 
Do  light  upon  her,  she  shall  bring  him  that 
Which  ho  not  dreams  of. 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE 


SCENE    111. 


Enter  a  Servant. 

Sen.  O  master,  if  you  did  but  hear  the  pedler 
it  the  door,  3'ou  would  never  dance  again  after  a 
tabor  and  pipe :  no,  tlio  bagpipe  could  not  move 
you  ;  Lo  sings  several  tunes  faster  than  you  '11  tell 
money  ;  ho  utters  them  as  he  had  eaten  ballads, 
and  all  men's  ears  grew  to  his  tunes. 

Clo.  He  could  never  come  better:  he  sliall  come 
in :  I  love  a  ballad  but  even  too  well ;  if  it  be 
doleful  matter,  menily  set  down,  or  a  very  plea- 
sant thing  indeed,  and  sung  lamentably. 

Serv.  He  hath  songs,  for  man,  or  woman,  of  all 
Biies  ;  no  milliner  can  so  fit  his  customers  with 
gloves  :  he  has  the  prettiest  love-songs  for  maids  ; 
so  without  bawdry,  which  is  strange ;  with  such 
delicate  burthens  of  "dildos  and  fadings:"  "jump 
her  and  thump  her ;"  and  where  some  stretch- 
inouth'd  rascal  would,  as  it  were,  mean  mischief, 
and  break  a  foul  jape  into  the  matter,  ho  makes 
the  maid  to  answer,  "  Whoop,  do  me  no  harm,  good 
man  ;"  puts  him  otf,  slights  him,  with  "  Whoop, 
Jo  me  no  harm,  good  man." 

Pol.  This  is  a  brave  fellow. 

Clo.  Believe  me,  thou  talk'st  of  an  admirable- 
conceited  fellow.     Has  he  any  unbraided  wares  ? 

Serv.  He  hath  ribands  of  all  the  colours  i'  the 
rainbow ;  points,  more  than  all  the  lawyers  in 
Bohemia  can  learnedly  handle,  though  they  come 
to  him  by  the  gross  ;  inkles,  caddisses,  carabnes,''' 
lawns ;  why,  he  sings  'em  over,  as  they  were  gods 
or  goddesses ;  you  would  think  a  smock  were  a 
she-angel :  he  so  chants  to  the  sleeve  hand,  and 
the  work  about  the  square  on  't. 

Clo.  Prithee,  bring  him  in ;  ond  let  him  ap- 
proach singing. 

Per.  Forewarn  him,  that  he  use  no  scurrilous 
words  in  's  tunes. 

Clo.  You  have  of  these  pedlere,  that  have  more 
in  them  than  you  'd  think,  sister. 

Per.  Ay,  good  brother,  or  go  about  to  think. 

Enter  AnroLTCCS,  singing. 

Lawn,  as  white  as  driven  snow ; 

Cyprus,  black  as  ere  was  crow  ;3i 

Gloves,  as  sweet  as  damask  roses ; 

Masks  for  faces,  and  for  noses  ; 

Bugle-bracelet,  neeklace-ninbcr. 

Perfume  for  a  lady's  chamber  : 

Golden  quoifs,  and  stomachers, 

For  my  lads  to  give  their  dears  ; 

Pins,  and  poking-stieks  of  steel. 

What  maids  lack  from  head  to  heel : 
Come,  buy  of  me,  come  ;  come  buy,  come  buy  ; 
Buy,  lads,  or  eKe  your  lassies  cry  :  Come,  buy. 


Clo.  If  I  were  not  in  love  with  Mopsa,  thou 
shouldst  take  no  money  of  me :  but  being  en- 
thrall'd  as  I  am,  it  will  also  be  the  bondage  of  cer- 
tain ribands  and  gloves. 

Mop.  I  was  promis'd  them  against  the  feast ; 
but  they  come  not  too  late  now. 

Dor.  He  hath  piomis'd  you  more  than  that,  or 
there  be  liars. 

Mop.  He  hath  paid  you  all  he  promis'd  you  : 
may  be,  he  has  paid  you  more  ;  which  will  shame 
you  to  give  him  again. 

Clo.  Is  there  no  manners  left  among  maids  ?  will 
they  wear  their  plackets,  where  they  should  bear 
their  faces  ?  Is  there  not  milking-time,  when  you 
are  going  to  bed,  or  kill-hole,''  to  whistle  off  these 
secrets;  but  you  must  be  tittle-tattling  before  all 
our  guesis?  'T  is  well  they  are  whisp'ring  :  charm 
your  tongues,''  and  not  a  word  more. 

Mop.  I  have  done.  Come,  you  promis'd  me  a 
tawdry  lace,  and  a  pair  of  sweet  gloves. 

Clo.  Have  I  not  told  thee  how  I  was  cozen'd  by 
the  way,  and  lost  all  my  money  ? 

Aut.  And,  indeed,  sir,  there  are  cozeners  abroad ; 
therefore  it  behoves  men  to  be  wary. 

Clo.  Fear  not  thou,  man,  thou  shalt  lose  nothing 
here. 

Aut.  I  hope  so,  sir ;  for  I  have  about  me  many 
parcels  of  charge. 

Clo.  What  hast  here  ?  ballads  ? 

Mop.  Pray  now,  buy  some  :  I  love  a  ballad  in 
print,  a-life ;  for  then  we  are  sure  they  are  true. 

Aut.  Here  's  one  to  a  very  doleful  tune.  How  a 
usurer's  wife  was  brought  to  bed  of  twenty  money- 
bags at  a  burthen  ;  and  how  she  long'd  to  eat 
adders'  heads,  and  toads  carbonado'd. 

Mop.  Is  it  true,  think  you  ? 

Aut.  Very  true  ;  and  but  a  mouth  old. 

Dor.  Bless  me  from  marrying  a  usurer  ! 

Aut.  Here  's  the  midwife's  name  to  't,  one 
mistress  Taleporter  ;  and  five  or  si-x  honest  wives 
that  were  present :  Why  should  T  carry  lies 
abroad  ? 

Mop.  'Pray  you  now,  buy  it. 

Clo.  Come  on,  lay  it  by  :  And  let  's  first 
see  more  ballads;  we  '11  buy  the  other  things 
anon. 

Aut.  Here  's  another  ballad,  Of  a  fish,  that 
appeared  upon  the  coast,  on  Wedn'sday  the  four- 
score of  April,  forty  thousand  fadom  above  water, 
and  sung  this  ballad  against  the  hard  hearts  of 
maids  :  it  was  thought  she  was  a  woman,  and 
was  turn'd  into  a  cold  fish,  for  she  would  not  ex- 

fi03 


I'HE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


aCENE    III. 


change  flesh  with  one  that  lo<  'd  lier  :  The  ballad 
is  very  pitiful,  and  as  true. 

Dor.  Is  it  true,  too,  think  you  ? 

Aut.  Five  justices'  hands  at  it ;  and  witnesses, 
more  than  my  pack  will  hold. 

Clo.  Lay  it  by  too.     Another. 

Aut.  This  is  a  merry  ballad  ;  but  a  very  pretty 
one. 

Mop.  Let 's  have  some  merry  ones. 

Aut.  "Why,  this  is  a  passing  meny  one ;  and 
goes  to  the  tune  of  '  Two  maids  wooing  a  man  :' 
there  's  scarce  a  maid  westward,  but  she  sings  it ; 
't  is  in  request,  I  can  tell  you. 

Mop.  We  can  both  sing  it ;  if  thou  'It  bear  a 
part,  thou  shalt  hear ;  't  is  in  three  parts. 

Dor.  We  had  the  tune  on  't  a  month  ago. 

Aut.  I  can  bear  my  part ;  you  must  know,  't  is 
ir.y  occupation  :  have  at  it  with  you. 

SONG. 

A.  Get  you  hence,  for  I  must  go  ; 

Wliere  it  fit;^  not  yon  to  know. 
I).  Whither? 
J/.  O,  -n-liither  ? 
D.  Whither? 
U.  It  becomes  thy  oath  full  well, 

Thou  to  me  thy  secrets  tell : 
D.  Me  too,  let  mc  go  thither. 

M.  Or  thou  go'st  to  th'  grange  or  mill : 
I).  If  to  eitlier,  thou  dost  ill. 
A.  Neither. 
D.  What,  neither  ? 
A.  Neitlier. 

fJ.  Thou  hast  sworn  my  love  to  be ; 
M.  Thou  hiist  sworn  it  more  to  me : 
Tlien,  whither  goest?  say,  whither? 

Clo.  We  '11  have  this  song  out  anon  by  our- 

selres;  My  father  and  the  gentlemen  are  in  sad 
talk,  and  we  '11  not  trouble  them  :  Come,  bring 
away  thy  pack  after  me.  Wenches,  I'll  buy  for 
you  both  : — Pedler,  let  's  have  the  first  choice. — 
F(  How  me,  girls. 

Aut.  And  you  shall  ])ay  well  for  'em.      [Aside. 

Will  you  buy  any  tape, 

Or  lace  for  your  cape, 
My  dainty  dnck,  my  dear-a  ? 

Any  .silk,  any  thread. 

Any  tovft  for  your  liea-l. 
Of  tlifl  ncw'fit,  and  fin'st,  liiTst  wcar-a  ? 

feme  to  the  pedler  ; 

Money  'b  a  medlar, 
That  doth  utter  all  men's  ware-a. 

[Exeunt  Clo.,  Alt.,  Don.,  and  Mop. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Scrv.  M.-  sicr,  there  is  three  callers,  three  sliep- 
fiOi 


herds,  three  neatherds,  three  swineherds,  that 
have  made  themselves  all  men  of  hair ;  they  call 
themselves  saltiers  :  and  they  have  a  dance  which 
the  wenches  say  is  a  gallimaufry  of  gambols, 
because  they  are  not  in  't ;  but  they  themselvoa 
are  o'  the  mind,  (if  it  be  not  too  rough  for  some, 
that  know  little  but  bowling,)  it  will  plea.se  plen- 
tifully. 

Shep.  Away  !  v.'e  '11  none  on  't ;  here  has  been 
too  much  homely  foolery  already  : — I  know,  sir, 
we  weary  you. 

Pol.  You  weary  those  that  refresh  us  :  Pray, 
let 's  see  these  four  threes  of  lierdsmen. 

Serv.  One  three  of  them,  by  their  own  report, 
sir,  hath  danc'd  before  the  king ;  and  not  the 
worst  of  the  three  but  jumps  twelve  foot  and  a 
half  by  th'  squire." 

Shep.  Leave  your  prating ;  since  these  good  men 
are  pleas'd,  let  them  come  in ;  but  quickly  now. 

Serv.  Why,  they  stay  at  door,  sir.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  Servant,  with  Twelve  Rustics,  habited  like 
Sali/rs.     They  dance,  and  then  exeunt. 

Pol.  0,  father,  you  '11  know  more  of  that  here- 
after.— 
Is  it  not  too  far  gone  ? — 'T  is  time  to  part  them. — 
He  's  simple    and    tells  much.      [^Is/rff.] — How 

now,  fair  shepherd  ? 
Your  heart  is  full  of  something  that  does  take 
Your   mind  from  feasting.      Sooth,  when  I  was 

young. 
And  handed  love  as  you  do,  I  was  wont 
To  load  my  she  with  knacks :  I  would  have  ran- 

sack'd 
The  pedler's  silken  treasury,  and  have  pour'd  it 
To  her  acceptance ;  you  have  let  him  go 
And  nothing  marted  with  him  :  If  your  lass 
Interpretation  should  abuse,  and  call  this 
Your  lack  of  love  or  bounty,  you  were  straited 
For  a  repl}',  at  least,  if  you  make  a  caro 
Of  happy  holding  her. 

Flo.  Old  sir,  I  know- 

She  prizes  not  such  ti'itles  as  these  are  : 
The  gifts  she  looks  from  me  are  pack'd  and  lock'd 
Up  in  my  heart ;  which  I  have  given  already. 
But  not  deliver'd. — 0,  hear  mo  breathe  my  life 
Ik-fore  this  ancient  sir,  who,  it  should  seem. 
Hath  sometime  lov'd  :  1  take  thy  h;ind  ;  this  hand 
As  soft  as  dove's  down,  and  as  white  as  it ; 
Or  Ethiopian's  tooth,  or  the  fann'd  snow, 
That 's  bolted  by  the  northern  blasts  twice  o'er. 
Pol.  What  follow.s  this  I— 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


SCENB  in. 


LIow  prettily  th'  young  swain  seems  to  wash 
Tlie  liiind  was  fail'  before  ! — I  have  put  you  out  : — 
I  lilt  to  your  protestation ;  let  me  bear 
What  you  profess. 

Flo.  Do,  and  be  witness  to  't. 

J'ol.  And  this  my  neighbour  too  ? 

Flo.  And  be,  and  more 

'Hum  he,  and  men;  the  earth,  the  heavens,  and 

all: 
That,  were  I  crown'd  the  most  imperial  monarch, 
Thereof  most  worthy ;  were  I  the  fairest  youth 
That  ever  made  eye  swerve  ;  had  force,  and  know- 
ledge. 
More  than  was   ever  man's,  I  would    not  pnze 

them, 
Without  her  lore  ;  for  her,  employ  them  all ; 
Commend  them,  and  condemn  them,  to  her  service. 
Or  to  their  own  perdition. 

Pol.  Fairly  offer'd. 

Gam.  This  shows  a  sound  affection. 

Shep.  But,  my  daughter, 

Say  you  the  like  to  him  ? 

Per.  I  cannot  speak 

So  well,  nothing  so  well ;  no,  nor  mean  better  : 
Hy  th'  pattern  of  mine  own  thoughts  I  cut  out 
riie  purity  of  his. 

Shqy.  Take  hands,  a  bargain  ; — 

And,  friends  unknown,  you  shall  bear  witness  to 't : 
I  give  my  daughter  to  him,  and  will  make 
Iler  portion  equal  his. 

Flo.  O,  that  must  be 

r  the  virtue  of  your  daughter :  one  being  dead, 
I  shall  have  more  than  you  can  dream  of  yet ; 
Enough  then  for  your  wonder :  But,  come  on, 
Contract  us  'fore  these  witnesses. 

Shep.  Come,  your  hand  ; 

And,  daughter,  yours. 

Pol.  Soft,  swain,  awhile,  beseech  you  ; 

Have  you  a  fatker  ? 

Flo.  I  have :  But  what  of  him '. 

Pol.  Knows  lie  of  this  ? 

Flo.  He  neither  does,  nor  shall. 

Pol.  Melhinks,  a  father 
Is,  at  the  nuptial  of  his  son,  a  guest 
That  best  becomes  the  table.  Pray  you,  once  more ; 
Is  not  your  father  gro-\vn  incapable 
Of  reasonable  affairs  ?  is  ho  not  stupid 
With  age,  and  alt'ring  rheums  ?     Can  he  speak  ? 

hear  ? 
Know  man  from  man  ?  dispute  his  own  estate  ? 
Lies  he  not  bed-rid  ?  and  again  does  nothing. 
But  what  Lb  did  being  childish  ? 


Flo.  No,  good  sir  ; 

He  has  his  health,  and  ampler  strength,  indeed, 
Than  most  have  of  his  age. 

Pol.  By  my  white  beard, 

You  ofl'er  him,  if  this  be  so,  a  wrong 
Something  unfilial :  Reason,  my  son. 
Should  choose  himself  a  wife ;  but  as  good  reason 
The  fatliei  (aU  whose  joy  is  nothing  else 
But  fair  posterity)  should  hold  some  couasel 
In  such  a  business. 

Flo.  I  yield  all  this ; 

But,  for  some  other  reasons,  my  grave  sir. 
Which  't  is  not  fit  you  know,  I  not  acquaint 
My  father  of  this  business. 

Pol.  Let  him  know  't. 

Flo.  He  shall  not. 

Pol.  Prithee,  let  him. 

Flo.  No,  he  must  not, 

Shep.  Let  him,  my  son ;  he  shall  not  need  to 
grieve 
At  knowing  of  thy  choice. 

Flo.  Come,  come,  he  must  not : — 

Mark  our  contract. 

Pol.  Mark  your  divorce,  young  sir, 

[Discovering  himself 
Whom  son  I  dare  not  call;  thou  art  too  base 
To  be  acknowledg'd :  Thou  a  sceptre's  heir. 
That  thus  affect'st  a  sheephook ! — Thou  old  traitor, 
I  am  sorry,  that,  by  hanging  thee,  I  can 
But  shorten  thy  life  one  week. — And  thou,  fresh 

piece 
Of  excellent  witchcraft,  who,  of  force,  must  know 
The  royal  fooP  thou  cop'st  with  ; — 

SItep.  O,  my  heart ! 

Pol.  I  '11  have  thy  beauty  scratch'd  with  bnara, 
and  made 
More  homely  than  thy  state. — For  thee,  fond  boy, 
If  I  may  ever  know  thou  dost  but  sigli 
That  thou  no  more  shalt  never  see  tliis  knack,  (as 

never 
I  mean   thou  shalt,)   we  '11   bar  thee   from   suc- 
cession ; 
Not  hold  thee  of  our  blood,  no,  not  our  kin, 
Far  than  Deucalion  off. — Mark  thou  my  words ; 
Follow  us  to  the  court. — Thou  churl,  for  this  time, 
Thougli  full  of  our  displeasure,  yet  we  free  thee 
From  the  dead  blow  of  it. — And  you,  enchant- 
ment. 
Worthy  enough  a  herdsman ;  yea,  him  too. 
That  makes  himself,  but  for  our  honour  therein, 
Unworthy  thee, — if  ever,  hencefoi'th,  thou 
These  rural  latches  to  his  entrance  open, 

605 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


Or  hoop  Lis  body  more  with  thy  embraces, 

I  will  devi«:  a  death  as  cruel  for  thee 

As  thou  art  tender  to 't.  [Exit. 

Per.  Even  here  undone ! 

I  was  not  much  afeard :  for  once,  or  twice, 
[  was  about  to  speak :  and  tell  him  plainly, 
The  self-same  sun  that  shines  upon  his  court 
Hides  not  his  visage  from  our  cottage,  but 
liooks  on  alike. — Will 't  please  you,  sir,  begone  ? 

[to  Florizel. 
I  told  you  what  would   come  o'  this  :    'Beseech 

you, 
Of  your  own  state  take  care  :  this  dream  of  mine. 
Being  now  awake,  I  '11  queen  it  no  inch  farther. 
But  milk  my  ewes,  and  weep. 

Cam.  W'hy,  how  now,  father ! 

Speak,  ere  thou  diest. 

Shep.  I  cannot  speak,  nor  think, 

Nor  dare  to  know  that  which  I  know. — 0,  sir, 

[to  Florizel. 
You  have  undone  a  man  of  fourscore  three. 
That  thought  to  fill  his  grave  in  quiet ;  yea, 
To  die  upon  the  bed  my  father  died, 
To  lie  close  by  his  honest  bones :  but  now 
Some  hangman  must  put  on  my  shvoud,  and  lay  me 
Where    no   priest    shovels    in    dust,  —  0    cursed 
wretch  I  [to  Perdita. 

That  knew'st  this  was   the    prince,  and  wouldst 

adventure 
To  mingle  faith  with  him. — Undone  !  undone  ! 
[f  I  might  die  within  this  hear,  I  have  Hv'd 
To  die  when  I  desire.  [Exit. 

Flo.  Why  look  you  so  upon  me  ? 

I  am  but  sorry,  not  afeard;  delay'd. 
But  nothing  alter'd :  What  I  was,  I  am  : 
More  straining  on,  for  plucking  back ;  not  following 
My  leash  unwillingly. 

Cam.  Gracious  my  lord. 

You  know  your  father's  temper :  at  this  time 
He  will  allow  no  speech, — which,  I  do  guess, 
You  do  not  purpose  to  him ;— and  as  hardly 
Will  he  endure  your  sight  as  yet,  I  fear : 
Then,  till  the  fury  of  his  highness  settle, 
Come  not  before  him. 

Flo.  I  not  purpose  it. 

I  think,  C.-iniillo. 

Cam.  Even  ho,  my  lord. 

Per.  How  often  have  I  told  you 't  would  be  thus ! 
How  often  said,  my  dignity  would  last 
But  till 't  were  known  1 

Mo.  It  cannot  fail,  but  by 

riie  violation  of  my  faith ;  And  then 
uor. 


Let  nature  crush  the  sides  o'  the  earth  together. 
And  mar  the  seeds  within !  Lift  up  thy  looks  : 
From  my  succession  wipe  me,  father !  I 
Am  heir  to  my  affection. 

Cam.  Be  advis'd. 

Flo.  I  am  ;  and  by  my  fancy :  if  my  reason 
Will  thereto  be  obedient,  I  have  reason ; 
If  not,  my  senses,  better  pleas'd  with  madness, 
Do  bid  it  welcome. 

Cam.  This  is  desperate,  sir. 

Flo.  So  call  it ;  but  it  does  fulfil  my  vow ; 
I  needs  must  think  it  honesty.     Camillo, 
Not  for  Bohemia,  nor  the  pomp  that  may 
Be  thereat  glean'd ;  for  all  the  sun  sees,  or 
The  close  earth  wombs,  or  the  profound  seas  hide 
In  unknown  fadoms,  will  1  break  my  oath 
To  this  my  fair  belov'd  :  Therefore,  I  pray  you, 
As  you  have  ever  been  my  father's  honour'd  fiiend. 
When  he  shall  miss  me,  (as  in  faith,  I  mean  not 
To  see  him  any  more,)  cast  your  good  counsels 
Upon  his  passion  :  Let  myself  and  fortune 
Tug  for  the  time  to  come.     This  you  may  know, 
And  so  deliver, — I  am  put  to  sea 
With  her,  whom  here  I  cannot  hold  on  shore ; 
And,  most  opportune  to  our  need,  I  have 
A  vessel  rides  fast  by,  but  not  prepar'd 
For  this  design.    What  course  I  mean  to  hold 
Shall  nothing  benefit  your  knowledge,  nor 
Concern  me  the  reporting. 

Cam.  O,  my  lord, 

I  would  your  spirit  were  easier  for  advice, 
Or  stronger  for  your  need. 

Flo.  Hark,  Perdita,     [Takes  her  aside 

I  '11  hear  you  by  and  by.  [to  Camillo 

Ca7H.  He  's  irreraoveable, 

Resolv'd  for  flight :  now  were  I  happy,  if 
His  going  I  could  frame  to  serve  my  turn  ; 
Save  him  from  danger,  do  him  love  and  honour; 
Purchase  the  sight  again  of  dear  Sicilia, 
And  that  unhappy  king,  ray  master,  whom 
I  so  much  thirst  to  see. 

Flo.  Now,  good  Camillo, 

I  am  so  fraught  with  curious  busincs.s,  that 
I  leave  out  ceremony.  [Goiny 

Cam.  Sir,  I  think. 
You  have  heard  of  my  poor  services,  i'  the  love 
That  I  have  borne  your  father  ? 

Flo.  Very  nobly 

Have  yc'ji  deserv'd :  it  is  my  father's  music, 
To  speak  your  deeds ;  not  little  of  his  r.are 
To  have  them  reconipcns'd  as  thought  on. 

Cam.  Well,  my  lord. 


ACT    17. 


TKE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


BCKNB    UJ 


[f  you  may  please  to  think  I  love  the  king, 
AuJ,  through  hira,  what 's  nearest  to  him,  which  is 
Your  gracious  self,  embrace  but  my  direction, 
(If  your  more  ponderous  and  settled  project 
May  sutler  alteration,)  on  niiue  honour 
[  '11  jioint    you  where    you  shall    have  such    re- 
ceiving 
As  shall  become  your  highness;  where  you  may 
Enjoy  your  mistress ;  (from  the  whom,  I  see, 
There  's  no  disjunction  to  be  made,  but  by, 
As  Heavens  forfend  !  your  ruin  :)  marry  her  ; 
And  (with  my  best  endeavours,  in  your  absence) 
Your  discontenting  father  strive  to  qualify. 
And  bring  him  up  to  liking. 

Flo.  How,  Camillo, 

May  this,  almost  a  miracle,  be  done? 
That  I  may  call  thee  something  more  than  man, 
And,  after  that,  trust  to  thee. 

Ca?n..  Have  you  thought  on 

A  ]>lace,  whereto  you  '11  go? 

F/o.  Not  any  yet : 

But  as  til'  unthought-on  accident  is  guilty 
To  what  we  wildly  do,  so  we  profess 
Ourselves  to  be  the  slaves  of  chance,  and  flies 
Of  every  wind  that  blows. 

Cain.  Then  list  to  me : 

This    follows,  —  if    you    will    not   change    your 

purpose. 
But  undergo  this  flight, — make  for  Sicilia ; 
And  there  present  3"ourself,  and  your  fair  piincess, 
(For  so,  I  see,  she  must  be,)  'fore  Leontes  ; 
She  sliall  be  habited  as  it  becomes 
The  partner  of  your  bed.     Methinks,  I  see 
Leontes,  opening  his  free  arms,  and  weeping 
His  welcomes   forth :    asks    thee,    the   son,  for- 
giveness, 
As  't  were  i'  the  father's  person  :  kisses  the  hands 
Of  your  fresh  princess :  o'er  and  o'er  divides  him 
'Twixt  his  unkindness  and  his  kindness ;  th'  one 
He  chides  to  hell,  and  bids  the  other  grow 
Faster  than  thought  or  time. 

Flo.  Worthy  Camillo, 

What  colour  for  my  visitation  shall  I 
Hold  up  before  him  ? 

Cam.  Sent  by  the  king  your  fatlier 

To  greet  him,  and  to  give  him  comforts.     Sir, 
The  manner  of  your  bearing  towards  him,  with 
Wliat  you,  as  from  your  father,  shall  deliver, 
Things  known    betwixt   us  three,  I  '11   write  you 

down ; 
The  whicli  shall  point  you  forth  at  every  sitting 
WTiat  you  must  say  ;  that  he  shall  not  perceive. 


Hut  that  you  have  your  father's  bosom  there. 
And  speak  his  veiy  heart. 

Flo.  I  am  bound  to  you  : 

There  is  some  sap  in  this. 

Cam.  A  course  more  promising 

Than  a  wild  dedication  of  yourselves 
To  unpath'd  waters,  undrcam'd  shores  ;  niost<vi- 

tain, 
To  miseries  enough  :  no  hope  to  help  you  : 
Rut,  as  you  shake  off  one,  to  take  another: 
Nothing  so  certain  as  your  anchors ;  who 
Do  their  best  office,  if  they  can  but  stay  you 
Where  you  '11  be  loth  to  be  :  Besides,  you  know, 
Prosperity  's  the  very  bond  of  love ; 
Whose  fresh  complexion  and  whose  heart  togethoi 
Affiiction  alters. 

Per.  One  of  these  is  true : 

I  think  affliction  may  subdue  the  cheek. 
But  not  take  in  the  mind. 

Cam.  Yea,  say  you  so  ? 

There   shall    not,    at   your   father's  house,    these 

seven  years, 
Be  born  another  such. 

Flo.  Jly  good  Camillo, 

She  's  as  forward  of  her  breeding,  as 
She  is  i'  the  rear  'f  our  birth. 

Cam.  I  cannot  say,  't  is  a  pity 

She  lacks  instruction ;  for  she  seems  a  mistress 
To  most  that  teach. 

Per.  Your  pardon,  sir,  for  this : 

I  '11  blush  you  thanks. 

Flo.  My  prettiest  Perdita ! — 

But,  O,  the  tliorns  we  stand  upon  ! — Camillo, — 
Preserver  of  my  father,  now  of  me  ; 
The  medicine  of  our  house  ! — how  shall  we  do  ? 
We  are  not  furnish'd  like  Bohemia's  son. 
Nor  shall  appear  in  Sicilia.'"' 

Cam.  My  lord. 

Fear  none  of  this :  I  think  you  know  my  fortunes 
Do  all  lie  there :  it  shall  be  so  my  care 
To  have  you  royally  appointed,  as  if 
The  scene  you  play  were  mine.     For  instance,  sir. 
That  you  may  know   you  shall    not  want, — one 
word.  [T/uy  talk  aside 

He-enter  Autolycus. 

Aut.  Ha,  ha!  what  a  fool  honesty  is!  and 
trust,  his  sworn  brother,  a  very  simple  gentleman  ! 
I  have  sold  all  my  trumpeiy ;  not  a  counterfeit 
stone,  not  a  riband,  glass,  pomander,'"  brooch 
table-hook,  ballad,  knife,  ta]x;,  glove,  shoe-iic, 
bracelet,  born-ring,  to  keep  my  pack  from  fasiing- 

607 


ACT  17. 


TUE  WINTER'S  "  .VLE. 


SCENE  ni. 


they  throng  who  should  buy  firet,  as  if  my  trinkets 
had  been  hallowed,  and  brought  a  benediction  to 
the  buyer  :  by  which  means  I  saw  whose  purse 
was  best  in  picture ;  and  what  I  saw,  to  my  good 
use  I  remembered.  My  clown  (who  wants  but 
something  to  be  a  reasonable  man)  gi'ew  so  in  love 
with  the  wenches'  song,  that  he  would  not  stir  his 
pettitoes  till  he  had  both  tune  and  words  ;  which 
so  drew  the  rest  of  the  herd  to  me,  that  all  their 
other  senses  stuck  in  ears :  you  might  have  piuch'd 
a  placket,  it  was  senseless ;  it  was  nothing  to  geld 
a  codpiece  of  a  purse ;  I  would  liave  iil'd  keys  off 
that  hung  in  chains :  no  hearing,  no  feeling,  but 
my  sir's  song,  and  admiring  the  nothing  of  it. 
So  that,  in  this  time  of  lethargy,  I  pick'd  and  cut 
most  of  their  festival  purses  :  and  had  not  the 
old  man  come  in  with  a  whoobub  against  his 
daughter  and  the  king's  son,  and  scar'd  my  choughs 
from  the  chaff,  I  had  not  left  a  purse  alive  in  the 
whole  aiT-.iy.   [Cam.,  Flo.,  and  Per.  come  fonvard. 

Cam.  Nay,  L..*  my  letters  by  this  means  being 
there 
So  soon  as  you  arrive,  shall  clear  that  doubt. 

Flo.  And  those  that  you  '11  procure  from  king 
Leontos — 

Ca7n.  Shall  satisfy  your  father. 

Per.  Happy  be  you  1 

All  that  you  speak  shows  fair. 

Cam.  Who  have  we  bere  ? — 

[Sceitlff  AUTOLYCUS. 

We  '11  make  an  instrument  of  this  ;  omit 
Nothing  may  give  us  aid. 

Aul.  If  they  have  overheard  me  now, why, 

hanging.  [Aside. 

Cam.  How  now,  good  fellow  3  why  shak'st 
thou  so  ?  Fear  not,  man  ;  here  's  no  harm  intended 
to  thee. 

Aut.  I  am  a  poor  fellow,  sir. 

Cam.  Why,  be  so  still ;  here  's  nobody  will  steal 
that  from  thee :  Yet,  for  the  outside  of  thy  poverty 
we  must  make  an  exchange  :  therefore,  disease 
thee  instantly,  (thou  must  tliink  there  's  a  neces- 
sity in  't,)  and  change  garments  with  tliis  gentle- 
man :  Tliough  the  pennyworth,  on  his  side,  be  the 
worst,  yet  hold  thee,  there  's  some  boot. 

Aut.  I  am  a  poor  fellow,  sir : — I  know  ye  well 
puough.  [Anide. 

Cam.  Nay,  prithee,  dispatch :  the  gentleman 
ishalfflay'd  already. 

Avt.  Are  you  in  earnest,  sir  ? — I  smtl  the  trick 
on  't,—  [Aside. 

Flo-  Dispatch,  I  prithee. 

608 


Aut.  Indeed  I  have  h.ad  earnest;  but  I  cannot 
with  conscience  take  it. 

Ca7n.  Unbuckle,  unbuckle. — 

[Flo.  and  Aur.  exchange  garmcnU 
Fortunate  mistress, — let  my  prophecy 
Come  home  to  ye ! — you  must  retire  yourself 
Into  some  covert :  take  your  sweetheart's  hat. 
And  pluck  it  o'er  your  brows ;  muffle  your  face ; 
Dismantle  you  ;  and,  as  you  can,  disliken 
The  tnith  of  your  own  seeming ;  that  you  may 
(For  I  do  fear  eyes  over  you)  to  shipboard 
Get  undesciy'd. 

Per.  I  see  the  play  so  lies 

That  I  must  bear  a  part. 

Cam.  No  remedy. — 

Have  you  done  there  ? 

Flo.  Should  I  now  meet  my  father, 

He  would  not  call  me  son. 

Cam.  Nay,  you  shall  have  no  hat : 

Come,  lady,  come. — Farewell,  my  friend. 

Aut.  Adieu,  sir. 

Flo.  O,  Perdita,  what  have  we  twain  forgot 
Pray  you,  a  word.  [They  converse  ajiart. 

Cam.  What  I  do  next  shall  be,  to  tell  the  king, 

[Aside. 
Of  this  escape,  and  whither  they  are  bound  ; 
Wherein  my  hope  i.s,  I  shall  so  prevail 
To  force  him  after  ;  in  whose  company 
I  shall  review  Sicilia ;  for  whose  sight 
I  have  a  woman's  longing. 

Flo.  Fortune  speed  us  !- 

Thus  we  set  on,  Camillo,  to  th'  sea-side. 

Cam.  The  swifter  speed  the  better. 

[E.reunt  Flo.,  Per.,  and  Cam. 

Aut.  I  understand  the  business,  I  hear  it:  To  have 
an  open  ear,  a  quick  eye,  and  a  nimble  hand,  is  ne- 
cessary for  a  cut-puree ;  a  good  nose  is  requisite  al- 
so, to  smell  out  work  for  th'  other  senses.  I  see  this 
is  the  time  that  the  unjust  man  doth  thrive.  What 
an  exchange  had  this  been,  without  boot !  what  a 
boot  is  here,  with  this  exchange  !  Sure,  the  gods 
do  this  year  connive  at  us,  and  we  may  do  anything 
extempore.  The  prince  himself  is  about  a  ]iiece  of 
iniquity  ;  stealing  away  from  his  father,  with  hia 
clog  at  his  heels :  If  I  thought  it  were  a  piece  of 
honesty  to  acquaint  the  king  withal,  I  wouU  not 
do 't :  I  hold  it  the  more  knavery  to  conceal  it  :  and 
therein  am  I  constant  to  my  profession. 
Fnter  Clown  and  Shepherd. 
Aside,  aside ; — here  is  more  matter  for  a  hot  brain  • 
Every  lane's  end,  every  shop,  church,  sessiou. 
hanging,  yields  a  careful  ni.-m  work. 


■mi<:  WINTER'S  TALE. 


SCENE  111. 


Clo.  See,  see  ;  what  a  man  you  are  now  !  there 
is  no  otlior  way  but  to  tell  the  king  she  's  a  change- 
ling, and  none  of  your  flesh  and  blood. 

Shrp.  Nay,  but  hear  me. 

Clo.  Nay,  but  hear  me. 

Shep.  Go  to  then. 

Clo.  She  being  none  of  your  flesh  and  blood, 
your  flesh  and  blood  has  not  offended  the  king ; 
and,  so,  your  flesh  and  blood  is  not  to  be  punish'd 
by  him.  Show  those  things  you  found  about  her ; 
those  secret  things,  all  but  what  she  has  with  her  : 
This  being  done,  let  the  law  go  whistle ;  I  warrant 
you. 

Shep.  I  will  tell  the  king  all,  every  word  ; 
yea,  and  his  son's  pranks  too ;  who,  I  may  say, 
is  no  honest  man  neither  to  his  father,  nor  to 
me,  to  go  about  to  make  me  the  king's  brother-in- 
law. 

Clo.  Indeed,  brother-in-law  was  the  furthest  off 
you  could  have  been  to  him ;  and  then  your  blood 
had  been  the  dearer,  by  I  know  how  much  an 
ounce. 

Aut.  Very  wisely  ;  puppies  !  '[Aside. 

Shep.  Well ;  let  us  to  the  king;  there  is  that  in 
this  fardel  will  make  him  scratch  his  beard. 

Atit.  I  know  not  what  impediment  this  com- 
piaiiit  may  be  to  the  flight  of  my  master. 

Clo.  'Pray  heartily  he  be  at  palace. 

Aut.  Though  I  am  not  naturally  honest,  I  am 
so  sometimes  by  chance  : — Let  me  pocket  up  my 
pedler's  excrement. — \^Takes  off  his  false  beard. ^ 
IIovv  now,  rustics  ?  whither  are  you  bound  ? 

Shep.  To  th'  palace,  an  it  like  your  worehip. 

Aut.  Your  affairs  there  ;  what ;  with  whom  ; 
tne  condition  of  that  fardel ;  the  j)lace  of  your 
dwelling;  your  names;  your  ages;  of  what  having, 
sreeding ;  and  anything  that  is  fitting  to  be  known, 
discover. 

Clo.  We  are  but  plain  fellows,  sir. 

Aut.  A  lie ;  you  are  rough  and  hairy  !  Let  me 
have  no  lying ;  it  becomes  none  but  tradesmen,  and 
they  often  give  us  soldiers  the  lie ;  but  we  pay 
Ihem  for  it  with  stamped  coin,  not  stabbing  steel ; 
therefore  they  do  not  give  us  the  lie. 

Clo.  Your  worship  had  like  to  have  given  us 
line,  if  you  had  not  taken  yourself  with  the 
manner. 

Shep.  Are  you  a  courtier,  an  't  like  you,  sir? 

ylut.  Whether  it  like  me,  or  no,  I  am  a  courtier. 
See'st  thou  not  the  air  of  the  court  in  these  en- 
foldings?  hath  not  my  gait  in  it  the  measure  of  the 
court  ?  receives  not  thy  nose  court-odour  from  me  1 


reflect  I  not  on  thy  ba-seness,  court-contempt  1 
Think'jt  thou,  for  that  I  insinuate,  or  touze  from 
thee  thy  business,  I  am  therefore  no  courtier  ?  1 
am  courtier  cap-a-pie  ;  and  one  that  will  either 
push  on  or  pUick  back  thy  business  tlicre  :  where- 
upon I  command  thee  to  open  thy  affair. 

Shep.  My  business,  sir,  is  to  the  king. 

Aut.  What  advocate  hast  thou  to  him  ? 

Shep.  I  know  not,  an  't  like  you. 

Clo.  Advocate  's  the  coiut-word  for  a  phe:isant ;  • 
say,  you  have  none. 

Shep.  None,  sir ;  I  have  no  pheasant,  cock  nor 
hen. 

Aut.  How  bless'd  are  we  that  ai-e  not  simple 
men ! 
Yet  nature  might  have  made  me  as  these  are, 
Therefore  I  will  not  disdain. 

Clo.  This  cannot  be  but  a  great  courtier. 

Shep.  His  garments  are  rich,  but  he  wears  them 
not  handsomely. 

Clo.  He  seems  to  be  the  more  noble  in  being 
fantastical :  a  great  man,  I  '11  warrant ;  I  know 
by  the  picking  on  's  teeth. 

Aut.  The  fardel  there?  what's  i'  the  tardel  ?« 
Wherefore  that  box  ? 

Shep.  Sir,  there  lies  such  secrets  in  this  tarde! 
and  box,  which  none  must  know  but  the  king; 
and  which  he  shall  know  within  this  hour,  if  I 
may  come  to  th'  speech  of  him. 

Ant.  Age,  thou  hast  lost  thy  labour. 

Shep.  Why,  sir  ? 

Aut.  The  king  is  not  at  the  palace  :  he  is  gone 
aboard  a  new  ship  to  purge  melancholy,  and  air 
himself :  For  if  thou  be'st  capable  of  things  serious 
thou  must  know  the  king  is  full  of  grief. 

Shep.  So  't  is  said,  sir,  about  his  son,  that 
should  have  married  a  shepherd's  daughter. 

Aut.  If  that  shepherd  be  not  in  hand-fast,  let 
him  fly ;  the  curses  he  shall  have,  the  torture.s  he 
shall  feel,  will  break  the  back  of  man,  the  lieart 
of  monster. 

Clo.  Think  you  so,  sir  ? 

Aut.  Not  he  alone  shall  suffer  what  wii  can 
make  heavy,  and  vengeance  bitter ;  but  those  that 
are  germane  to  him,  though  remov'd  fifty  times, 
shall  all  come  under  the  hangman  :  which  though 
it  be  great  pity,  yet  it  is  necessary.  An  old  sheep- 
whistling  rogue,  a  ram-tender,  to  offer  to  have  Iris 
daughter  come  into  grace  !  Some  say,  he  shall  be 
ston'd  ;  but  that  death  is  too  soft  for  him,  say  I : 
Draw  our  throne  into  a  sheep-cote  !  all  deaths  are 
too  few,  the  sharpest  too  easy. 

MS 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE 


SCENE    III. 


Clo.  Has  the  old  man  e'er  a  son,  sir,  do  you 
bear,  an  't  like  you,  sir? 

Aut.  He  has  a  son,  who  shall  be  flay'd  aUve ; 
then,  'nointed  over  with  honey,  set  on  the  head  of 
a  wasp's  nest ;  then  stand,  till  he  be  three  quarters 
and  a  dram  dead  ;  then  recover'd  again  with  aqua- 
vita,  or  some  other  hot  infusion  ;  then,  raw  as  he 
is,  and  in  the  hottest  day  prognostication  pro- 
claims, shall  he  be  set  against  a  brick  wall,  the 
Bun  looking  with  a  southward  eye  upon  him, 
where  he  is  to  behold  him  with  flies  blown  to 
death.  But  what  talk  we  of  these  traitorly 
rascals,  whose  miseries  are  to  be  smil'd  at,  their 
cflences  being  so  capital  ?  Tell  me  (for  you  seem 
to  be  honest  plain  men)  what  you  have  to  the 
king :  being  something  gently  consider'd,  I  'li 
bring  you  where  he  is  aboard,  tender  your  persons 
to  his  presence,  whisper  him  in  your  behalfs : 
and,  if  it  be  in  man,  besides  the  king,  to  effect 
your  suits,  here  is  man  shall  do  it. 

Clo.  He  seems  to  be  of  great  authority  :  close 
with  him,  give  him  gold ;  and  though  authority 
be  a  stubborn  bear,  yet  he  is  oft  led  by  the  nose 
witii  gold  ;  show  the  inside  of  your  purse  to  the 
outside  of  his  hand,  and  no  more  ado :  Remember, 
ston'd  and  flay'd  alive  ! 

Shep.  An  't  please  you,  sir,  to  undertake  the 
business  for  us,  here  is  that  gold  I  have :  I  '11 
make  it  as  much  more ;  and  leave  this  young  man 
in  pawn  till  I  bring  it  you. 

Aut.  After  I  have  done  what  I  promised  ? 

Shep.  Ay,  sir. 

Aut.  Well,  give  me  the  moiety :  Are  you  a 
parlv  in  this  business  ? 

eio 


Clo.  In  some  sort,  sir :  but  though  my  ca-se  lie 
a  pitiful  one,  I  hope  I  shall  not  be  flay'd  out 
of  it. 

Aut.  O,  that 's  the  case  of  the  shepherd's  son  : 
— Hang  him,  he  '11  be  made  an  example. 

Clo.  Comfort,  good  comfort :  we  must  to  the 
king,  and  show  our  strange  sights  :  he  must  know 
't  is  none  of  your  daughter,  nor  my  sister  ;  we  aro 
gone  else.  Sir,  I  will  give  you  as  much  as  this 
old  man  does,  when  the  business  is  perform'd ; 
and  remain,  as  he  says,  your  pawn  till  it  be 
brought  you. 

Aut.  I  will  trust  you.  Walk  before  toward  the 
sea-side ;  go  on  the  right  hand  ;  I  will  but  look 
upon  the  hedge,  and  follow  you. 

Clo.  We  are  bless'd  in  this  man,  as  I  may  say, 
even  bless'd. 

Shep.  Let 's  before,  as  he  bids  us  :  he  was  pro- 
vided to  do  us  good. 

\^Exeunt  Shepherd  and  Clown, 

Aut.  If  I  had  a  mind  to  be  honest,  I  see  For- 
tune would  not  suflfer  me  ;  she  drops  booties  in  my 
mouth. «  I  am  courted  now  with  a  double  occa- 
sion ;  gold,  and  a  means  to  do  the  prince  my 
master  good  ;  which,  who  knows  how  that  may 
turn  back  to  my  advancement  ?  I  will  bring  these 
two  moles,  these  blind  ones,  aboard  him :  if  he 
think  it  fit  to  shore  them  again,  and  that  the 
complaint  they  have  to  the  king  concerns  him 
nothing,  let  him  call  me  rogue  for  being  so  fiir  ofii- 
cious ;  for  I  am  proof  against  that  title,  and  what 
shame  else  belongs  to  't :  To  him  will  I  present 
them ;  there  may  be  matter  in  it. 

[Ent 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


SCENE   I. 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  I. — Sicilia.     A  room   in   the  jmlace  of 
Leontes. 

Unter  Leontes,  Cleomenes,  Dion,  Pauuna,  and 
others. 

Cleo.  Sir,  you  have  done  enough,  and  have  per- 
fjrm'd 
A  saint-like  sorrow ;  no  fault  could  you  make 
Which   you  have    not   redeem'd ;    indeed,   paid 

down 
More  penitence  than  done  trespass :  At  the  last 
Do,  as  the  heavens  have  done ;  forget  your  evil ; 
With  them,  forgive  yourself. 

Zeon.  Whilst  I  remembei 

Her,  and  her  virtues,  I  cannot  forget 
My  blemishes  in  them ;   and  so  still  think  of 
The  wrong  I  did  myself:  which  was  so  much. 
That  heirless  it  hath  made  my  kingdom ;  and 
Destroy'd  the  sweet'st  companion  that  e'er  man 
Bred  his  hopes  out  of. 

Paul.  True,  too  true,  my  lord  : 

If,  one  by  one,  you  wedded  all  the  world. 
Or,  from  the  all  that  are  took  something  good. 
To  make  a  perfect  woman,  she,  you  kill'd, 
Would  be  unparallel'd. 

Leon.  1  think  so.     Kill'd  ! 

She  I  kill'd  !     I  did  so  :  but  thou  strik'st  me 
Sorely,  to  say  I  did ;  it  is  as  bitter 
Upon  thy  tongue  as  in  my  thought.     Now,  good 

now. 
Say  so  but  seldom. 

Cleo.  Not  at  all,  good  lady; 

Vou  might  have  spoken  a  thousand  things  that 

would 
Have  done  the  time  more  benefit,  and  grac'd 
Your  kindness  better. 

Paul.  You  are  one  of  those 

Would  have  him  wed  again. 

Dion.  If  you  would  not  so, 

Vou  pity  not  the  state,  nor  the  remembrance 
Of  his  most  sovereign  name ;  consider  little 
What  dangers,  by  his  highness'  fail  of  issue. 
May  drop  upon  his  kingdom,  and  devour 


Incertain  lookers-on.     Wliat  were  more  holy 
Than  to  rejoice  the  former  queen  is  well  ?** 
What  holier  than, — for  royalty's  repair. 
For  present  comfort  and  for  future  good, — 
To  bless  the  bed  of  majesty  again 
With  a  sweet  fellow  to  't  ? 

Paul.  There  is  non  3  worthy. 

Respecting  her  that 's  gone.     Besides,  the  gala 
Will  have  fulfill'd  their  secret  purposes  : 
For  has  not  the  divine  Apollo  said. 
Is  't  not  the  tenor  of  his  oracle. 
That  king  Leontes  shall  not  have  an  heir 
Till  his  lost  child  be  found  ?  which,  that  it  shall 
Is  all  as  monstrous  to  our  human  reason, 
As  my  Antigonus  to  break  his  grave, 
And  come  again  to  me ;  who,  on  my  life. 
Did  perish  with  the  infant.     'T  is  your  counsel 
My  lord  should  to  the  Heavens  be  contrary. 
Oppose  against  their  wills. — Care  not  for  issue ; 

[to  Leonte3 
The  crown  will  find  an  heir :  Great  Alexander 
Left  his  to  th'  worthiest ;  so  his  successor 
Was  like  to  be  the  best. 

Leon.  Good  Paulina, — 

Who  hast  the  memory  of  Hermione, 
I  know,  in  honour, — O,  that  ever  I 
Had  squar'd  me  to  thy  counsel !  then,  even  now, 
I  might  have  look'd  upon  my  queen's  full  eyes ; 
Have  taken  treasure  from  her  lips, — 

Paul.  And  left  them 

More  rich,  for  what  they  yielded. 

Leon.  Thou  speak'st  truth. 

No   more   such  wives ;   therefore,   no  wife :   one 

worse. 
And  better  us'd,  would  make  her  sainted  spirit 
Again  possess  her  corpse ;  and,  on  this  stage, 
(Where  we  ofienders  now,)  appear,  soul-vex  d. 
Begin,  "  And  why  to  me  ?" 

Paul.  Had  she  such  power. 

She  had  just  cause. 

Leon.  She  had ;  and  would  incense  ma 

To  murder  her  I  married. 

Paul.  I  should  so : 

611 


ACT    V. 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


SCENE    I. 


Were   I   the    ghost   that   walk'd,    I  'd    bid    you 

mark 
Her  eye  ;  and  tell  me,  for  what  dull  part  ia  't 
Vou  chose  her ;  then  I  'd  shriek,  that  even  your 

ears 
Should    rift   to   hear   me ;    and    the    words   that 

follow'd 
Should  be,  "  Remember  mine  !" 

Leon.  Stars,  stars, 

And  all  eyes  else  dead  coals !— fear  thou  no  wife, 
I  '11  have  no  wife,  Paulina. 

Paul.  Will  you  swear 

Never  to  marry,  but  by  my  free  leave  ? 

Leon.  Never,  Paulina!  so  be  bless'd  my  spirit! 

Paul.  Then,  good  my  lords,  bear  witness  to  his 
oath, — 

Cleo.  You  tempt  him  over-much. 

Paul.  Unless  another, 

A3  like  Hermione  as  is  her  picture, 
Affront  his  eye  ; — 

Cleo,  Good  madam,  I  have  done. 

Paul.  Yet,  if  my  lord  will  many, — if  you  will, 
sir, 
No  remedy  but  you  will ;  give  me  the  oiBce 
To  choose  you  a  queen ;  she  shall  not  be  so  young 
As  was  your  former;  but  she  shall  be  such 
As,  walk'd  your  first  queen's  ghost,  it  should 

take  joy 
To  see  her  in  your  arms. 

Leon.  My  trae  Paulina, 

We  shall  not  marry  till  thou  bidd'st  us. 

Paul.  That 

Shall  be,  when  your  first  queen 's  again  in  breath  ; 
Never  till  then. 

Enter  a  Gentleman. 

Gent.  One  that  gives  out  himself  prince  Flo- 
rizel. 
Son  of  Polixeues,  with  his  princess,  (she 
The  fairest  I  have  yet  beheld,)  desires  access 
To  your  high  presence. 

Leon.  What  with  him  ?  he  comes  not 

Like  to  hia  father's  greatness :  his  approach. 
So  out  of  circumstance  and  sudden,  tells  us 
T  is  not  a  visitation  fram'd,  but  forc'd 
By  need  and  accident.     What  train ! 

Oent.  But  few, 

And  those  but  mean. 

Leon.  Ilis  prmces.s,  say  you,  with  him  ? 

Qmt.  Ay,  the  most  peerless  piece  of  earth,  I 
think. 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  bright  on. 
612 


Paul.  O  Hermione, 

As  every  present  time  doth  boast  itself 
Above  a  better,  gone,  so  must  thy  grave 
Give  way  to  what 's  seen  now.     Sir,  you  youi'self 
Have  said,  and  writ  so,  (but  your  writing  now 
Is  colder  than  that  theme,)  "  She  had  not  been. 
Nor  was  not  to  be  equall'd ;" — thus  your  vei-se 
Flow'd    with    her   beauty   once ;    't   is    shrewdlj 

ebh'd. 
To  say  you  have  seen  a  better. 

Oent.  Pardon,  madam ; 

The  one  I  have  almost  forgot ;  (your  pardon,) 
The  other,  when  she  has  obtain'd  your  eye. 
Will  have  your  tongue  too.     This  is  a  creature. 
Would  she  begin  a  sect,  might  quench  the  zeal 
Of  all  professors  else ;  make  proselytes 
Of  who  she  but  bid  follow. 

Paul.  How  ?  not  women  ? 

Gent.   Women  will   love   her,  that  she  is   a 
woman. 
More  worth  than  any  man ;  men,  that  she  is 
The  rarest  of  all  women. 

Leon.  Go,  Cleomenes ; 

Yourself,  assisted  with  your  honour'd  friends. 
Bring    them    to    our    embracement. — Still  't    h 
strange, 
[^Exeunt  Cleomenes,  Lords,  and  Gentleman. 
He  thus  should  steal  upon  us. 

Paul.  Had  our  prince 

(Jewel  of  children)  seen  this  hour,  he  had  pair'd 
Well  with  this  lord ;  there  was  not  full  a  month 
Between  their  births. 

Leon.  Prithee,  no  more  ;  cease  ;  tho 

know'st 
He  dies  to  me  again,  when  talk'd  of :  sure, 
\Vhen  I  shall  see  this  gentleman,  thy  speeches 
Will  bring  me  to  consider  that  which  may 
Unfurnish  me  of  reason. — They  are  come. — 

Re-enter  Cleomenes,  with  Florizel,  Perdita,  ana 
Attendants. 

Your  mother  wiis  most  true  to  wedlock,  prince ; 
For  .she  did  print  your  royal  father  oft". 
Conceiving  you  :  Were  I  but  twenty-one, 
Your  father's  imago  is  so  hit  in  you. 
His  very  air,  that  I  should  call  you  brother. 
As  I  did  him  ;  and  speak  of  something,  wildly 
By  us  perform'd  before.     Most  dearly  welcome  I 
And  your  fair  princess,  goddess ! — O,  alas  ! 
I  lost  a  couple,  that  'twixt  heaven  and  earth 
Might  thus  have  stood,  begetting  wonder,  as 
You,  gracious  couple,  do !  and  then  I  lost 


ACT   V. 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


SCEKE  L 


(All  mine  own  folly)  the  society, 
Amity  too,  of  your  brave  ftither;  whom. 
Though  bearing  misery,  I  desire  ray  life 
Onoe  more  to  look  on  him. 

Flo.  By  liis  command 

Have  I  here  touch'd  Sicilia  :  and  from  him 
Give  you  all  gi'eetings,  that  a  king,  as  friend. 
Can  send  his  brother  :  and,  but  infirmity 
(Which  waits  upon  worn  times)  hath  something 

seiz'd 
His  wish'd  ability,  he  had  himself 
The  lands  and  waters  'twixt  your  throne  and  his 
Measur'd  to  look  upon  you ;  whom  he  loves 
(He  bade  me  say  so)  more  than  all  the  sceptres, 
And  those  that  bear  them,  living. 

Leon.  0,  my  brother, 

(Good  gentleman  !)  the  wrongs  I  have  done  thee 

stir 
Afresh  'within  me ;  and  these  thy  offices, 
So  rarely  kind,  are  as  interpreters 
Of  my  behind-hand  slackness  ! — Welcome  hither. 
As  is  the  spring  to  th'  earth.     And  hath  he  too 
Expos'd  this  p.aragon  to  th'  feaiful  usage 
(At  least,  ungentle)  of  the  dreadful  Neptune, 
I'o  greet  a  man  not  worth  her  pains ;  much  less 
Th'  adventure  of  her  person  ? 

Flo.  Good  my  lord. 

She  came  from  Libya. 

Leon.  Where  the  warlike  Smalus, 

That  noble  honour'd  lord,  is  fear'd  and  lov'd  ? 

Flo.  Most  royal  sir,   from  thence  ;  from  him, 
whose  daughter 
His  tears  proclaim'd  his,  parting  with  her  :  thence 
(A  prosperous  south-wind  friendly)  we  have  cross'd. 
To  execute  the  charge  my  father  gave  me, 
For  visiting  your  highness  :  My  best  train 
[  have  from  your  Sicilian  shores  dismiss'd  ; 
Who  for  Bohemia  bend,  to  signify 
Not  only  my  success  in  Libya,  sir. 
But  my  arrival,  and  my  wife's,  in  safety 
Here,  where  we  are. 

Leon.  The  blessed  gods 

Purge  all  infection  from  our  air,  whilst  you 
Do  climate  here  !     You  have  a  noble  father, 
V  graceful  gentleman  ;  against  whose  person. 
So  sacred  as  it  is,  I  have  done  sin  : 
For  which  the  heavens,  taking  angiy  note. 
Have  left  me  issueless :  and  your  father  's  bless'd 
(As  he  from  heaven  merits  it)  with  you. 
Worthy  his  goodness.     What  might  I  have  been, 
Migh',  I  a  son  and  daughter  now  have  look'd  on, 
Such  goodly  things  as  you  ! 


Fnter  a  Lord. 

Lord.  Most  noble  sir, 

That  which  I  shall  report  will  bear  no  credit, 
Were  not  the  proof  so  nigh.   Please  you,  great  sir 
Bohemia  greets  you  from  himself  by  me 
Desires  you  to  attach  his  son  ;  who  has 
(Ilis  dignity  and  duty  both  cast  off) 
Fled  from  his  father,  from  his  hopes,  and  with 
A  shepherd's  daughter. 

Leon.  Where  's  Bohemia  ?  speak. 

Lord.  Here  in  your  city ;  I  now  came  from  him 
I  speak  amazedly ;  and  it  becomes 
My  marvel,  and  my  message.     To  your  court 
Whiles  he  was  hast'ning,  (in  the  chase,  it  seems, 
Of  this  foir  couple,)  meets  he  on  the  way 
The  father  of  this  seeming  lady,  and 
Her  brother,  having  both  their  country  quitted 
With  this  young  prince. 

Flo.  Camillo  has  betray'd  me  ; 

Whose  honour,  and  whose  honesty,  till  now 
Endur'd  all  weathers. 

Lord.  Lay  't  so  to  his  charge  ; 

He  's  with  the  king  your  father. 

Leon.  Who?  Camillo? 

Lo7-d.  Camillo,  sir;  I  spake  with  him  ;  who  now 
Has  these  poor  men  in  question.     Never  saw  I 
Wretches  so   quake  :   they  kneel,  they  kiss  the 

earth  ; 
Forswear  themselves  as  often  as  they  speak : 
Bohemia  stops  his  ears,  and  threatens  them 
With  divers  deaths  in  death. 

Per.  0,  my  poor  father  ! — 

The  Heaven  sets  spies  upon  us,  will  not  have 
Our  contract  celebrated. 

Leon.  You  are  married  ? 

Flo.  We  are  not,  sir,  nor  are  we  like  to  be : 
The  stars,  1  see,  will  kiss  the  valleys  first : — 
The  odds  for  high  and  low  's  alike. 

Leon.  My  lord. 

Is  this  the  daughter  of  a  king  ? 

Flo.  She  is, 

When  once  she  is  my  wife. 

Leon.  That  once,  I  see,  by  your  good  fatlier'a 
speed. 
Will  come  on  very  slowly.    I  am  sorry, 
Most  sorry,  you  have  broken  from  his  liking. 
Where  you  were  tied  in  duty  :  and  as  sorry. 
Your  choice  is  not  so  rich  in  worth  as  beauty, 
That  you  might  well  enjoy  her. 

Flo.  Dear,  look  up  : 

Though  Fortune,  visible  an  enemy. 
Should  chase  us,  with  my  father,  power  no  jot 

613 


ACT    V. 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


SCENE   n. 


Hath  slie  to  change  our  loves. — 'Beseech  you,  sir, 
Remember  since  you  owed  no  more  to  time 
Than  I  do  now :  with  thought  of  such  affections, 
Step  forth  mine  advocate  ;  at  your  request, 
My  father  will  grant  precious  things  as  trifles. 

Leon.  Would  he  do  so,  I  'd  beg  your  precious 
mistress, 
Which  he  counts  but  a  trifle. 

Paul.  Sir,  my  liege, 

Your  eye  hath  too  much  youth  in 't :  not  a  month 
'Fore  your  queen  died,  she  was  more  worth  such 

gazes 
Than  what  you  look  on  now. 

Leon.  I  thought  of  her. 

Even  in  these  looks  I  made. — But  your  petition 

[  lo  Florizel. 
Is  yet  unanswer'd :  I  will  to  your  father ; 
Your  honour  not  o'erthrown  by  your  desires, 
I  am  a  friend  to  them,  and  you  :  upon  which  eiTand 
I  now  go  toward  him  ;  therefore  follow  me, 
And  mark  what  way  I  make  :  Come,  good  my  lord. 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  ^.—The  same.     Be/ore  the  Palace. 

Enter  Autoltcus  and  a  Gentleman. 

Aut.  'Beseech  you,  sir,  were  you  present  at  this 
relation  ? 

1  Oent.  I  was  by  at  the  opening  of  the  fardel ; 
heard  the  old  shepherd  deliver  the  manner  how 
he  found  it :  whereupon,  after  a  little  amazedness, 
we  were  all  commanded  out  of  the  chamber ;  only 
this,  methought  I  heard  the  shepherd  say  he  found 
the  child. 

Aut.  I  would  most  gladly  know  the  issue  of  it. 

1  Gent.  I  make  a  broken  delivery  of  the  busi- 
ness : — But  the  changes  I  perceived  in  the  king 
and  Camillo  were  very  notes  of  admiration  :  they 
seem'd  almost,  with  staring  on  one  another,  to 
tear  the  cases  of  their  eyes  ;  there  was  speech  in 
their  dumbness,  language  in  their  very  gesture ; 
they  looked  ;is  they  had  heard  of  a  world  ransom'd, 

;  or  one  destroyed  ;  A  notable  passion  of  wonder 
appeared  in  them  :  but  the  wisest  beholder,  that 
knew  no  more  but  seeing,  could  not  say  if  th'  im- 
portance were  joy  or  sorrow ;  but  in  the  extremity 

■    of  the  one  it  must  needs  be. 

Enter  another  Gentleman. 

'  Here  comes  a  gentleman,  that,  haprWy,  knows 
more  :   The  news,  Rogero  ? 

2  Gent.  Nothing  but  bonflree  :    The  oracle  is 

614 


fulfill'd  ;  the  king's  daughter  is  found  :  such  a 
deal  of  wonder  is  broken  out  within  this  hour,  that 
ballad-makers  cannot  be  able  to  express  it. 

Enter  a  third  Gentleman. 

Hero  comes  the  lady  Paulina's  steward ;  he  can 
deliver  you  more. — How  goes  it  now,  sir  ?  this 
news,  which  is  call'd  true,  is  so  like  an  old  tale, 
that  the  verity  of  it  is  in  strong  suspicion :  Has 
the  king  found  his  heir  ? 

3  Gent.  Most  true ;  if  ever  truth  were  pregnant 
by  circumstance ;  that  which  you  hear  you  '11 
swear  you  see,  there  is  such  unity  in  the  proofs. 
The  mantle  of  queen  Hermione  : — her  jewel  about 
the  neck  of  it : — the  letters  of  Antigonus,  found 
with  it,  which  they  know  to  be  his  character : — 
the  majesty  of  the  creature,  in  resemblance  of  the 
mother  : — the  affection  of  nobleness,  which  nature 
shows  above  her  breeding, — and  many  other  e\'i- 
dences,  proclaim  her,  with  all  certainty,  to  be  the 
king's  daughter.  Did  you  see  the  meeting  of  the 
two  kings  1 

2  Gent.  No. 

3  Gent.  Then  you  have  lost  a  sight,  which  was 
to  be  seen,  cannot  be  spoken  of.  There  might  you 
have  beheld  one  joy  crown  another ;  so,  and  in 
such  manner,  that  it  seem'd  sorrow  wept  to  take 
leave  of  them  ;  for  their  joy  waded  in  tears.  There 
was  casting  up  of  eyes,  holding  up  of  hands ;  with 
counten.ince  of  such  distraction,  that  they  were  to 
be  known  by  garment,  not  by  favour.  Our  king, 
being  ready  to  leap  out  of  himself  for  joy  of  his 
found  daughter ;  as  if  that  joy  were  now  become 
a  loss,  cries,  "  O,  thy  mother,  thy  mother !"  then 
asks  Bohemia  forgiveness  ;  then  embraces  his  son- 
in-law  ;  then  again  worries  he  his  daughter,  with 
clipping  her ;  now  he  thanks  the  old  shepherd, 
which  stands  by,  like  a  weather-bitten  conduit  of 
many  kings'  reigns.  I  never  heard  of  such 
another  encounter,  which  lames  report  to  follow  it, 
and  undoes  description  to  do  it. 

2  Gent.  What,  pray  you,  became  of  Antigonus, 
that  carried  hence  the  child  ? 

3  Gent.  Like  an  old  tale  still ;  which  will  have 
matter  to  rehearse,  though  credit  be  asleep,  and 
not  an  ear  open :  He  was  torn  to  pieces  with  a 
bear  :  this  .ivouches  the  shepherd's  son  ;  who  has 
not  only  his  innocence  (which  seems  much)  to 
justify  him,  but  a  handkerchief,  and  rings,  of  his, 
that  Paulina  knows. 

1  Oent.  What  became  of  his  bark,  ani  his  fol- 
lowers I 


AOT    V 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


SCENE  II. 


3  Ociit.  Wracked,  tlie  same  instact  of  their 
master's  death  ;  and  in  tho  view  of  the  shepherd  : 
so  that  all  tho  instruments,  which  aided  to  expose 
the  child,  were  even  then  lost,  when  it  was  found. 
But,  0,  the  noble  combat  that,  'twixt  joy  and 
sorrow,  was  fought  in  Paulina !  She  had  one  ej'o 
declin'd  for  the  loss  of  her  husband ;  another 
elevated  that  the  oracle  was  fulfill'd :  She  lifted 
the  princess  fi-om  the  earth ;  and  so  locks  her  in 
embracincr,  as  if  she  would  pin  her  to  her  heart, 
that  she  might  no  more  be  in  danger  of  losing. 

1  Gent.  The  dignity  of  this  act  was  worth  the 
audience  of  kings  and  piinces;  for  by  such  was  it 
acted. 

3  Gent.  One  of  the  prettiest  touches  of  all,  and 
that  which  angl'd  for  mine  eyes  (caught  the  water, 
though  not  the  fish,)  was,  when  at  the  relation  of 
the  queen's  death,  with  the  manner  how  she  came 
to  it,  (bravely  confess'd,  and  lamented  by  the 
king,)  how  attentiveness  wounded  his  daughter ; 
till,  from  one  sign  of  dolour  to  another,  she  did, 
with  an  "  alas !"  I  would  fain  say,  bleed  tears ; 
for,  I  am  sure,  my  heart  wept  blood.  Who  was 
most  marble  there  changed  colour ;  some  swoon'd ; 
all  sorrowed :  if  all  the  world  could  have  seen  't, 
the  woe  had  been  universal. 

1  Gent.  Are  they  returned  to  the  court  ? 

3  Gent.  No:  tho  piincess  hearing  of  her 
mother's  statue,  which  is  in  the  keeping  of  Pau- 
lina,— a  piece  many  years  in  doing,  and  now 
newly  perform'd  by  that  rare  Italian  master,  Julio 
Romano  ;  who,  had  he  himself  eternity,  and  could 
put  breath  into  his  work,  would  beguile  nature  of 
her  custom,  so  perfectly  he  is  her  ape  :  he  so  near 
to  Hermione  hath  done  Hermione,  that  they  say, 
one  would  speak  to  her,  and  stand  in  hope  of  an- 
swer :  thither,  with  all  greediness  of  afiection,  are 
they  gone  ;  and  there  they  intend  to  sup. 

2  Gent.  I  thought  she  had  some  great  matter 
there  in  hand ;  for  she  hath  privately,  twice  or 
thrice  a  day,  ever  since  the  death  of  Hermione, 
visited  that  removed  house.  Shall  we  thither, 
and  with  our  company  piece  the  rejoicing? 

1  Gent.  Who  would  be  thence  that  has  the 
benefit  of  access  ?  eveiy  wink  of  an  eye,  some  new 
grace  will  be  born  :  our  absence  makes  us  un- 
thrifty to  our  knowledge.     Let 's  along. 

[Exeunt  Gentlemen. 

Aut.  Now,  had  I  not  tho  dash  of  my  former 
life  in  me,  would  preferment  drop  on  my  head.  I 
brought  the  old  man  and  his  son  aboard  the 
prince ;  told  him  T  heard  them  talk  of  a  fardel, 


and  I  know  not  what ;  but  he  at  that  time,  over, 
fond  of  the  shepherd's  daughter,  (so  he  then  took 
her  to  be,)  who  began  to  be  much  sea-sick,  and 
himself  little  better,  extremity  of  weather  con- 
tinuing, this  mystery  remained  undiscover'd.  P>ut 
't  is  all  one  to  me;  for  had  I  been  the  finder  out 
of  this  secret,  it  would  not  have  relish'd  among 
my  other  discredits. 

Enter  Shepherd  and  Clown. 

Here  come  those  I  have  done  good  to  against  my 
will,  and  already  appearing  in  the  blossoms  of 
their  fortune. 

Shep.  Come,  boy  ;  I  am  past  more  children,  but 
thy  sons  and  daughters  will  bo  all  gentlemen  bom. 

Clo.  You  are  well  met,  sir :  You  deny'd  to 
fight  with  me  this  other  day,  because  I  was  no 
gentleman  bom  :  See  you  these  clothes  ?  say,  you 
see  them  not,  and  think  mo  still  no  gentleman 
bom  :  you  were  best  say  these  robes  are  not  gen- 
tlemen born.  Give  me  the  lie ;  do ;  and  try 
whether  I  am  not  now  a  gentleman  born. 

Aut.  I  know  you  are  now,  sir,  a  gentleman 
born. 

Clo.  Ay,  and  have  been  so  any  time  these  four 
hours. 

Shop.  And  so  have  I,  boy. 

Clo.  So  you  have : — but  I  was  a  gentleman 
born  before  my  father  :  for  the  Icing's  son  took  me 
by  the  hand,  and  call'd  me,  brother  :  and  then  the 
two  kings  call'd  my  fether,  brother ;  and  then  the 
prince,  my  brother,  and  the  princess,  my  sister, 
call'd  my  father,  father ;  and  so  we  wept :  and 
there  was  the  first  gentlemanlike  tears  that  ever 
we  shed. 

Shep.  We  may  live,  son,  to  shed  many  more. 

Clo.  Ay  ;  or  else  't  were  hard  luck ;  being  in  so 
preposterous  estate  as  we  are* 

Aut.  I  humbly  beseech  you,  sir,  to  pardon  me 
all  the  faults  I  have  committed  to  your  worship, 
and  to  give  me  your  good  report  to  the  prince  my 
master. 

Shep.  Prithee,  son,  do ;  for  we  must  be  gentle, 
now  we  are  gentlemen. 

Clo.  Thou  wilt  amend  thy  hfe  ? 

Aut.  Ay,  an  it  like  your  good  worship. 

Clo.  Give  me  thy  hand  :  I  will  swear  to  the 
prince,  thou  art  as  honest  a  true  fellow  as  any  is 
in  Bohemia. 

Shep.  You  may  say  it,  liut  not  swear  it. 

Clo.  Not  swear  it,  now  I  am  a  gentleman  ?  Let 
boors  aud  franklins  say  it,  I  '11  swear  it. 

fil5 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


BCENK    HI. 


S/u^p.  How  ii  it  be  false,  son  ? 

Clo.  If  it  be  ne'er  so  false,  a  true  gentleman 
may  swear  it,  in  the  behalf  of  his  fiiend  : — And 
I  '11  swear  to  the  prince,  thou  art  a  tall  fellow  of 
Jay  hands,  and  that  thou  wilt  not  be  drunk ;  but 
I  know,  thou  art  no  tail  fallow  of  thy  hands,  and 
that  thou  wilt  be  drunk ;  but  I  '11  swear  it :  and 
I  would  thou  wouldst  be  a  tall  fellow  of  thy 
hands. 

Aut.  I  will  prove  so,  sir,  to  my  power. 

Clo.  Ay,  by  any  means  prove  a  tall  fellow  :  If 
I  do  not  wonder  how  thou  dar'st  venture  to  be 
drunk,  not  being  a  tall  fellow,  tiiist  me  not. — 
Hark  !  the  kings  and  the  pnnces,  our  kindred, 
are  going  to  see  the  queen's  picture.  Come,  follow 
us :  we  '11  be  thy  good  masters.  [£xeunt. 

SCENE  m.—Tke  same.     A  Chapel  in  Paulina's 
House. 

Enter  Lkontes,  Polixenes,  Florizel,  Perdita, 
Camillo,  Pauuna,  Lords,  and  Attendants. 

Leor..   0  grave    and  good  Paulina,   the  great 
comfort 
That  I  have  had  of  thee  1 

Paul.  What,  sovereign  sir, 

I  did  not  we!!,  I  meant  well :  All  my  services 
You  have  paid  home :  but  that  you  have  vouch- 

saf'd, 
With  your  crown'd  brother,  and  these  your  con- 
tracted 
Heirs  of  your  kingdoms,  my  poor  house  to  visit ; 
It  is  a  surplus  of  your  gi-ace,  which  never 
My  life  may  last  to  answer. 

Leon.  O  Paulina, 

We  honour  you  with  trouble:  But  we  come 
To  see  the  statue  of  our  queen :  your  gallery 
Have  we  pass'd  through,  not  without  much  con- 
tent 
In  many  singularitieB  ;  but  we  saw  not 
That  which  my  daughter  came  to  look  upon. 
The  statue  of  her  mother. 

Paul.  As  she  liv'd  peerless. 

So  her  dead  likeness,  I  do  well  believe. 
Excels  whatever  yet  you  look'd  upon, 
Or  hand  of  man  hath  done  ;  therefore  I  keep  it 
Lonely,  apart :  But  here  it  is :  prepare 
To  sec  the  life  as  lively  mock'd,  as  ever 
Still  sleep  mock'd  death  :  beliold,  and  say,  't  is 
well.  [I'auhna  undraws  a  curtain, 

and  discovers  a  statue. 
I  like  your  silence,  it  the  more  shows  off 
616 


Your  wonder  :  But  yet  speak ; — first,  you,  my  liege 
Comes  it  not  something  near  ? 

Leon.  Her  natural  posture ! — 

Chide  me,  dear  stone ;  that  I  may  say,  indeed. 
Thou  art  Hermione :  or,  rather,  thou  art  slie. 
In  thy  not  chiding ;  for  she  was  as  tender 
As  infancy,  and  grace. — But  yet,  Paulina, 
Hermione  was  not  so  much  wrinlded ;  nothmg 
So  aged,  as  this  seems. 

Pol.  O,  not  by  much. 

Paul.  So  much  the  more  our  carver's  excellence , 
Which  lets  go  by  some  sixteen  years,  and  makes 

her 
As  she  liv'd  now. 

Leon.  As  now  she  might  have  done, 

So  much  to  my  good  comfort,  as  it  is 
Now  piercing  to  my  soul.     O,  thus  she  stood. 
Even  with  such  life  of  majesty,  (warm  life. 
As  now  it  coldly  stands,)  when  first  I  woo'd  her ! 
I  am  asham'd  :  Does  not  the  stone  rebuke  me, 
For  being  more  slone  than  it  ? — 0  royal  piece, 
There  's  magic  in  thy  majest}-,  which  has 
My  evils  conjur'd  to  remembrance ;  and 
From  thy  admiring  daughter  took  the  spirits. 
Standing  like  stone  with  thee  ! 

Per.  And  give  me  leave ; 

And  do  not  say  't  is  superstition,  that 
I  kneel,  and  then  implore  her  blessing. — Lady, 
Dear  queen,  that  ended  when  I  but  began, 
Give  me  that  hand  of  yours  to  kiss. 

Paul.  O,  patience  : 

The  statue  is  but  newly  fix'd,  the  colour  's 
Not  dry. 

Cam.    My   lord,    yom    sorrow   was    too   soi« 
laid  on ; 
\\liich  sixteen  winters  cannot  blow  away. 
So  many  summers  dry :  scarce  any  joy 
Did  ever  so  long  live ;  no  sorrow. 
But  kill'd  itself  much  sooner. 

Pol.  Dear  my  brother, 

Let  him  that  was  the  cause  of  this  have  power 
To  take  off  so  much  grief  from  you,  as  be 
Will  piece  upon  himself. 

Paul.  Indeed,  my  lord, 

K  I  had  thought  the  sight  of  my  poor  imago 
Would  thus  have  wrought  you  (for  the  stone  it 

mine,) 
I  'd  not  have  show'd  it. 

Leon.  Do  not  draw  the  curtain. 

Paul.  No  longer  shall  you  gaze  on  't ;  lest  youi 
fancy 
May  think  anon  it  moves. 


I 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


soI:^u  in. 


Leon.  Let  be,  let  be. 

Would  I  wore  dead,  but  tliat,  melbiuks,  already — 
What  was  be  tliat  did  make  it? — -See,  iny  lord, 
Would  you  not  deem  it  breatb'd  ?  and  that  those 

veins 
L  J  veiily  bear  blood  ? 

Pol.  Masterly  done  : 

The  very  life  seems  warm  upon  her  lip. 

Leon.  The  fixure  of  her  eye  has  motion  in  't. 
As  we  are  mock'd  with  art. 

Paul.  I  '11  draw  the  curtain  ; 

My  lord  's  almost  so  far  transported  that 
He  '11  think  anon  it  lives. 

Leon.  O  sweet  Paulina, 

Make  me  to  think  so  twenty  years  together ; 
^fo  settled  senses  of  the  world  can  match 
The  pleasure  of  that  madness.     Let 't  alone. 

Paul.  I  am  sorry,  sir,  I  have  thus  far  stirr'J  you, 
■    but 
I  could  afflict  you  further. 

Leon.  Do,  Paulina ; 

For  this  affliction  has  a  taste  as  sweet 
As  any  cordial  comfort. — Still,  methinks. 
There  is  an  air  comes  from  her  :   What  fine  chisel 
Could  ever  yet  cut  breath  ?     Let  no  man  mock 

me. 
For  I  will  kiss  her 

Paul.  Good  my  lord,  forbear  : 

The  ruddiness  upon  her  lip  is  wet ; 
You  '11  mar  it,  if  you  kiss  it ;  stain  your  own 
With  oily  painting  :  Shall  I  draw  the  curtain  ? 

Leon.  No,  not  these  twenty  years. 

Per.  So  long  could  I 

Stand  by,  a  looker-on. 

Paul.  Either  forbear, 

Quit  presently  the  chapel ;  or  resolve  you 
For  more  amazement.     If  you  can  behold  it, 
I  '11  make  the  statue  move  indeed ;  descend. 
And  take  you   by  the  hand  :    but  then  you  '11 

thiuk, 
(Which  I  protest  against,)  I  am  assisted 
By  wicked  powers. 

Leon.  What  you  can  make  her  do, 

r  am  content  to  look  on  :  what  to  speak 
t  am  content  to  hear  ;  for  't  is  as  easy 
To  make  her  speak,  as  move. 

Paid.  It  is  requir'd 

You  do  awake  your  faith  :  Then,  all  stand  still : 
Or  those  that  think  it  is  unlawful  business 
I  am  about,  let  them  depart. 

Leon.  Proceed ; 

N)  foot  shall  stir. 

78 


Paul.  Music  ;  awake  her  :  strike. — 

'T  is  time ;  descend  ;  be  stone  no  more  :  approach  ; 
Strike  all  that  look  upon  with  marvel.     Come  ; 
I  '11  fill  your  grave  up  :  stir ;  nay,  come  awa)  ; 
Bequeath  to  death  your  numbness,  for  from  him 
Dear  life  redeems  you. — You  perceive  she  stiis  ; 

[Hermione  descends  from,  the  pedcsta. 
Start  not :  her  actions  shall  be  holy,  as, 
You  hear,  my  spell  is  lawful :  do  not  shun  her, 
Until  vou  see  her  die  again  ;  for  then 
You  kjll  her  double  :  Nay,  present  your  hand  : 
When  she  was  young  you  woo'd   her ;    now.  in 

age, 
Is  she  become  the  suitor  ! 

Leon.  0,  she  's  warm  !  [Embracing  her. 

If  this  be  magic,  let  it  be  an  art 
Lawful  as  eating. 

Pol.  She  embraces  him. 

Cam.  She  hangs  about  his  neck  ; 
If  she  pertain  to  life,  let  her  speak  too. 

Pol.  Ay,  and  make  it  manifest  where  she  haa 
liv'd. 
Or,  bow  stol'n  from  the  dead  ! 

Paul.  That  she  is  living, 

Were  it  but  told  vou.  should  be  hooted  at 
Like  an  old  tale  ;  but  it  appears  sne  iives, 
Though  yet  she  speak  not.     Mark  a  little  while. — 
Please  you  to  interpose,  fair  madam  ;  kneel. 
And    pray   your  mother's   blessing. — Turn,  gornl 

lady ; 
Our  Perdita  is  found. 

[Presenting  Per.,  who  kneels  to  Her 

ffcr.  You  gods,  look  down. 

And  from  your  sacred  vials  pour  your  graces 
Upon  my  daughter's  head  ! — Tell  me,  mine  own. 
Where  hast   thou    been    preserv'd  ?  where   liv'd 

how  found 
Thy  father's  court  ?  for  thou  shalt  hear,  that  I, — 
Knowing  by  Paulina,  that  the  oracle 
Gave  hope  thou  wast  in  being, — have  preserv'd 
Myself  to  see  the  issue. 

Pattl.  There  's  time  enough  for  that 

Lest  they  desire,  upon  this  push,  to  trouble 
Your  joys  with  like  relation. — Go  together, 
You  precious  winners  all  ;  your  exultation 
Partake  to  every  one.     I,  an  old  turtle. 
Will  wing  me  to  some  wither'd  bough,  and  thert 
My  mate,  that  's  never  to  be  found  again. 
Lament  till  I  am  lost. 

Leon.  O  peace,  Paulina 

Thou  shouldst  a  husband  take  by  my  consent, 

617 


ACT  V. 


THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


SCENE  ni. 


Aa  T  by  tliine,  a  wife ;  this  is  a  match, 

And  made  between  's  by  vows.     Thou  hast  found 

mine ; 
But  how,  is  to  be  question'd  :  for  I  saw  her. 
As   I  thought,  dead  ;   and  have,  in   vain,   said 

many 
A  prayer  upon  her  grave  :  I  '11  not  seek  far 
(For  him,  I  partly  know  his  mind)  to  find  thee 
An  honourable  husband  :  Come,  Camillo, 
And  take  her  by  the  hand  :  whose  worth,  and 

lionesty, 
la  richly  noted  ;  and  here  justified 

618 


By  us,  a  pair  of  kings. — Let 's  from  this  place. — 
What?  —  Look  upon  my  brother: — both  your 

pardons. 
That  e'er  I  put  between  your  holy  looks 
My  ill  suspicion.     This  your  son-in-law, 
And  son  unto  the  king,  (whom  Heavens  directing,) 
Is  troth-plight  to  your  daughter. — Good  Paulina, 
Lead  us  from  hence ;  where  we  may  leisurely 
Each  one  demand,  and  answer  to  his  part 
Perform'd  in  this  wide  gap  of  time,  since  first 
We  were  dissever'd  :     Hastily  lead  away. 

lUxeunt 


l^OTES  TO  THE  WOTEE'S  TALE. 


'  At  over  a  vast. 

Vast,  a  waste,  a  vast  space.  The  word  was  used  sub- 
Itantively  in  Shakespeare's  time,  and  it  is  curious  to  ob- 
uerve  that,  owing  to  the  cliangea  the  English  language 
underwent  before  the  year  1632,  the  editors  of  the  second 
folio  added  the  word  sea. 

'  At  my  request,  he  would  net. 

This  is  probably  spoken  aside.  He  has  been  ojserving 
the  demeanour  and  conversation  of  Hermione  and  Polixe- 
nes,  and  here  his  Buspicion  begins  to  show  itself. 

'  Thou  want'st  a  rough  posh. 

That  is,  thou  wantest  the  rough  pressure  on  the  mind, 
and  the  breeding  shoots  on  the  forehead  (he  is  perpetually 
harping  on  cuckoldism),  to  be  entirely  like  tne.  Fash  is  a 
Scotch  term  for  head,  but  that  is  not,  I  think,  the  meaning 
hero,  and  I  can  find  no  such  use  of  the  word  in  old  writers. 

*  A^ectlotu  thy  intention  stabs  the  centre. 

Affection,  here,  as  in  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  signifies 
imagination,  or,  as  Malone  expresses  it,  "  the  disposition 
of  the  mind  when  strongly  affected  or  possessed  by  a  par- 
ticular idea."  Intention,  i.  e.,  eagerness  of  attention  or  of 
desire. 

^  Will  you  take  eggs  for  money. 

The  following  very  curious  notes  on  this  phrase  are 
extracted,  with  a  few  alterations,  from  the  variorum  edi- 
tion;— The  meaning  of  this  is,  "  Will  you  put  up  affronts  ?" 
The  French  have  a  proverbial  saying,  A  qui  vendez  vous 
coquilles?  i.e.,  whom  do  you  design  to  affront?  Mamilius's 
answer  plainly  proves  it.  "  Mam.  No,  my  lord,  1  '11  fight." 
And  in  Rowley's  comedy,  called  A  Match  at  Midnight, 
1633: — ■'*  I  shall  have  eggs  for  my  mon^y ',  I  mu.st  hang 
myself." 

Leontes  seems  only  to  ask  his  son  if  he  would  fly  from 
an  enemy.  In  the  following  passage  the  phrase  is  evi- 
dently to  be  taken  in  that  sense  :  "  The  French  infautery 
skirmisheth  bravely  afarro  off,  and  cavallery  gives  a  fu- 
rious onset  at  the  first  charge;  but  after  tie  first  heat, 
they  will  take  eggs  for  their  Tnon-ey.'"— Relations  of  the  most 
famous  Kingdomes  and  Cammonwealtlis  thorowout  the  World, 
Ho.  1630,  p.  154. 

In  A  Method  for  Travell,  Shewed  by  taking  the  view  of 
France  as  it  stoode  in  the  yeere  of  our  Lord  1593,  by 
Kobert  Dallington,  no  date,  we  meet  with  the  very  sen- 
tence quoted  by  Mr.  Keod,  given  as  a  translation  from  tlie 


French.  This  is  the  original :  L'infantcrio  Franpoise  esca- 
ramouche  bravement  de  loin  et  la  Cavallerie  a  une  furieuse 
brut*!-e  a  I'affront,  puis  apres  q'elle  s^accornode.'*^ 

This  phrase  seems  to  have  meant  originally, — "Are  yoa 
such  a  poltroon  as  to  suffer  another  to  use  you  as  he  pleases, 
to  compel  you  to  give  him  your  money,  and  to  accept  of  a 
thing  of  so  small  a  value  as  a  few  eggs  in  exchange  for  it?" 
He,  who  will  take  eggs  for  money,  seems  to  be  what,  in  As 
You  Like  It,  and  in  many  of  the  old  plays,  is  called  a  lame 
snaks. 

The  following  passage  in  Campion's  History  of  Ire'jind, 
folio,  1633,  fully  confirtns  M.alone's  explanation  of  this 
passage;  and  shows  that  by  the  words — "  Will  you  take 
eggs  for  money,"  was  meant,  "  Will  you  suffer  yourself  to 
bo  cajoled,  or  imposed  upon  ?" — "  What  my  cousin  Des- 
mond hath  compassed,  as  I  know  not,  so  I  beshrew  his 
naked  heart  for  holding  out  so  long. — I3ut  go  to,  suppose 
hee  never  bo  had ;  wh.it  is  Kildare  to  blame  for  it,  more 
than  my  good  brother  of  Ossory,  who,  notwithstanding  his 
high  promises,  having  also  the  king's  power,  is  glad  to  take 
eggs  for  his  money,  and  to  bring  hini  in  at  leisure."  These 
words  make  part  of  the  defence  of  the  earl  of  Kildare,  in 
answer  to  a  charge  brought  against  him  by  Cardinal 
Wolsey,  that  he  had  not  been  suiSciently  active  in  endea- 
vouring to  take  the  earl  of  Desmond,  then  in  rebellion. 
In  thLs  passage,  "  to  take  eggs  for  his  money,"  undoubtr 
edly  means  to  be  trifled  with,  or  to  be  imposed  upon. 

"  For  money"  means  "  in  the  place  of  money."  "  Will 
you  give  me  money,  and  take  eggs  instead  of  it?" 

•  And  my  young  rover. 

Compare  Ben  Jonson's  Cynthia's  Bevels,  act  i.  bc.  1, 
"  Why  so,  my  little  rover  ?" 

'  Kow  she  holds  up  the  neb. 

Eay  says  that  "Jfeb  is  of  frequent  use,  tho'  not  for  the 
nose  of  a  man,  yet  for  the  bill  of  a  bird,  and  metaphorically 
for  the  point  of  a  pen,  or  the  long  and  slender  nose  of  any 
vessel ;"  and  Nares  shows  that  Drayton  uses  the  term 
"  sharp-neb'd  liecco,"  meaning  the  woodpecker. 

•  Whisp'ring,  rounding. 

Hounding  is  nearly,  if  not  quite,  equivalent  to  whispering. 
The  tenu  is  again  used  by  Shakespeare,  and  occurs  very 
frequently  in  older  writers. 

Two  risen  up  in  rape. 

And  rouned  togideres. 

And  preised  thise  peuy-worthos 

A-part  by  hemselve. 

Piers  Floughman,  ed.  Wright,  p.  97. 
619 


NOTES  TO  THE  WINTER'S  TALK 


•  To  bid*  upon  H. 

A  vernacular  phrase,  equivalent  to,  certainly,  in  nij 
certain  opinion- 

"  Which  hoxes  hoiusty  hehmd, 

Sox,  to  cut  tlie  hamstringR.  *'  Thou  foole,  how  could 
it  come  in,  unlesse  it  had  bin  a  leg  ?  methought  his  hose 
were  cut  and  drawne  out  with  parsly ;  I  thrust  my  hand 
irto  my  pocket  for  a  knife,  thinking  to  hox  him,  and  so 
Fwakt."— Lillie'a  Mother  Bombie,  ed.  1632. . 

"  In  whose  success  we  are  gentle. 

Success  serms  to  be  here  used  for  succession,  but  this 
sense  of  the  word  is  very  unusual. 

"  A  s-j)ider  steeped. 

It  was  a  common  opinion  that  spiders  were  venomous. 
Topsell,  in  his  History  of  Serpents,  1608,  says,  "  all  spyders 
are  venomous,  but  yet  some  more,  and  some  lesse.  Of 
apyders  that  neyther  doe  nor  can  doe  much  harme,  some 
of  them  are  tame,  familiar,  and  domestical],  and  these  be 
commonly  the  greatest  among  the  whole  packe  of  them." 

"  A  federary  icith  her. 

FederarTj,  a  fcodary,  a  confederate.  Maloue  was  perhapa 
right  in  thinking  it  a  misprint  ioT  feodary. 

"  Iwouhl  land-damn  him. 

According  to  an  old  MS.  glossary  quoted  in  my  Dic- 
tionary of  Archaisms,  p.  503,  " Landun,  lantan,  rantan, 
arc  used  by  some  Glostershire  people  in  the  sense  of  scour- 
ing or  correcting  to  some  purpose,  and  also  of  rattling  or 
rating  severely."  Perhaps  these  words  may  be  connected. 
No  one  has  yet  given  a  satisfactory  explanation  of  kind- 
damn. 

"  ifint,  and  some  Jive. 

The  same  form  is  occasionally  used  in  the  West.  "Ac- 
cording to  my  censure,  there  were  twenty  or  some  (i.  e., 
about  twenty)  up  to  Bal,"  (i.  e.,  the  mine.)    (Sandys.) 

'*  These  dangerous  unsafe  lunes  i*  the  king, 

A  similar  expression  occurs  in  the  Kevenger's  Tragffidie, 
1608,  "  I  know 't  w.os  but  sc>me  peevish  moone  in  him." 

"  A  mankind  witch. 

Mankind,  masculine.  This,  applied  to  a  woman,  was  a 
tcrtn  of  great  contempt. 

1*  A  ntst  of  traitors. 

Yet  for  to  hang  hym  I  wene  it  bo  not  best. 
For  yf  he  were  gone,  we  sliold  have  another  gest 
As  >)!  as  ho,  for  nowght  they  bo  all  the  hole  nest. 
And  to  posrc  sylle  boyes  the  worko  much  wooc. 

MS.  Poems,  temp.  Eliz. 

'•  A  callat  of  boundless  tongue. 

ijallal,  a  scold ;  a  drab,  generally  a  term  of  the  greatest 
possible  contempt. 

'^  And,  lozfl,  i/u>u  art  worthy  to  be  hang'd. 

fjoul,  a  bad  worthless  fellow,  from  the  Anglo-Norman. 
rho  more  usual  form  is  lorel. 


"'  The  pretence  whereof, 
Pretence,  scheme  or  design. 

^  Hermione  is  chaste. 

This,  as  Malone  observes,  is  almost  literally  from  Greene's 
novel :  "  The  Oracle. — Suspicion  is  no  proofe  ;  jealousie  in 
an  unequal  judge ;  Bellaria  is  chaste ;  Egistlius  blameless; 
Franion  a  true  subject;  Pandosto  treacherous;  his  babe 
innocent ;  and  the  king  shall  dye  without  an  heire,  if  that 
which  is  lost  bo  not  found." 

"  Thou  art  perfect  then. 

Perfect,  certain,  well  assured.  The  word  oceure  in  tnla 
sense  in  the  Bible. 

2*  A  boy  or  a  child,  J  wonder. 

A  female  infant  is  still  termed  a  child  in  some  of  the  pro- 
vinces, in  contradistinction  to  a  male  one.  It  is  marked  as 
a  Devonsliire  word  in  a  MS.  glossary  in  my  possession. 

25  A  hearing-cloth  for  a  squire's  child, 

A  bearing-cloth,  says  Percy,  is  the  fine  mantle  or  cloth 
with  which  a  child  is  usually  covered,  when  it  is  carried  to 
church  to  be  baptized. 

3a  Up  jjjiih  it  ke^p  iJ.  dote. 

Alluding  to  the  old  notion  that  it  was  dangerous  to 
mention  the  gifts  of  the  fairies.  So,  in  the  Honest  Man'* 
Fortune, — 

A  prince's  secrets  are  Uke  fairy  favours, 
Wholesome  if  kept,  but  poison  if  disoover'd. 

"  The  doxy  over  the  daU. 
Doxy,  a  mistress,  a  strumpet. 

38  My  pugging  tooth  an  edge. 

Pugging,  cheating,  thieving.  I  retain  the  an,  it  being 
the  old  provincial  form  of  on,  not  an  idiom  with  that  article, 
as  conjectured  by  Mr.  Knight. 

39  In  my  time,  wore  three-pile. 

Three-pile  velvet  was  velvet  of  the  strongest  and  riobost 
quality. 

s»  To  go  about  with  irol-my-damea. 

In  the  Benefit  of  the  Ancient  Bathes  of  Bnckstones  com 
piled  by  John  Jones  at  the  King's  Mede,  nigh  Darby,  1572, 
4to.  p.  12,  we  read  :  "  The  ladyes,  gentle  woomen,  wyvea, 
and  nmydes,  may  in  one  of  the  galleries  walkc  ;  and  if  the 
weather  bco  not  aggrecablc  to  theirc  expeclucion,  they  may 
have  in  the  ende  of  a  benche  eleven  holes  made,  intoo  the 
wbicho  to  trowlo  pummates,  or  bowlcs  of  leadc,  biggo, 
little,  or  mcane,  or  also  of  copper,  tynne,  wooJe,  cythcr 
vyolcnt  or  softc,  after  their  owu8  discretion;  the  pastyme 
troule-in-madame  ia  termed." 

"  And  streak'' d  gilh/vors. 

OiUyvors,  gilly.lowers.  This  is  an  old  word,  not  a  oon- 
tractoJ  form.  Lyto  calls  them  gilUfers  in  his  edition  of 
Dodoens,  1,173. 


NOTES  TO  THE  WINTER'S  TALE. 


"  Pll  not  put  the  dihlle  in  earth. 

Tlio  operation  is  otlierwiso  called  dropping ;  more  com- 
monly so  called,  and  indeed  more  properly,  for  dililiUng  is 
in  strictness  making  the  holes.  It  is  an  old  word,  and  Eay 
has,  "  A  dihlle,  an  instrument  to  make  holes  in  the  ground 
with,  for  setting  beans,  pease,  or  the  like— Of  general  use." 
Nares  notices  the  word,  and  describes  the  tool  as  still  in 
u«e :  and  shows  it  to  oecnr  in  T usscr — 

Throngh  cunning,  with  dihlle,  rake,  mattock,  and  spade. 
By  lino  and  by  level,  trim  garden  is  made. 

"  She  dances  featly. 

Yes,  I  thanke  God  I  am  of  that  nature 
Able  to  eompas  thys  matter  sure. 
As  yo  shall  see  now,  who  lyst  to  marke  yt, 
llow  neatly  anifeately  I  shall  warke  yt. 

Play  of  Wit  and  Science,  p.  3. 

'•  Inldes,  cadMstea,  cambrics. 

Jntles,  inferior  tape.    Caddis,  worsted,  or  worsted  ribbon. 

Caddas,  or  cruel  ribbon,"  Book  of  Kates,  1075,  p.  293. 
The  dresses  of  servants  were  often  ornamented  with  it,  and 
there  seems  to  have  been  a  kind  of  woollen  stuff  so  called. 
Palsgrave  has,  "  caddas  or  crule,  eayette."  This  was  used 
for  stuffing  dresses. 

**  Cyprus,  black  as  e'er  was  crom. 

Oyfi^s  was  a  kind  of  tliin  transparent  crape,  so  called 
from  being  originally  manufactured  in  the  island  of  Cyprus. 
It  is  mentioned  in  the  old  comedy  of  the  Puritan,  Edmond, 
the  widow's  son,  making  his  entry  in  a  Cyprus  hat;  i.  e., 
with  a  crape  hatband  in  it.  The  transparency  of  it  is  taken 
aotioe  of  by  Donne : 

As  men  which  thro'  a  Cyprus  see 
The  rising  Sun. 

blague  on  the  marriage  of  the  Earl  of  Somerset. 

And  in  Ben  Jonsou's  73d  epigram  : 

One  half  drawn 
/»  solemn  Cyprus,  th'  other  cobweb  lawn. 

"  Kill-hole,  kiln-hole,  the  genuine  old  form. 

"  Charm  your  tongues. 

That  is,  silence  them.  The  word  is  common  in  our  old 
dramatbts,  but  it  is  here  misprinted  cla-mour  in  the  old 
copies.  Speaking  of  this  corruption,  Gilford  observes, 
"  the  painful  endeavours  of  the  commentators  to  explain 
the  simple  nonsense  of  the  text  by  contradictory  absurdi- 
ties mi^lit  claim  our  pity,  if  their  unfounded  assertions  did 
not  provoke  our  contempt." 


"  Twelve  foot  and  a  halfly  th'  squire. 

Squire,  a  carpenter's  rule.  "  Sq\iyer  for  a  carpentar 
esquierre,"  Palsgrave.     "  Squyer  a  rule,  riglet,''''  ibid. 

**  The  royal  fool. 

Misprinted  yboii  by  Mr.  Knight,  in  both  editions.  Tlio 
same  editor  has  omitted  the  word  «ir  in  Paulina's  speech 
in  Act  V.  sc.  1. 

*o  Kov  shall  appear  in  Sicilia. 

Mr.  Dycc  explains  tliis,  "  Nor  shall  appear  like  Bohe- 
mia's son  in  Sicilia." 

<•  Pomander,  brooch,  tahle-boolc. 

The  following  recipe  for  making  a  pomander  is  extracted 
from  a  rare  little  book  entitled,  "  A  Closet  for  Ladies  and 
Gentlewomen,"  circa  IGoO, — 

Take  of  Beazon  one  dram  and  a  halfe,  of  Storax  halfc  a 
dram,  of  Lignum  Aloes  in  fine  powder  halfe  a  scruple,  of 
Labdanum  halfe  an  ounce:  powder  all  these  very  fine,  and 
scarce  them  thorow  Lawne ;  and  then  take  of  Musk  a  dram, 
Ambergreece  ten  graines.  Civet  ten  graines,  and  dissolve 
them  in  a  hot  Mortar  with  a  little  Rose-water,  and  so  make 
them  into  a  Pomander,  putting  into  it  six  graines  of  Civet. 

"  Advocate's  the  court  word  for  a  pheasant. 

The  following  very  curious  illustration  of  this  passage  is 
taken  from  the  Journal  of  the  Kev.  Giles  Moore,  1665,^ 

'*  I  gave  to  Mr.  Cripps,  solicitor,  for  acting  for  mee  in 
obtaining  my  qualification,  and  effecting  it,  £1  10.s.,  and  I 
allowed  my  brother  Lu.xford  for  going  to  London  there- 
upon anA  presenting  my  lord  with  t^vo  brass  of  pheasants, 
10». ;  Charles,  Lord  Goring,  Earle  of  Norwich,  livith  in  the 
country  at  Laytonstone,  on  the  way  to  Epping,  and  when 
in  London,  at  his  house  in  Queens  Streete,  next  door  t«> 
the  Queen's  Head  Taverne." 

"  What 's  i'  the  fardel. 

Fardel,  a  burden.  It  is  worthy  of  observation  that  the 
old  copies  have  the  old  torm,  farthell. 

"Then  shoulde  they  of  those  two  parishes  undertake  to 
Carrie  all  sucli  passengers,  either  for  twopence  each  one 
with  his  farthdl  or  trusse,  or  otherwise,  making  the  whole 
fare  or  passage  woortli  foure  shillings." — Lambarde's  Per- 
ambulation, 1696,  p.  436. 

"  Than  to  rejoice  the  former  queen  is  well. 

"  The  dead  are  well." — Antony  and  Cleopatra.  A  simi- 
lar expression  is  used  in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  and  is  supposeil 
to  be  adoptf/d  from  Scripture,  2  Kings,  iv.  26. 

621 


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